"Behold me, thou false one! behold me!" he | To think that time so soon each sweet devours,
"Behold thy Alonzo the Brave.
God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride,
My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side, Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride,
And bear thee away to the grave."
This saying, his arms round the lady he wound,
While fair Imogene shriek'd with dismay;
Then sunk with his prey through the wide-
yawning ground,
Nor ever again was fair Imogene found,
Or the spectre that bore her away.
Not long liv'd the baron, and none since that
To inhabit the castle presume:
[time
For chronicles tell, that by order sublime,
There Imogene suffers the pains of her crime,
And mourns her deplorable doom.
At midnight four times in each year does her sprite,
When mortals in slumber are bound, Array'd in her bridal apparel of white, Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight,
And shriek as he whirls her around. While they drink out of skulls newly torn from
Dancing round them pale spectres are seen: Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave They howl: "To the health of Alonzo the Brave,
And his consort, the false Imogene."
§ 268. Sonnet. WHOSE was that gentle voice, that whispering sweet,
Promis'd, methought, long days of bliss sincere?
Soothing it stole on my deluded ear,
Most like soft music that might sometimes cheat
Thoughts dark and drooping. 'Twas the voice
of Hope.
Of love and social scenes it seem'd to speak,
Of truth, of friendship, of affection meek;
That hand in hand along life's downward slope
Might walk with peace, and cheer the tranquil hours:
Ah me! the prospect sadden'd as she sung; Loud on my startled ear the death-bell rung: Chill darkness wrapt the pleasurable bowers She built whilst pointing to yon breathless clay, [away!" She cried, "No peace be thine: away,
§ 269. Sonnet. BOWLES.
As o'er these hills I take my silent rounds, Still on that vision which is flown I dwell! On images I lov'd, (alas, how well!) Now past, and but remember'd like sweet sound Of yesterday! yet in my breast I keep Such recollections, painful though they seem; And hours of joy retrace, till from my dream I wake, and find them not: then I could weep
To think so soon life's first endearments fail, And we are duped by Hope's amusive tale; Who like a flatterer, when the happiest hours Are past, and most we wish her cheering lay, Will fly as faithless and as fleet as they!
§ 270. Sonnet. At a Convent. BOWLES. Ir chance some pensive stranger hither led, His bosom glowing from majestic views,
The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscapehues,
Should ask who sleeps beneath this lonely bed, 'Tis poor Matilda! To the cloister'd scene, A mourner beauteous and unknown, she came, To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the flame
Of ruthless love: yet still her look serene
As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle.
Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could
lend
Like that which spoke of a departed friend,
And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!-
Be the rude spot by passing pity blest,
Where, hush'd to long repose, the wretched
§ 271. Sonnet. BOWLES.
O TIME, thou know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wounds, and slowly thence (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceiv'd away;
On thee I rest my only hope at last, And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on ev'ry sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smileAs some lone bird at day's departing hour
Sings in the sunbeam of the transient show'r, Forgetful though its wings are wet the while; Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone,
§ 272. The Tunbridge School Boy. Spokenly Mr. THOMAS KNOX at the annual Visitation of Tunbridge School.
SWEET is thy month, O Maia! nor less sweet Life's earliest prime, when roseate blossomsblow In Fancy's fairy meads, the Elysian fields Of infantine illusion, on the breast Of boys, who court, like us, the classic Muse, And daily sip the dews of Castalie.
Happy the school-boy! did he prize his bliss, 'Twere ill exchang'd for all the dazzling gems That gaily sparkle in ambition's eye; His are the joys of nature, his the smile, The cherub smile, of innocence and health, Sorrow unknown, or if a tear be shed, He wipes it soon; for hark! the cheerful voice Of comrades calls him to the top, or ball. Away he hies, and clamors as he goes
With glee, which causes him to tread on air; | Is simple; yet 'tis nature's voice, and comes Bounding along elastic to the field,
Or play-ground, scarce the well-stuff'd leathern orb
Springs from the earth so light, so swift as he:
And well he earns the sport he well enjoys,
For from the morning's dawn o'er learning's
His steady eye has por'd till eventide. [page
Early he woke; and scarce had chanticleer
Announc'd Aurora's orient blushing beams,
When from the turret of the classic dome
The bell importunate rang shrill and loud,
And call'd him from his pillow; up he sprang,
Shaking soft slumbers from his shining eyes,
And eager to renew his daily task.
First lowly on his knees with orisons
His Father high in heaven he supplicates
To bless his earthly sire, her that bore him,
Friends, tutors, all that watch with anxious care
To guide his footsteps in the paths of peace:
Then to the limpid spring he hies, and laves
In the cold element his morning face.
His flowing locks well kempt, all neat and fresh
As vernal violets wash'd with drops of dew,
He takes his seat upon the classic bench,
With Lily's volume duly op'd before him,
And cons the task to memory assign'd,
Repeating rules of grammar o'er and o'er
With patience unsubdued; but now and then
He sweetens toil with gingerbread's nice cates,
Or apples par'd unseen beneath the form,
Or conversation softly interchang'd
Of nests, and slides, and marbles, weighty cares,
Yet not unpleasing. Soon the busy school
Glows with a general hum, as when in May
The bees go forth to rifle honey'd flowers,
They buz and murmur, yet no labor slight,
But bring home luscious loads to enrich the hive.
The morning part well said, new cares suc-
ceed;
For now the authors of a golden age,
Virgil and Horace, Tully's copious page,
And Homer's manly melody, invite
The ear attun'd by nature and by art,
To revel in the luxury of verse,
Or prose well measur'd, fraught with sense and
Harmonious; polish'd is his ear, and keen
His intellect, he hears, he tastes, he feels,
Till his whole soul elate with ecstasy,
Catching the flame of genius, boldly dares
To emulate the beauty he admires :
Hence in the evening exercise the theme
Pregnant with moral truth, express'd in style
Purely Augustan; one day sure to grace
The bar, the pulpit, or the author's page,
Himself to aggrandize, and serve mankind.
Nor seldom does the stripling snatch the lyre,
And strike the deep-ton'd shell. Alcæus now
He emulates; whose sinewy nervous lines
Pour forth, like Handel's strains, full harmony;
And now he sings with Sappho softly sweet;
The liquid measures flow like honey'd drops
That trickle from the dædal cells of bees,
Adonis closing the mellifluent lay
With gentlest cadence. Listen yet once more!
'Tis elegy I hear; the mournful verse
Directly from the heart;-and to the heart
It deeply pierces; I could weep, and smile
To think I wept-how plaintive are the notes!
Like such as oft I hear the nightingale
Modestly warble from the thickest shade,
Concealment seeking, yet betray'd by tones
Softer and sweeter than Italia's sons
Strain from their throats to raptur'd theatres.
But not to ode and elegy alone
His ardor leads; his emulative skill
In epigram he tries; and many a point
Inserts which Martial might not blush to own,
With classical expression neat and terse.
Oft on the banks of Medway, near the dome
Of Sydney's noble race, he sits reclin'd,
And meditates the verse where Waller sat
And sung his Sacharissa; by his side
Horace and Ovid. While the trembling reed
With fly appendant lures the golden chub,
His pencil in his hand, he studious notes
Some bright idea, or some polish'd phrase
Suggested by the Muse that haunts the
groves
Of Penshurst, classic ground: if Britain's isle
Can boast such ground, then Penshurst's is the
claim,
[scream
Though solitude now reigns, and the heron's
Drowns with the din each song of Philomel.
The task well finish'd, to the master's eye
The stripling bard submits with anxious heart,
Happy, thrice happy could it meet with praise.
His bosom throbs, till soon the judge's brows,
That frown'd terrific, gentler looks assume:
He calls the urchin with a friendly voice,
And stroking his curl'd locks,
'Tis good,"
he cries,
"And to reward thy well-done task I grant
A holiday." Straight all the air resounds
"A holiday!" loud shouts from infant lips
Proclaim a holiday! they eager rush
To snatch the licens'd joy; each moment lost
Seems like an hour. Then take, O take your fill,
Ye innocent tribes, nor let severity
Too rigorous rob you of the fleeting day:
'Tis brief at best, and hardly shall ye know
In life's most boasted years a purer
bliss
Or more exalted. Fly then o'er the lawn,
Climb yonder hill-expatiate through the grove,
Or from the green bank plunge into the wave.
Why need I urge? already they are gone;
Some in the limpid stream already merg'd,
Their pastime take, and cleave the ambient
Or buoyant on the surface float supine, [wave,
Sporting like halcyons on the smooth expanse.
Thus nerv'd with added strength they urge the
ball
At cricket, manly game! the boast of Kent,
Tunbrigia's sons against all England's race;
Nor last, though least, the sprightly boys ofJudd*,
Scorning to be surpass'd in school, or field.
Others, as seasons urge, with wary eye
Search every thicket for the mossy nest;
And, thoughtless of the wrong, the eggs despoil,
Blue as the ethereal concave, streak'd or vein'd
By nature's pencil with a thousand dyes.
* Sir Arthur Judd, the founder.
Oh! my companions! rob not the poor bird,
For many a pang she feels; but be content
With viewing the fair prize, and leave it there.
Sweetly the song from yonder hawthorn bush
Shall pay your generous pity as you pass;
And conscious virtue shall a bliss bestow,
Which rapine, though successful, never tastes,
Though India's gems enrich the plunderer.
Trust not in wrong and robbery for happi-
Nor, when autumnal suns the pensile fruit
Mature and on the southern garden-wall
Blushes the nectar'd peach like Hebe's cheek,
O'erleap the fence. Oh, turn thy roving eye
From orchards rich with vegetable gold,
The pippin and the pear; and learn, like me,
The ripen'd cherry, shining, sleek, and plump,
To view with all the stoic's apathy.
I hate the purple cluster of the grape
When, out of reach, it peeps between the leaves
Half shown and half conceal'd, to tempt the
Insidious beauty! Comrade, touch it not:
If e'er in evil hour thou pluck the fruit
Unlawful, thou shalt rue it, short-liv'd sweet
Follow'd by bitterness. The owner sees
Unseen, and tells the master of thy theft.
Then lo, the birchen fasces-hateful twigs;
Down go the galligaskins; sighs and sobs
Too plainly tell what penalties and woes
Brings disobedience, and the tempting fruit
Of that forbidden tree. Then learn content:
A little weekly stipend is thine own,
And freely use it, as it was given for use.
Does thy mouth water? See the matron's stall,
Plums, nuts, and apples, rang'd in shining
Invite, nor rigid Prudence bids forbear;
There purchase, paying ready cash, and eat,
Welcome as nuts to thee thy mite to her.
Enjoy thy feast, poor imp, and freely taste,
No fears or qualms empois'ning the regale;
Then, with light heart, and pockets lighter still,
Eas'd of thy money-root of every harm!
Away again to drive the circling hoop,
Or spin the top, or knuckle down at taw.
But now the shades of eve and turret bell Proclaim the holiday too soon expir'd― "In boys! all in, boys!" Instant to the school Repairing, low they bend to that high Pow'r That guards them from the sultry noon-tide heat,
The pestilence that walketh in the night,
And out of mouths of sucklings and of babes
Ordained praise. The choral hymn and pray'r
Ascends like incense to the throne of heaven.
And now all weary, and with eyes half-clos'd,
Down on the couch they sink, nor sooner
down,
Than sleep seals up their lids: how hush'd the din,
The merry noise that echoed o'er the field
The live long day! 'Tis silent all and still
Along the chambers of the dormitory,
Save where a gentle breathing soothes the ear,
Or now and then a voice that talks in sleep :
For many a vision, or fantastic dream,
Hovers around their pillows; rivers, groves,
Bird's-nests on tops of tallest trees are seen,
With callow young, or eggs of varied hue;
Goldfinches, larks, or linnets, lim'd with twigs,
Or snar'd in traps, or gudgeons on the hook.
The orchard's charms with added lures appear:
Already up the tree they seize the prize;
There plums and pippins, pears of freshest hue,
Clusters of grapes, no longer out of reach,
Distil nectareous juices on their lips,
Which seem to smack again: so strong and
Imagination's pencil paints the scene.
Thus cheer'd by slumbers and a holiday,
With double diligence they ply the task
Upon the morrow: then vacation's good,
When to ingenuous minds allow'd it gives
A spur to industry, and to genius fire.
Rest and alternate labour, these combin'd
With discipline, shall form the emulous youth
To high accomplishments in liberal arts;
And when his friends and country call him forth
To generous services in busy life,
With energetic force he acts his part,
And strict propriety, in every place,
However arduous, in the social sphere.
Happy and honor'd, prominent he stands
Among the sons of men; and lustre flings
Back on the place where education stored
His mind with arts that taught him to excel.
Pardon my daring, if amid this group
Of school-boys, who, beneath your fostering
smiles,
The muses, graces, virtues, cultivate,
I venture to foretell that, spurning ease,
Some shall emerge, and add to the renown
Of Tunbridge school; an ancient hoary seat
Of classic institution, favour'd long
By patronage of men whose liberal souls,
Amid the cares of gain, commercial toils,
Chief cause of Britain's proud pre-eminence,
Still find an hour to listen to the muse,
And honor arts which seek no sordid pelf,
But add a grace to life, and build up man.
O'tis a noble edifice; and here
The solid basis must be firmly laid
In elemental lore. The pious Judd
Some centuries past here plac'd the corner-stone:
His sons, disdaining to degenerate,
Support and deck the pile. "Tis nobly done,
And merits praise, which, though our hearts
can feel,
Our tongues want words to speak in language
A school-boy!-you've heard my artless tale,
'Tis a true picture of my simple life;
Then how should I in language adequate
Describe your merits? 'Tis a copious theme,
And asks a genius, as your bounty large.
But this I know, instructed in the arts
Of elegance and taste beneath this roof,
And cherish'd by your smiles, the day may
EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, AND OTHER LITTLE PIECES.
On a very rich Gentleman drinking the Waters | To a Lady, with a Print of Venus attired by of Tunbridge Wells, who had refused to conthe Gruces. tribute to the Relief of a distress'd Family. THAT far superior is thy state FOR deepest woes old Harpax scorns to feel; Think ye his bowels stand in need of steel?
Even envy must agree;
On thee a thousand Graces wait,
On Venus only three.
To a Gentleman who was obliged to retreat for
fear of a disagreeable Retaliation.
THAT Cotta is so pale, so spare,
No cause for wonder now affords;
He lives, alas! on empty fare,
Who lives by eating his own words.
On the Dutchess of Devonshire.
ARRAY'D in matchless beauty, Devon's fair
In Fox's favor takes a zealous part:
But, oh! where'er the pilferer comes-beware!
She supplicates a vote, and steals a heart.
On the Phrase, " Killing Time." Translated from Voltaire.
"THERE'S scarce a point wherein mankind
agree,
So well as in their boast of killing me.
I boast of nothing: but, when I've a mind,
I think I can be even with mankind."
"BROTHER bucks, your glasses drain :
Tom, 'tis strong and sparkling red.""Never fear-'twon't reach my brain.""No-that's true-but 'twill your head."
THE gay Flirtilla show'd her mimic bust, And ask'd blunt Senso if 'twere fashion'd just. "Ma'am," he replied, " in this 'tis much like you;
The face is painted, and that badly too."
WHEN late I attempted your pity to move,
Why seem'd you so deaf to my prayers?
Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love-
But why did you kick me down stairs?
HERE is my much-lov'd Celia laid,
At rest from all her earthly labors!
Glory to God, peace to the dead,
And to the ears of all her neighbours.
"My wife's so very bad," cried Will, "I fear she ne'er will hold it
She keeps her bed !"-" Mine's worse," quoth Phil,
"The jade has just now sold it."
The Clown's Reply. GOLDSMITH. JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers To tell them the reason why asses had ears: "An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters, [betters: Nor dare I pretend to know more than my Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces, [asses." As I hope to be sav'd! without thinking on
An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex. By the Same.
GOOD people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.
At church with silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumber'd in her pew-
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.
But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all,
The doctors found, when she was dead,
Her last disorder-mortal.
Let us lament in sorrow sore;
For Kent-street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,
She had not died to-day.
On a Miser.
IRON was his chest,
Iron was his door,
His hand was iron,
And his heart was more.
On Dr. King's (the celebrated Orator and Jacobite, of Oxford) Ridicule of the Quack Doctor Oculist Taylor, who called himself the Chevalier Taylor.
WHAT could provoke old King to sneer
Our most renown'd Eye-mender ?-
King praises but one Chevalier,
And owns but one Pretender.
On Mr. Churchill's Death.
SAYS Tom to Richard, Churchill's dead."
Says Richard, "Tom, you lie;
Old Rancour the report has spread,
But Genius cannot die."
JACK brags he never dines at home,
With reason too, no doubt-
In truth, Jack never dines at all,
Unless invited out.
To Chloe. By PETER PINDAR. Who gladly would embrace thy chain, DEAR Chloe, well I know the swain, And who, alas! can blame him? Affect not, Chloe, a surprise: Look but a moment on these eyes, Thou'lt ask me not to name him.
Garrick and his brother Actor. By the same.
A SHABBY fellow chanc'd one day to meet The British Roscius in the street
(Garrick, of whom our nation justly brags). The fellow hugg'd him with a kind embrace "Good Sir, I do not recollect your face," [rags: Quoth Garrick." No!" reply'd the man of
The boards of Drury you and I have trod Full many a time together, I am sure.” "When?" with an oath, cried Garrick-"for, by G-,
I never saw that face of yours before!
What characters, I pray,
Did you and I together play?"
Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mock
When you play'd Hamlet, Sir,-I play'd the Cock."
On the Death of a promising Youth of Eighteen.
THOUGH death the virtuous young destroy,
They go to rest, and heavenly joy:
Life is not to be judg'd by days,
Virtue endures when time decays;
And many old we falsely call,
Who truly never liv'd at all:
For what is time, if not employ'd
In worthy deeds, but all a void?
Then think not, though abridg'd by fate,
Too short this youth's allotted date;
With dignity he fill'd his span,
In conduct and in worth a man.
So spent, a life to heaven appears
As full as Nestor's length of years.
On a whole Family cut off by the Small-pox.
By Master PETER RAINIER.
AT once depriv'd of life, lies here
A family to virtue dear.
Though far remov'd from regal state,
Their virtues made them truly great.
Lest one should feel the other's fall,
Death has, in kindness, seiz'd them all.
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