Now shine the spires beneath the paly moon, Or copious bowls inspire a jovial strain : Save that in yonder cobweb-mantled room, Within those walls, where thro' the glimm'ring shade Oft have they bask'd along the sunny walls, Oft have the benches bow'd beneath their weight; How jocund are their looks when dinner calls! How smoke the cutlets on their crowded plate ! O, let not Temp'rance too disdainful hear How long our feasts, how long our dinners, last: These sons of Science shine in black alone. Forgive, ye fair, th' involuntary fault, If these no feats of gayety display, Say, is the sword well suited to the band? Does broider'd coat agree with sable gown? Can Dresden's laces shade a Churchinan's hand, Or Learning's vot'ries ape the beaux of town? Perhaps in these time-tott'ring walls reside Some who were once the darlings of the fair; Some who of old could tastes and fashions guide, Controul the manager and awe the play'r. But Science now has fill'd their vacant mind With Rome's rich spoils and Truth's exalted views ; Fir'd them with transports of a nobler kind, And bade them slight all females-but the Muse. Full many a lark, high tow'ring to the sky Unheard, unheeded, greets th' approach of light; Full many a star, unseen by mortal eye, With twinkling lustre glimmers thro' the night. Some future HERRING, that with dauntless breast Some mute, some thoughtless HARDWICKE here may rest, From prince and people to command applause, Fate yet forbids; nor circumscribes alone To fill the madding crowd's perverted mind, They keep the noiseless tenor of their way. Oft are the authors' names, tho' richly bound, To tell th' admiring guest what books are there. For who, to thoughtless Ignorance a prey, Neglects to hold short dalliance with a book? Who there but wishes to prolong his stay, And on those cases casts a ling ring look? Novels Lord Fopling and Sir Plume require; And say, "Each morn, unchill'd by frosts, he ran, "With hose ungarter'd, o'er yon turfy bed, "To reach the chapel ere the psalms began. "There, in the arms of that lethargic chair, "Which rears its moth-devoured back so high, "At noon he quaff'd three glasses to the fair, "And por'd upon the news with curious eye. "Now by the fire, engag'd in serious talk 'Or mirthful converse, would he loit'ring stand; "Then in the garden chose a sunny walk, "Or launch'd the polish'd bowl with steady hand "One morn we miss'd him at the hour of pray'r, Beside the fire, and on his fav'rite green; "Another came, nor yet within the chair, "Nor yet at bowls, nor chapel was he seen. ; Next to the blessings of Religious Truth The smiles of Friendship and the sweets of Love." FINIS. The above is an exact reprint of the very scarce first edition of this parody, which was brought out by the same publisher, and within two years, of Gray's "Elegy." It was published in quarto size, and in type and style closely resembled the original "Elegy." "An Evening Contemplation in a College" was written by the Rev. John Duncombe, M. A., of Corpus College, Cambridge, who was born in 1730 and died on January 19, 1786. He was the author of several other poems and parodies, neither of which obtained the success of the above, which has been frequently reprinted. It appears at the end of one Dublin edition of Gray's Poems, in 12mo, 1768, and of another printed by William Sleater in 1775. A pirated quarto edition was published in London by J. Wheble in 1776, and attributed to "An Oxonian," it was also included in the collection entitled The Oxford Sausage, and in the second volume of The Repository, London, 1777. All these reprints contain numerous verbal alterations from the original. RETIREMENT'S Hour proclaims the tolling Bell, With meek submission seeks her lonely Cell, Now shows the sinking sun a fainter glare Save where in artless melancholy Strains Within those ancient walls by moss o'erspread, No stings of Conscience goad their easy Breast, To deck the altar and the shrines around: The humble Duties of the Cloyster'd Fair. Awaits alike th' inexorable Foe, The Paths of Pleasure lead but to the Tomb. Forgive, Ye fair, whom Britain's Sons admire, Can These partake the sprightly-moving Dance? Perhaps in this drear Mansion are confin'd The soft Desire to the severest Mind, And wake to Extacy the throbbing Heart. But splendid Life in each Allurement drest Attracts Them not, tho' flush'd with youthful Bloom : Stern Pennance chills the Ardour of their Breast, And buries their Ambition in his Gloom. Full many a Riv'let steals its gentle way And pours her plaintive Melody in vain. From Flatt'ry's Lip to drink the Sweets of Praise, And view Their Beauty in th' Admirer's Eye Their Lot forbids: nor does alone remove The Thirst of Praise, but e'en their Vices chains, Forbids thro' Folly's Labyrinths to rove, And yield to Pleasure the unheeded reins: To raise mid Hymen's Joys domestic Strife, Or seek that Converse which They ought to shun Far from the Bustle of the splendid Throng Smooth as the Stream, when sleeps the breezy Gale. Yet tho' they're sprinkled with ethereal Dew? The Thought of Kindred razes from the Mind? For some endear'd Companion left behind. Gush'd from their Eye the tender filial Tear. "Oft have we seen Him 'ere Aurora's Ray "Had faintly ting'd with red the op'ning Sky "Hasten to Church, and Join the Matin Lay. "There at the Tomb where Eloisa lies, "He'd read th' Inscription: and her Fate condole, "Then in his Breast, as scenes of Grief arise, Sigh the kind Requiem to her gentle soul. "Against yon Pillar careless now He'd lean, "Smiling at what his wayward Fancy moves : "Now drooping, wan, and pensive, wou'd be seen "As one abandon'd by the Fair He loves. "One morn I miss'd Him in the aweful Dome "Nor at the Font, nor in the Porch was He. "The next we heard, which did our wonder move, "He was departed to return no more, "Yet lest the sudden change we shou'd reprove, "These Lines He sent us from Britannia's shore. "What time in Transport lost the Naïad Throng, "First catch'd their Akenside's enchanting Lay, "And raptur'd Fancy listen'd to the Song "Of laurel'd Whitehead, and sweet-plaintive Gray. THE LETTER. A Vestal Fair (Her Name I mayn't unfold) Has planted in my Breast the pleasing Dart; Who by relentless vows, if not controll'd, Wou'd own, perchance, a Sympathy of Heart. The growing Passion impotent to quell, Seek not to draw me from this still abode, And when the Thoughts of hapless Love corrode This is given from the original quarto; there have been numerous reprints, all containing considerable variations THE shrill bell rings the knell of "Curtain rise" Now strike the glimmering lamps upon the sight Save that in yonder velvet-mantled box A moping Countess to her Grace complains Of macaws, monkeys, perroquets, and shocks, And losses vaist and vaistly paltry gains. Behind those rugged spikes that bag-wigs shade, Where tuneful Folios lie in many a heap, Each in his narrow line for ever laid The embryo crotchets of the “Guardian” sleep. The long, long trill of quaver-torturing Brent, t No more shall rouze each lowly-slumbering note. Yet let not genius mock their useless toil, The pomp of Tragedy, expression's power, Forgive, ye Bards, th' involuntary fault, Can pensive Arne, with animated strain, An Opera, written and composed by Thomas Augustine Arne, M.D. It was acted at Covent Garden Theatre, London, six nights in the month of December, 1764. + Performers in the Opera. But shrill rehearsal each unprinted page, Lavish of grins and squalls, did n'er unroll The hiss contemptuous and the catcall's rage Repress'd the great ambition of his soul. Full many a book, of purest page serene, The high ungenial cells of Grub-street bear; Some village And read their influence in a lady's eyes, Of Taste, and banish genius from mankind. Far from the merry wake, and rustic ball, Yet still the blind from insult to protect, Some faithful consort ever wandering nigh, With vary'd garb, and uncouth'd pinner deck'd, Implores the passing tribute with a sigh. Her ditties oft, though an unletter'd Muse The place of air and sonnet would supply; For who, so much to gloominess a prey, Nor lift one longing, lingering leg to dance? On some smart air the active heel relies, Some sprightly jig the springing foot requires; E'en in a minuet wake our youthful fires. Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate; Oft have we seen him at the hour of prayer "Brushing, with hasty hand, the dust away "From his rent cassock and his beaver bare. "Oft by the side of yonder nodding font "That lifts its old fantastic head so high, "To wait the frequent christening was he wont "And frown upon the Clerk that babbled by. "Oft in yon pulpit, smiling as in scorn, "Muttering his uncouth doctrines would he preach, "Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, "In deep despair the Mitre's grace to reach. "One morn I miss'd him at the hour of prayer, "His wonted surplice did another wear, "Slow through the church-way path we saw him brought, "Approach and read (if thou canst read!) the lay "Which his own Clerk, his Parish Clerk has wrote." EPITAPH. IIERE rests his head upon the lap of earth, A Curate poor, to stalls and tythes unknown; No Bishop smil'd upon his humble birth; No Minister e'er mark'd him for his own. Bread was his only food, his drink the brook; He left his laundress all he had-a book No longer seek his wardrobe to disclose, :0: AN EPITAPH ON A CERTAIN POET. HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth One nor to Fortune nor to Fame unknown; Large was his wish-in this he was sincere, Gave the poor C-r four hundred pounds a year No further seek his deeds to bring to light -:0: AN ELEGY, Written in Covent-Garden. (Printed before 1777.) ST. PAUL'S proclaims the solemn midnight hour, And leave the streets to darkness and to me. Now glimmering lamps afford a doubtful ray, Save that, at yonder iron-grated tower,* The Round-house. Beneath those butchers stalls, that pent-house shade, The dextrous sons of Buckhorse stink and sleep. The chearful call of "Chair! your honour-chair!" For them the blazing links no longer burn, Oft to their subtlety the fob did yield, Their cunning oft the pocket-string hath broke: How in dark alleys bludgeons did they wield! How bow'd the wretch beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their humble toil, The titled villain, and the thief in power, The greatest rogue that ever bore a name, Await alike th' inevitable hour: The paths of wickedness but lead to shame. Nor you, ye proud! impute to these the fault, If Justice round their necks the halter fix; If, from the gallows to their kindred vault, They ride not pompous in a hearse and six, Gives not the lordly axe as sure a fate? Are Peers exempt from mouldering into dust? Can all the gilded 'scutcheons of the Great Stamp on polluted deeds the name of Just? Beneath the gibbet's self perhaps is laid Some heart once pregnant with infernal fire; Hands that the sword of Nero might have sway'd, And 'midst the carnage tun'd th' exulting lyre. Ambition to their eyes her ample page, Rich with such monstrous crimes, did n'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their native rage, And froze the bloody current of the soul. Full many a youth, fit for each horrid scene, And dies unhang'd for want of proper care. Some petty Chartres, that with dauntless breast The votes of venal senates to command, Their lot forbad; nor circumscrib'd alone Their groveling fortunes, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad with libels to insult the throne, And vilify the noblest of mankind. Earl of Rochester. The struggling pangs of conscious guilt to hide, To such high crimes, such prodigies of vice, Yet e'en these humbler vices to correct, Old Tyburn lifts his triple front on high; Bridewell, with bloody whips and fetters deck'd, Frowns dreadful vengeance on the younger fry. Their name, their years, their birth and parentage, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, That first seduc'd to sin his pliant mind? No soul so callous but remorse may wring, Whom certain punishment attends, though late; Haply some hoary-headed thief may say, "Oft have I seen him with his lighted link "Guide some unwary stranger cross the way, "And pick his pocket on the kennel's brink. "There, at the foot of yonder column stretch'd, "Where Seven Dials are exalted high, "He and his Myrmidons for hours have watch'J, "And pour'd destruction on each passer-by. "Hard by yon wall, where not a lamp appears, "Skulking in quest of booty would he wait; "Now as a beggar shedding artful tears, "Now smiting with his crutch some hapless pate. "One night I miss'd him at th' accustom'd place, "The seven-faced Pillar and his favourite wall: "Another came, nor yet I saw his face; "The post, the crossings, were deserted all. "At last, in dismal cart and sad array, "Backward up Holborn-hill I saw him mount : "Here you may read (for you can read, you say) "His Epitaph in th' Ord'nary's Account." ТНЕ ЕРІТАРН. HERE festering rots a quondam pest of earth, Quick were his fingers, and his soul was dark; |