TO THE BEAUTEOUS MISS H—L—D.
[3]FAR diſtant from Brittannia's lofty Iſle,
What ſhall I find to make the Genius ſmile?
The bubbling fountains loſe the power to pleaſe,
The rocky cataracts, the ſhady trees,
The juicy fruitage of enchanting hue,
Whoſe luſcious virtues England never knew;
The variegated Daughters of the Land,
Whoſe numbers Flora ſtrows with bounteous hand;
The verdant veſture of the ſmiling fields,
All the rich pleaſures Nature's ſtore-houſe yields,
Have all their powers to wake the chorded ſtring:
But ſtill they're ſubjects that the Muſe can ſing.
H—l—d more beauteous than the God of Day,
Her name can quicken and awake the Lay;
[4] Rouſe the ſoft Muſe, from indolence and eaſe;
To live, to love, and rouſe her powers to pleaſe.
In vain would Phoebus, did not H—l—d riſe:
'Tis her bright eyes that gilds the Eaſtern ſkies;
'Tis ſhe alone deprives us of the light;
And when ſhe ſlumbers, then indeed 'tis night.
To tell the ſep'rate beauties of her 'face
Would ſtretch Eternity's remoteſt ſpace,
And want a more than man, to pen the line;
I reſt; let this ſuffice, dear H—l—d's all divine.
TO MISS H—L—D. 1768.
[10]ONCE more the Muſe to beauteous H—l—d ſings;
Her grateful tribute of harſh numbers brings
To H—l—d! Nature's richeſt, ſweeteſt ſtore,
She made an H—l—d, and can make no more.
Nor all the beauties of the world's vaſt round
United, will as ſweet as her be found.
Deſcription ſickens to rehearfe her praiſe.
Her worth alone will deify my days.
Enchanting creature! Charms ſo great as thine
May all the beauties of the day outſhine.
Thy eyes to ev'ry gazer ſend a dart,
Thy taking graces captivate the heart.
O for a Muſe that ſhall aſcend the ſkies,
And like the ſubject of the Epode riſe;
[11] To ſing the ſparkling eye, the portly grace,
The thouſand beauties that adorn the face
Of my ſeraphic Maid; whoſe beauteous charms
Might court the world to ruſh at once to arms.
Whilſt the fair Goddeſs, native of the ſkies,
Shall ſit above, and be the Victor's prize.
O now, whil'ſt yet I ſound the tuneful lyre,
I feel the thrilling joy her hands inſpire;
When the ſoft tender touch awakes my blood,
And rolls my paſſions with the purple flood.
My pulſe beat high: my throbbing breaſt's on fire
In ſad variety of wild deſire.
O H—l—d! Heav'nly Goddeſs! Angel, Saint,
Words are too weak thy mighty worth to paint;
Thou beſt, compleateſt work that Nature made,
Thou art my ſubſtance, and I am thy ſhade.
Poſſeſs'd of thee, I joyfully would go
Thro' the loud tempeſt, and the depth of woe.
From thee alone my being I derive,
One beauteous ſmile from thee, makes all my hopes alive.
TO MISS H—L—D. 1768.
[12]SINCE ſhort the buſy ſcene of life will prove,
Let us my H—l—d learn to live and love;
To love, with paſſions pure as morning light,
Whoſe ſaffron beams unſullied by the night
With roſy mantles do the Heavens ſtreak,
Faint imitators of my H—l—d's cheek.
The joys of Nature in her ruin'd ſtate
Have little pleaſure, tho' the pains are great.
Virtue and Love, when ſacred bands unite,
'Tis then that Nature leads to true delight.
Oft as I wander thro' the myrtle grove,
Bearing the beauteous burden of my love,
A ſecret terror, leſt I ſhould offend
The charming Maid on whom my joys depend,
[13] Informs my ſoul, that virtuous minds alone
Can give a pleaſure, to the vile unknown.
But when the body charming, and the mind,
To ev'ry virtuous chriſtian act inclin'd,
Meet in one perſon, Maid and Angel join;
Who muſt it be, but H—l—d the divine?
What worth intrinſic will that man poſſeſs,
Whom the dear charmer condeſcends to bleſs?
Swift will the minutes roll, the flying hours,
And bleſſings overtake the pair by ſhowers.
Each moment will improve upon the paſt,
And every day be better than the laſt.
Love, means an unadulterated flame,
Tho' luſt too oft uſurps the ſacred name;
Such paſſion as in H—l—d's breaſt can move,
'Tis that alone deſerves the name of Love.
Oh was my merit great enough to find
A favour'd ſtation in my H—l—d's mind;
Then would my happineſs be quite compleat,
And all revolving joys as in a center meet.
EPISTLE TO THE REVEREND MR. CATCOTT.
[19]WHAT ſtrange infatuations rule mankind!
How narrow are our proſpects, how confin'd!
With univerſal vanity poſſeſt,
We fondly think our own ideas beſt:
Our tott'ring arguments are ever ſtrong;
We're always ſelf-ſufficient in the wrong.
What philoſophic Sage of pride auſtere
Can lend conviction an attentive ear?
What pattern of humility and truth
Can bear the jeering ridicule of youth?
[20] What bluſhing Author ever rank'd his Muſe
With Fowler's Poet-Laureat of the Stews?
Dull Penny, nodding o'er his wooden lyre,
Conceits the vapours of Geneva fire.
All in the language of Apoſtles cry,
If Angels contradict me, Angels lie?
As all have intervals of eaſe and pain,
So all have intervals of being vain;
But ſome of folly never ſhift the ſcene,
Or let one lucid moment intervene;
Dull ſingle acts of many-footed Proſe
Their tragi-comedys of life compoſe;
Inceſſant madding for a ſyſtem toy
The greateſt of Creations bleſſings cloy;
Their ſenſes doſing a continual dream,
They hang enraptured o'er the hideous ſcheme:
So virgins tott'ring into ripe three ſcore,
Their greateſt likeneſs in baboons adore.
When you advance new ſyſtems, firſt unfold
The various imperfections of the old;
[21] Prove Nature hitherto a gloomy night,
You the firſt focus of primaeval light.
'Tis not enough you think your ſyſtem true,
The buſy world wou'd have you prove it too:
Then, riſing on the ruins of the reſt,
Plainly demonſtrate your ideas beſt.
Many are beſt; one only can be right
Tho' all had inſpiration to indite.
Some this unwelcome truth perhaps would tell,
Where Clogher ſtumbled, Catcott fairly fell.
Writers on Rolls of Science long renown'd
In one fell page are tumbled to the ground.
We ſee their ſyſtems unconfuted ſtill;
But Catcott can confute them—if he will.
Would you the honour of a Prieſt miſtruſt
An excommunication proves him juſt.
Could Catcott from his better ſenſe be drawn
To bow the knee to Baal's ſacred lawn?
A mitred Raſcal to his long-ear'd flocks
Gives ill example, to his wh—s, the p-x
[22] Yet we muſt reverence ſacerdotal black,
And ſaddle all his faults on Nature's back.
But hold, there's ſolid reaſon to revere;
His Lordſhip has ſix thouſand pounds a year;
In gaming ſolitude he ſpends the nights,
He faſts at Arthur's and he prays at White's;
Rolls o'er the pavement with his Swiſs-tail'd ſix,
At White's the Athanaſian Creed for Tricks.
Whil'ſt the poor Curate in his ruſty gown
Trudges unnotic'd thro' the dirty town.
If God made order, order never made
Theſe nice diſtinctions in the preaching trade.
The ſervants of the Devil are rever'd,
And Biſhops pull the Fathers by the beard.
Yet in theſe horrid forms Salvation lives,
Theſe are Religions repreſentatives;
Yet to theſe idols muſt we bow the knee—
Excuſe me, Broughton, when I bow to thee.
But ſure Religion can produce at leaſt,
One Miniſter of God—one honeſt Prieſt.
[23]Search Nature o'er, procure me, if you can,
The fancy'd character, an honeſt Man
(A man of ſenſe, not honeſt by conſtraint
For fools are canvaſs, living but in paint)
To Mammon, or to Superſtition ſlaves,
All orders of mankind are fools, or knaves:
In the firſt attribute by none ſurpaſt,
Taylor endeavours to obtain the laſt.
Imagination may be too confin'd;
Few ſee too far; how many are half blind?
How are your feeble arguments perplext
To find out meaning in a ſenſeleſs text?
You rack each metaphor upon the wheel,
And words can philoſophic truths conceal.
What Paracelſus humor'd as a jeſt,
You realize to prove your ſyſtem beſt.
Might we not, Catcott, then infer from hence,
Your zeal for Scripture hath devour'd your ſenſe?
Apply the glaſs of reaſon to your ſight,
See Nature marſhal oozy atoms right.
[24] Think for yourſelf, for all mankind are free;
We need not Inſpiration how to ſee.
If Scripture contradictory you find,
Be Orthodox, and own your ſenſes blind.
How blinded are their optics, who aver,
What Inſpiration dictates cannot err.
Whence is this boaſted Inſpiration ſent,
Which makes us utter truths, we never meant?
Which couches ſyſtems in a ſingle word,
At once deprav'd, abſtruſe, ſublime, abſurd.
What Moſes tells us might perhaps be true,
As he was learn'd in all the Egyptians knew.
But to aſſert that Inſpiration's giv'n,
The Copy of Philoſophy in Heav'n,
Strikes at Religions root, and fairly fells
The awful terrors of ten thouſand Hells.
Attentive ſearch the Scriptures and you'll find
What vulgar errors are with truths combin'd.
[25] Your tortur'd truths, which Moſes ſeem'd to know,
He could not unto Inſpiration owe;
For if from God one error you admit,
How dubious is the reſt of Holy Writ?
What knotty difficultys fancy ſolves?
The Heav'ns irradiate, and the Earth revolves;
But here Imagination is allow'd
To clear this voucher from its mantling cloud:
From the ſame word we different meanings quote,
As David wears a many colour'd coat.
O Inſpiration, ever hid in night,
Reflecting various each adjacent light;
If Moſes caught thee in the parted flood;
If David found thee in a ſea of blood;
If Mahomet with ſlaughter drench'd thy ſoil,
On loaded aſſes bearing off thy ſpoil;
If thou haſt favour'd Pagan, Turk, or Jew,
Say had not Broughton Inſpiration too?
Such rank abſurdities debaſe his line,
I almoſt could have ſworn he copied thine.
[26]Confute with candour, where you can confute,
Reaſon and arrogance but poorly ſuit.
Yourſelf may fall before ſome abler pen,
Infallibility is not for men.
With modeſt diffidence new ſchemes indite,
Be not too poſitive, tho' in the right.
What man of ſenſe would value vulgar praiſe,
Or riſe on Penny's proſe, or duller lays?
Tho' pointed fingers mark the Man of Fame,
And literary Grocers chaunt your name;
Tho' in each Taylors book-caſe Catcott ſhines,
With ornamental flow'rs and gilded lines;
Tho' youthful Ladies who by inſtinct ſcan
The Natural Philoſophy of Man,
Can ev'ry reaſon of your work repeat,
As ſands in Africa retain the heat:
Yet check your flowing pride: Will all allow
To wreathe the labour'd laurel round your brow?
Some may with ſeeming arguments diſpenſe,
Tickling your vanity to wound your ſenſe:
But Clayfield cenſures, and demonſtrates too,
Your theory is certainly untrue;
[27] On Reaſon and Newtonian rules he proves,
How diſtant your machine from either moves.
But my objections may be reckon'd weak,
As nothing but my mother tongue I ſpeak;
Elſe would I aſk; by what immortal Pow'r
All Nature was diſſolv'd as in an hour.
How, when the earth acquir'd a ſolid ſtate,
And riſing mountains ſaw the waves abate,
Each particle of matter ſought its kind,
All in a ſtrata regular combin'd?
When inſtantaneouſly the liquid heap
Harden'd to rocks, the barriers of the deep,
Why did not earth unite a ſtony maſs;
Since ſtony filaments thro' all muſt paſs?
If on the wings of air the planets run,
Why are they not impell'd into the ſun?
Philoſophy, nay common ſenſe, will prove
All paſſives with their active agents move.
If the diurnal motion of the air,
Revolves the planets in their deſtin'd ſphere;
How are the ſecondary orbs impell'd?
How are the moons from falling headlong held?
[28]'Twas the Eternal's fiat you reply;
And who will give Eternity the lie?
I own the awful truth, that God made all,
And by his fiat worlds and ſyſtems fall.
But ſtudy Nature; not an atom there
Will unaſſiſted by her powers appear;
The fiat, without agents, is, at beſt,
For prieſtcraft or for ignorance a veſt.
Some fancy God is what we Nature call,
Being itſelf material, all in all.
The fragments of the Deity we own,
Is vulgarly as various matter known.
No agents could aſſiſt Creations birth:
We trample on our God, for God is Earth.
'Tis paſt the pow'r of language to confute
This latitudinary attribute.
How lofty muſt Imagination ſoar,
To reach abſurdities unknown before?
Thanks to thy pinions, Broughton, thou haſt brought
From the Moons orb a novelty of thought.
[29] Reſtrain, O Muſe, thy unaccompliſh'd lines,
Fling not thy ſaucy ſatire at Divines;
This ſingle truth thy brother Bards muſt tell;
Thou haſt one excellence, of railing well.
But diſputations are befitting thoſe
Who ſettle Hebrew points, and ſcold in proſe.
O Learning, where are all thy fancied joys
Thy empty pleaſures and thy ſolemn toys?
Proud of thy own importance; tho' we ſee
We've little reaſon to be proud of thee:
Thou putrid foetus of a barren brain,
Thou offspring illegitimate of Pain.
Tell me, ſententious Mortals, tell me whence
You claim the preference to men of ſenſe?
—wants learning; ſee the letter'd throng
Banter his Engliſh in a Latin ſong.
Oxonian Sages heſitate to ſpeak
Their native Language, but declaim in Greek.
If in his jeſts a diſcord ſhould appear,
A dull lampoon is innocently clear.
[30] Ye Claſſic Dunces, ſelf-ſufficient fools,
Is this the boaſted juſtice of your ſchools?
—has parts; parts which would ſet aſide
The labour'd acquiſitions of your pride;
Uncultivated now his Genius lies,
Inſtruction ſees his latent beauties riſe;
His gold is bullion, yours debas'd with braſs,
Impreſt with Folly's head to make it paſs.
But—ſwears ſo loud, ſo indiſcreet,
His thunders rattle thro' the liſt'ning ſtreet:
Ye rigid Chriſtians, formally ſevere,
Blind to his charities, his oaths you hear;
Obſerve his virtues: Calumny muſt own
A noble ſoul is in his actions ſhown;
Tho' dark this bright original you paint,
I'd rather be a—than a Saint.
Excuſe me, Catcott, if from you I ſtray,
The Muſe will go where Merit leads the way;
The Owls of Learning may admire the night,
But—ſhines with Reaſon's glowing light.
[31]Still Admonition preſſes to my pen,
The infant Muſe would give advice to Men.
But what avails it, ſince the man I blame
Owns no ſuperior in the paths of fame?
In ſprings, in mountains, ſtrata's, mines, and rocks,
Catcott is every notion Orthodox.
If to think otherwiſe you claim pretence,
*Renounce deteſted heretick in ſenſe.
*You're a deteſted heretick in ſenſe.
But oh! how lofty your ideas roar,
In ſhewing wond'ring Cits the foſſile ſtore!
The Ladies are quite raviſh'd, as he tells
The ſhort adventures of the pretty ſhells;
Miſs Biddy ſickens to indulge her touch,
Madam more prudent thinks 'twould ſeem too much;
The doors fly open, inſtantly he draws
The ſparry lood, and wonders of applauſe;
The full dreſs'd Lady ſees with envying eye
The ſparkle of her di'mond pendants die;
[32] Sage Natural Philoſophers adore
The foſſil whimſys of the numerous ſtore.
But ſee! the purple ſtream begins to play,
To ſhew how fountains climb the hilly way.
Hark what a murmur echoes thro' the throng.
Gods! that the pretty trifle ſhould be wrong!
Experience in the voice of Reaſon tells
Above its ſurface water never ſwells.
Where is the prieſtly ſoul of Catcott now?
See what a triumph ſits upon his brow:
And can the poor applauſe of things like theſe,
Whoſe ſouls and ſentiments are all diſeaſe,
Raiſe little triumphs in a man like you,
Catcott, the foremoſt of the Judging few?
So at Llewellins your great Brother ſits,
The laughter of his tributary wits;
Ruling the noiſy multitude with eaſe,
Empties his pint and ſputters his decrees.
[33]MR. CATCOTT will be pleaſed to obſerve that I admire many things in his learned Remarks. This Poem is an innocent effort of poetical Ven⯑geance, as Mr. Catcott has done me the honour to criticiſe my Trifles. I have taken great poeti⯑cal liberties and what I diſlike in Verſe poſſibly deſerves my approbation in the plain Proſe of Truth—The many Admirers of Mr. Catcott may on peruſal of this rank me as an Enemy: But I am indifferent in all things, I value neither the praiſe or cenſure of the Multitude.
THE DEFENCE,
[35]NO more, dear Smith, the hackney'd Tale renew;
I own their cenſure, I approve it too.
For how can Ideots deſtitute of thought,
Conceive, or eſtimate, but as they're taught?
Say, can the ſatirizing Pen of Shears,
Exalt his name, or mutilate his ears?
None, but a Lawrence, can adore his Lays,
Who in a quart of Claret drinks his praiſe.
T—l—r repeats, what Catcott told before,
But lying T—l—r is believ'd no more.
[36] If in myſelf I think my notions juſt,
The Church and all her arguments are duſt.
Religion's but Opinion's baſtard Son,
A perfect myſtery, more than three in one.
'Tis fancy all, diſtempers of the mind;
As Education taught us, we're inclin'd.
Happy the man, whoſe reaſon bids him ſee,
Mankind are by the ſtate of Nature free;
Who, thinking for himſelf, deſpiſes thoſe,
That would upon his better ſenſe impoſe;
Is to himſelf the Miniſter of God,
Nor dreads the path, where Athanaſius trod.
Happy (if Mortals can be) is the Man,
Who, not by Prieſt, but Reaſon rules his ſpan;
Reaſon, to its Poſſeſſor a ſure guide,
Reaſon, a thorn in Revelations ſide.
If Reaſon fails, incapable to tread
Thro' gloomy Revelations thick'ning bed,
On what authority the Church we own?
How ſhall we worſhip Deities unknown?
[37] Can the Eternal Juſtice pleas'd receive
The prayers of thoſe, who, ignorant believe?
Search the thick multitudes of ev'ry Sect,
The Church ſupreme, with Whitfield's new Elect;
No individual can their God define,
No, not great Penny in his nervous Line.
But why muſt Chatterton ſelected ſit,
The butt of ev'ry Critic's little wit?
Am I alone for ever in a crime;
Nonſenſe in Proſe, or blaſphemy in Rhyme?
All monoſyllables a line appears?
Is it not very often ſo in Shears?
See gen'rous Eccas, length'ning out my praiſe
Inraptur'd with the muſic of my Lays;
In all the arts of panegyric grac'd,
The cream of modern Literary Taſte.
Why, to be ſure, the metaphoric line
Has ſomething ſentimental, tender, fine;
But then how hobbling are the other two;
There are ſome beauties, but they're very few.
[38] Beſides the Author, 'faith 'tis ſomething odd,
Commends a reverential awe of God.
Read but another fancy of his brain;
He's Atheiſtical in every ſtrain.
Fallacious is the charge: 'Tis all a lie,
As to my reaſon I can teſtify.
I own a God, immortal, boundleſs, wiſe,
Who bid our glories of Creation riſe;
Who form'd his varied likeneſs in mankind,
Centring his many wonders in the mind;
Who ſaw Religion, a fantaſtic night
But gave us Reaſon to obtain the light.
Indulgent Whitfield ſcruples not to ſay,
He only can direct to Heavens high-way.
While Biſhops, with as much vehemence tell,
*Sects heterodox are food for Hell.
*All ſorts heterodox are food for Hell.
Why then, dear Smith, ſince Doctors diſagree,
Their notions are not oracles to me:
What I think right, I ever will purſue
And leave you liberty to do ſo too.
[...]
[44]O'Ro [...]e upon his courſer fleet,
Who ſwift as lightning were his feet,
Firſt gain'd the liſts and gatte him fame;
From Weſt Hybernee Iſle he came,
His myghte depictur'd in his
* name.
All dreded ſuch an one to meet;
Bold as a mountain wolf he ſtood,
Upon his ſwerde ſat grim dethe and bloude.
But when he threwe down his Aſenglave,
Next came in Sir Botelier bold and brave,
The dethe of manie a Saraceen;
Theie thought him a Devil from Hells black pen,
Ne thinking that anie of mortalle menne
Could ſend ſo manie to the grave.
For his life to John Rumſee he render'd his thanks
Deſcended from Godred the King of the Manks.
[45]Within his ſure reſt he ſettled his ſpeare,
And ran at O'Rocke in full career;
Their launces with the furious ſtroke
Into a thouſand ſhivers broke,
Even as the thunder tears the oak,
And ſcatters ſplinters here and there;
So great the ſhock, their ſenſes did depart,
The bloude all ran to ſtrengthen up the harte.
Syr Botelier Rumſie firſt came from his traunce,
And from the Marſhall toke the launce;
O'Rocke eke choſe another ſpeere,
And ran at Syr Botelier full career;
His prancynge ſtede the ground did tare;
In haſte he made a falſe advance;
Syr Botelier ſeeing, with myghte amain
Fellde him down upon the playne.
[46]Syr Pigotte Novlin at the Clarions ſound,
On a milk-white ſtede with gold trappings around,
He couchde in his reſt, his ſilver-poynt ſpeere,
And ferſlie ranne up in full career;
But for his appearance he payed full deare,
In the firſt courſe laid on the ground;
Beſmeer'd in the duſt with his ſilver and gold,
No longer a glorious ſight to behold.
Syr Botelier then having conquer'd his twayne,
Rode Conqueror off the tourneying playne;
Receivying a garland from Alice's hand,
The ſayreſt Ladye in the lande.
Syr Pigotte this viewed, and furious did ſtand,
Tormented in mind and bodily peyne,
Syr Botelier crown'd, moſt galantlie ſtode,
As ſome tall oak within the thick wode.
[47]Awhile the ſhrill Clarions ſounded the word;
Next rode in Syr John, of Adderleigh Lord,
Who over his back his thick ſhield did bryng,
In checkee of redde and ſilver ſheeninge,
With ſteede and gold trappings beſeeming a King,
A guilded fine Adder twyned round his ſwerde.
De Bretville advanced a man of great myghte
And couched his launce in his reſt for the fyghte.
Ferſe as the falling waters of the lough,
That tumble headlonge from the mountains browe,
Ev'n ſo they met in drierie ſound,
De Bretville fell upon the ground,
The bloude from inward bruiſed wound,
Did out his ſtained helmet flowe;
As ſome tall bark upon the foamie main,
So laie De Bretville on the plain.
[48]Syr John of the Dale or Compton hight,
Advanced next in liſts of fyght,
He knew the tricks of tourneying full well,
In running race ne manne culd him excell,
Or how to wielde a ſworde better tel.
And eke he was a manne of might;
On a black Stede with ſilver trappynges dyght
He darde the dangers of the tourneyd fighte.
Within their reſts their ſpeeres they ſet,
So furiouſly ech other met.
That Comptons well intended ſpeere
Syr John his ſhield in pieces tare,
And wound his hand in furious geir;
Syr Johns ſtele Aſſenglave was wette:
Syr John then toe the marſhal turned
His breaſt with meekle furie burn'd.
[49]The tenders of the feelde came in,
And bade the Champyons not begyn;
Eche tourney but one hour ſhould laſt,
And then one hour was gone and paſt.
END OF THE FYRST CANTO.
IN IMITATION OF OUR OLD POETS. ON OURE LADYES CHIRCH. 1769.
[50]IN auntient dayes, when Kenewalchyn King
Of all the borders of the ſea did reigne,
Whos cutting CELES,
* as the Bardyes ſynge,
Cut ſtrakyng furrowes in the foamie mayne,
Sancte Warbur caſt aſide his Earles eſtate,
As great as good, and eke as good as great.
Tho bleſt with what us men accounts as ſtore,
Saw ſomething further, and ſaw ſomething more.
[51] Where ſmokyng Waſker ſcours the claiey bank,
And gilded fiſhes wanton in the ſunne,
Emyttynge to the feelds a dewie dank,
As in the twyning path-waye he doth runne;
Here ſtoode a houſe, that in the ryver ſmyle
Since valorous Urſa firſt wonne Bryttayn Iſle;
The ſtones in one as firm as rock unite,
And it defyde the greateſt Warriours myghte;
Around about the lofty elemens hie
Proud as their Planter reerde their greenie creſt,
Bent out their heads, when e'er the wynds came bie.
In amorous dalliaunce the flete cloudes keſt
Attendynge Squires dreſte in trickynge brighte,
To each tenth Squier an attendynge Knyghte,
The hallie hung with pendaunts to the flore,
A coat of nobil armes upon the doore;
Horſes and dogges to hunt the fallowe deere,
Of paſtures many, wide extent of wode,
Faulkonnes in Mewes, and little birds to teir,
The Sparrow Hawke, and many Hawkies gode.
[52] Juſt in the prime of life, whan others court
Some ſwottie Nymph, to gain their tender hand,
Greet with the Kynge and trerdie greet with the Court
And as aforeſed mickle much of land.
FINIS.
HECCAR AND GAIRA AN AFRICAN ECLOGUE.
[53]WHERE the rough Caigra rolls the ſurgy wave,
Urging his thunders thro the echoing / diſtant
* cave;
Where the ſharp rocks, in diſtant horror ſeen,
Drive the white currents thro' the ſpreading green;
Where the loud Tyger, pawing in his rage,
Bids the black Archers of the wilds engage;
[54] Stretch'd on the ſand, two panting Warriors lay,
In all the burning torments of the day;
Their bloody jav'lins reek'd on living ſteem
Their bows were broken at the roaring ſtream:
Heccar the Chief of Jarra's fruitful Hill,
Where the dark vapours nightly dews diſtill,
Saw Gaira the companion of his ſoul,
Extended where loud Caigra's billows roll;
Gaira, the King of warring Archers found,
Where daily lightnings plow the ſandy ground,
Where brooding tempeſts howl along the ſky,
Where riſing deſarts whirl'd in circles fly.
HECCAR.
Gaira, 'tis uſeleſs to attempt the chace,
Swifter than hunted Wolves they urge the race;
Their leſſening forms elude the ſtraining eye,
Upon the plumage of Macaws they fly.
Let us return, and ſtrip the reeking ſlain
Leaving the bodies on the burning plain.
[55]GAIRA.
Heccar, my vengeance ſtill exclaims for blood,
'Twould drink a wider ſtream than Caigra's flood.
This jav'lin, oft in nobler quarrels try'd,
Put the loud thunder of their arms aſide.
Faſt as the ſtreaming rain, I pour'd the dart,
Hurling a whirlwind thro' the trembling heart:
But now my lingring feet revenge denies,
O could I throw my javlin from my eyes!
HECCAR.
When Gaira the united armies broke,
Death wing'd the arrow; Death impell'd the ſtroke.
See, pil'd in mountains, on the ſanguine ſand
The blaſted of the lightnings of thy hand.
Search the brown deſart, and the gloſſy green;
There are the trophies of thy valour ſeen.
[56] The ſcatter'd bones mantled in ſilver white,
Once animated, dared the force
* in fight.
The Children of the Wave, whoſe palid race
Views the faint ſun, diſplay a languid face,
From the red fury of thy juſtice fled,
Swifter than torrents from their rocky bed.
Fear with a ſicken'd ſilver ting'd their hue:
The guilty fear, when vengeance is their due.
GAIRA.
Rouſe not Remembrance from her ſhad'wy cell,
Nor of thoſe bloody ſons of miſchief tell.
Cawna, O Cawna! deck'd in ſable charms,
What diſtant region holds thee from my arms?
Cawna, the pride of Afric's ſultry vales,
Soft as the cooling murmur of the gales,
Majeſtic as the many colour'd Snake,
Trailing his glories thro' the bloſſom'd brake;
Black as the gloſſy rocks, where Eaſcal roars,
Foaming thro' ſandy waſtes to Jaghirs ſhores;
[57] Swift as the arrow, haſting to the breaſt,
Was Cawna the companion of my reſt.
The ſun ſat low'ring in the Weſtern ſky,
The ſwelling tempeſt ſpread around the eye;
Upon my Cawna's boſom I reclind,
Catching the breathing whiſpers of the wind:
Swift from the wood a prowling Tiger came;
Dreadful his voice, his eyes a glowing flame;
I bent the bow, the never-erring dart
Pierc'd his rough armour, but eſcap'd his heart;
He fled, tho' wounded, to a diſtant waſte,
I urg'd the furious flight with fatal haſte;
He fell, he dy'd—ſpent in the fiery toil,
I ſtripid his carcaſe of the furry ſpoil
And as the varied ſpangles met my eye,
On this, I cried, ſhall my lov'd Cawna lie.
The duſky midnight hung the ſkies in grey;
Impell'd by Love, I wing'd the airy way;
In the deep valley and the moſſy plain,
I ſought my Cawna, but I ſought in vain.
[58] The pallid ſhadows of the azure waves
Had made my Cawna and my children ſlaves.
Reflection maddens, to recall the hour,
The Gods had giv'n me to the Daemon's power.
The duſk ſlow vaniſh'd from the hated lawn,
I gain'd a mountain glaring with the dawn.
There the full ſails, expanded to the wind,
Struck horror and diſtraction in my mind,
There Cawna mingled with a worthleſs train,
In common ſlav'ry drags the hated chain.
Now judge my Heccar, have I cauſe for rage?
Should aught the thunder of my arm aſſuage?
In ever-reeking blood this jav'lin dy'd
With vengeance ſhall be never ſatisfied:
I'll ſtrew the beaches with the mighty dead
And tinge the lily of their features red.
HECCAR.
When the loud ſhriekings of the hoſtile cry
Roughly ſalute my ear, enrag'd I'll fly;
[59] Send the ſharp arrow quivering thro' the heart
Chill the hot vitals with the venom'd dart;
Nor heed the ſhining ſteel or noiſy ſmoke,
Gaira and Vengeance ſhall inſpire the ſtroke.
CHATTERTON'S WILL. 1770.
[60]ALL this wrote between 11 and 2 o'clock Saturday in the utmoſt diſtreſs of mind. April 14, 1770.
N. B. In a diſpute concerning the character of David, Mr. — argued that he muſt be a holy man, from the ſtrains of piety that breathe through his whole works—I being of a contrary opinion, and knowing that a great genius can effect any thing, endeavouring in the foregoing * Poems to repreſent an enthuſiaſtic Methodiſt in⯑tended to ſend it to Romaine, and impoſe it upon the infatuated world as a reality; but thanks to Burgum's generoſity, I am now employed in matters of more importance.
Saturday April 20, 1770.
[61]BURGUM I thank thee, thou haſt let me ſee,
That Briſtol has impreſs'd her ſtamp on thee,
Thy generous ſpirit emulates the May'rs,
Thy generous ſpirit with thy Briſtols pairs.
Gods! what would Burgum give, to get a name
And ſnatch his blundering dialect from ſhame?
What would he give, to hand his memory down
To times remoteſt boundary?—A Crown.
Would you aſk more, his ſwelling face looks blue;
Futurity he rates at two pound two.
Well Burgum, take thy laurel to thy brow;
With a rich ſaddle decorate a ſow,
Strut in Iambics, totter in an Ode,
Promiſe, and never pay, and be the mode.
Catcott, for thee, I know thy heart is good,
But ah! thy merit's ſeldom underſtood;
Too bigotted to whimſies, which thy youth
Receiv'd to venerate as Goſpel truth,
Thy friendſhip never could be dear to me,
Since all I am is oppoſite to thee.
[62] If ever obligated to thy purſe
Rowley diſcharges all; my firſt chief curſe
For had I never known the antique lore
I ne'er had ventured from my peaceful ſhore,
To be the wreck of promiſes and hopes
A Boy of Learning, and a Bard of Tropes;
But happy in my humble ſphere had mov'd
Untroubled, unſuſpected, unbelov'd.
To Barrett next, he has my thanks ſincere,
For all the little knowledge I had here.
But what was knowledge? Could it here ſucceed?
When ſcarcely twenty in the town can read.
Could knowledge bring in intereſt to maintain
The wild expences of a Poets brain;
Diſintereſted Burgum never meant
To take my knowledge for his gain per cent.
When wildly ſquand'ring every thing I got,
On Books, and Learning, and the Lord knows what.
Could Burgum then, my Critic, Patron, Friend
Without ſecurity attempt to lend?
[63] No, that would be imprudent in the man;
Accuſe him of imprudence, if you can.
He promis'd, I confeſs, and ſeem'd ſincere;
Few keep an honorary promiſe here.
I thank thee, Barrett, thy advice was right,
But 'twas ordain'd by Fate that I ſhould write.
Spite of the prudence of this prudent place,
I wrote my mind, nor hid the Authors face.
Harris ere long, when reeking from the Preſs
My numbers make his ſelf-importance leſs,
Will wrinkle up his face, and damn the day
And drag my body to the triple way—
Poor ſuperſtitious Mortals! wreak your hate
Upon my cold remains—
[64]THIS is the laſt Will and Teſtament of me Thomas Chatterton of the City of Briſtol; being ſound in body, or it is the fault of my laſt Sur⯑geon; the ſoundneſs of my mind, the Coroner and Jury are to be judges of, deſiring them to take notice, that the moſt perfect Maſters of Human Nature in Briſtol diſtinguiſh me by the title of the Mad Genius; therefore, if I do a mad action, it is conformable to every action of my life, which ſavour'd of inſanity.
Item. If after my death which will happen to-morrow night before eight o'clock, being the Feaſt of the Reſurrection, the Coroner and Jury bring it in Lunacy, I will and direct, that Paul Farr, Esq and Mr. John Flower, at their joint expence, cauſe my body to be interred in the Tomb of my Fathers, and raiſe the Monument over my body to the height of four feet five inches, placing the preſent flat ſtone on the top, and adding 6 Tablets.
[65]On the firſt to be engraved in Old Engliſh Characters
Vous qui par ici paſez
*Pur l'ame Guateroine Chatterton priez
Le cors di oi ici giſt
L'ame receyve Thu Criſt. MCCX.
On the ſecond Tablet in Old Engliſh Cha⯑racters
Orate pro animabus Alanus Chatterton, et Alicia
*Uxeris ejus, qui quidem Alanus obict x die menſis Novemb. M,CCCCXV, quorum ani
⯑mabus propinetur Deus Amen.
[66]On the third Tablet in Roman Characters
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON, Subchaunter of the Cathedral of this City, whoſe Anceſtors were Reſidents of St. Mary Redcliffe ſince the year 1140. He died the 7th of Auguſt 1752.
On the fourth Tablet in Roman Characters.
TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON; Reader judge not; if thou art a Chriſtian—believe that he ſhall be judged by a Superior Power—to that Power alone is he now anſwerable.
On the fifth and ſixth Tablets which ſhall front each other
Atchievements viz. On the one, veſt, a feſs; or, creſt, a mantle of eſtate, gules, ſupported [67] by a ſpear, ſable, headed, or, on the other, or, a feſs veſt, creſt, a croſs of Knights Templars.—And I will and direct that if the Coroners In⯑queſt bring it in felo-de-ſe, the ſaid monument ſhall be notwithſtanding erected. And if the ſaid Paul Farr and John Flower have ſouls ſo Briſ⯑toliſh as to refuſe this my requeſt, they will tranſmit a copy of my Will to the Society for ſupporting the Bill of Rights, whom I hereby empower to build the ſaid monument according to the aforeſaid directions. And if they the ſaid Paul Farr and John Flower ſhould build the ſaid monument; I will and direct that the 2d Edition of my Kew Gardens, ſhall be dedicated to them in the following Dedication.—To Paul Farr and John Flower, Eſqrs this Book is moſt humbly dedicated by the Author's Ghoſt.
Item. I give all my vigour and fire of youth to Mr. G— C—,being ſenſible he is moſt in want of it.
[68] Item. From the ſame charitable motive, I give and bequeath unto the Reverend Mr. C—n ſenior all my humility. To Mr. B—m all my Proſody and Grammar, likewiſe one moiety of my modeſty, the other moiety to any young Lady who can prove without bluſhing that ſhe wants that valuable commodity. To Briſtol all my ſpirit and difintereſtedneſs, parcels of goods, unknown on her quay ſince the days of Canning and Rowley! 'Tis true a charitable Gentleman, one Mr. Colſton, ſmuggled a conſiderable quan⯑tity of it, but it being proved that he was a Papiſt, the Worſhipful Society of Aldermen en⯑deavour to throttle him with the Oath of Al⯑legiance. I leave alſo my Religion to Dr. C— B—, D— of B—, hereby empowering the Sub-Spirit to ſtrike him on the head when he goes to ſleep in Church—My powers of utter⯑ance I give to the Reverend Mr. B—n, hoping he will employ them to a better purpoſe than reading Lectures on the Immortality of the Soul: I leave the Reverend Mr. C— ſome little of [69] my free thinking, that he may put on ſpectacles of reaſon and ſee how vilely he is duped in be⯑lieving the Scriptures literally. I wiſh he and his brother G— would know how far I am their real Enemy, but, I have an unlucky way of raillery, and when the ſtrong fit of Satire is upon me I ſpare neither friend nor foe. This is my excuſe for what I have ſaid of them elſe⯑where. I leave Mr. Clayfield the ſincereſt thanks my gratitude can give, and I will and direct that whatever any perſon may think the pleaſure of reading my Works worth, they immediately pay their own valuation to him, ſince it is then be⯑come a lawful debt to me and to him as my Exe⯑cutor in this caſe. I leave my Moderation to the Politicians on both ſides the queſtion. I leave my Generoſity to our preſent Right Worſhipful Mayor, T— H—, Eſq. I give my Abſti⯑nence to the Company at the Sheriffs Annual Feaſt in general, more particularly the Alder⯑men.
[70] Item. I give and bequeath to Mr. M— M— a mourning Ring with this Motto, ‘"Alas! poor Chatterton!"’ provided he pays for it himſelf.—Item. I leave the young Ladies all the Letters they have had from me, aſſuring them that they need be under no apprehenſions from the appearance of my Ghoſt, for I die for none of them.—Item. I leave all my debts the whole not Five Pounds to the payment of the cha⯑ritable and generous Chamber of Briſtol, on penalty if refuſed, to hinder every Member from a good dinner by appearing in the form of a Bailiff. If in defiance of this terrible ſpectre, they obſtinately perſiſt in refuſing to diſcharge my debts, let my two Creditors apply to the Supporters of the Bill of Rights.—Item. I leave my Mother and Siſter to the protection of my Friends if I have any. Executed in the preſence of Omniſcience this 14th of April 1770.
CODICIL.
[71]It is my pleaſure that Mr. Cocking and Miſs Farley Print this my Will the firſt Saturday after my death.
THE METHODIST.
[72]SAYS Tom to Jack, 'tis very odd,
Theſe Repreſentatives of God,
In Color, way of life and evil,
Sould be ſo very like the Devil.
Jack, underſtand, was one of thoſe,
Who mould Religion in the Noſe,
A red hot Methodiſt; his face
Was full of Puritanic Grace,
His looſe lank hair, his ſlow gradation,
Declar'd a late Regeneration;
Among the daughters long renown'd,
For ſtanding upon holy ground;
Never in carnal battle beat,
Tho' ſometimes forc'd to a retreat.
[73] But C—t, Hero as he is,
Knight of [...]parable phiz,
When pliant Doxy ſeems to yield,
Courageouſly forſakes the field.
Jack, or to write more gravely, John
Thro' Hills of Weſley's Works had gone;
Could ſing one hundred Hymns by rote;
Hymns which will ſanctify the throte:
But ſome indeed compos'd ſo odly,
You'd ſwear 'twas bawdy Songs made Godly.
FINIS.