All thy lov'd beauties lose their former force, And much am I advis'd to sue
For a poetical divorce;
But, hang it, 'tis too late to shut the stable, We must even drudge as well as we are able.
Donec eris felix multos numerabis amicos. OVID.
IN sonnet trim, and ditty quaint,
I've often read the trite complaint,
That truth, search all the nation round,
Untainted truth, will scarce be found;
Yet trust me, which I wot you will,
I know a shyer stranger stili.
Let Bow-street send her myriads forth,
From east to west, from south to north;
"Cry havoc!" and, inspiring awe,
Let slip the hungry dogs of law;
Direct, at once, on diff'rent journeys,
Bums, setters, runners, spies, attorneys ;
Keep Townshend in perpetual hire,
With catchpoles, and "chimæras dire;"
'Fore heav'n, in vain will be their trouble,
This bilk will give them all the double,
And though they're often in “view hollow,”
'Tis merely loss of time to follow.
Come, bend thy serious brow, and furl
Thy front's most formidable curl,
Excogitate, perpend, unloose
The myst'ry of this gordian noose,
Break its inextricable links,
And solve this riddle for a sphynx?
What, Master Ædipus, you're hamper'd,
Your syllogistic schemes have scamper'd,
You've scann'd old Euclid, and the schoolmen,
Grave whisker'd charlatans that fool men,
Yet cannot answer this plain question :-
Well, as 'tis tough for your digestion,
And may your puzzled wits endanger,
'Tis Friendship is this wond'rous stranger.
Friendship, soft cement of the soul,
Clear flame, above all base control,
Whose light can shed a radiance pure
Through Sorrow's palpable obscure,
Though much of thee is sung and spoken,
Frail ware! how often art thou broken!
Friendship! in life's conflicting storm,
Where may we grasp thy fleeting form?
How oft, sublime on borrow'd plume,
Docs Int'rest vile thy shape assume?
How often, pompously bely'd,
Art thou the vaunting puff of Pride?
Nay, Av'rice self, unfeeling crone,
Not seldom takes thy honey'd tone;
But should Misfortune once torment us,
Then thou'rt a mere-Non est inventus.
This, now, to prove in mode most ample,
Take me, myself, then-par exemple.
When late, enforc'd by powerful spell,
I visited the debtor's hell,
And did, though earthly-born presume,
Into dread Hades' central gloom;
Ah me! where no Orphean squeak
Drew iron tears down jailor's cheek;
When, so unluckily he tript,
Pegasus' wings were fairly clipt:
His tail, too, batter'd to a stump,
Nay, scarce a hair upon his rump;
When told by each rich dunce's damn'd son,
"The Philistines are on you, Sampson ;"
And I had hardly breath to call
"Why do'st thou persecute me, Saul?"
What great man, pitying my story,
Unlock'd the gates of purgatory,
And whisper'd Cerberus, the porter,
"This fellow keeps a miss, I court her,
Miss Muse, a dame extremely lavish,
Though many a dolt attempts to ravish :
For sake of this celestial fair,
Do, let him taste the outward air,
Lo! here the glitt'ring dross he owes you;
This conduct, certainly, may pose you,
But I've done more, as I'm an earl,
For eunuch, or an op'ra-girl;
Besides, the yellow trash encumbers,
And he'll repay in heav'nly numbers."
Then turn to me, and say, Sir Poet,
I've friendship, and I'm come to show it;
Fly from this dreary-looking barrack ;
Go, pen ode, madrigal, pindaric;
Chaunt, quaver, whistle, trill, or warble,
Songs, sweet enough to melt a marble;
Catch flying Fancy by the neck fast,
And write an epic-before breakfast."
Did any wight this course pursue? You shrug! the dev'l a one but you.
To you, though late your worth I've known,
True friend, to you I'm bound alone.
And may the only spark that warms
My heart, so cold to other charms,
Oh! may my tuneful art expire,
My faint touch tremble on the lyre,
May it be strew'd with mould'ring dust,
Nor I have pow'r to wipe its rust,
Dew'd be each chord with many a tear,
All tuneless to its master's ear,
Its feeble frame may Dulness rend,
When I forget the cordial friend.
DEATH OF LORD HEATHFIELD.
ALOFT on Calpe's hideous height,
Rob'd in the sable garb of Night,
Sate the fell demons of the fight,
And way'd their banners blue;
When moving with pathetic eye
The pensive Muse stole silent by,
And view'd full oft with rising sigh,
Where Heathfield's laurels grew.
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