Full many a champion, bent on hardy deed,
Call'd for his arms, and for his princely steed.
So swarm'd the Sabine youth, and grasp'd the
shield,
When Roman rapine, by no laws withheld,
Lest Rome should end with her first founders' lives,
Made half their maids, sans ceremony, wives.
But not the mitred few: the soul their charge,
They left these bodily concerns at large;
Forms or no forms, pluralities or pairs,
Right reverend Sirs! was no concern of theirs.
The rest, alert and active as became
A courteous knighthood, caught the gen'rous flame;
One was accoutred when the cry began,
Knight of the silver moon, Sir Marmadan1.
Oft as his Patroness, who rules the night,
Hangs out her lamp in yon cærulean height,
His vow was (and he well perform'd his vow)
Arm'd at all points, with terror on his brow,
To judge the land, to purge atrocious crimes,
And quell the shapeless monsters of the times.
For cedars fam'd, fair Lebanon supplied
The well-pois'd lance that quiver'd at his side ;
Truth arm'd it with a point so keen, so just,
No spell or charm was proof against the thrust.
He couch'd it firm upon his puissant thigh,
And darting through his helm an eagle's eye,
On all the wings of chivalry advanc'd
To where the fond Sir Airy lay entranc'd.
He dreamt not of a foe, or if his fear
Foretold one, dreamt not of a foe so near.
Far other dreams his fev'rish mind employ'd,
Of rights restor'd, variety enjoy'd;
Of virtue too well fenc'd to fear a flaw,
Vice passing current by the stamp of law;
Large population on a lib'ral plan,
And woman trembling at the foot of man;
How simple wedlock fornication works,
And Christians marrying may convert the Turks.
The trumpet now spoke Marmadan at hand, 161
A trumpet that was heard through all the land.
His high-bred steed expands his nostrils wide,
And snorts aloud to cast the mist aside;
But he, the virtues of his lance to show,
Struck thrice the point upon his saddle-bow;
Three sparks ensued that chas'd it all away,
And set th' unseemly pair in open day.
1 Monthly Review for October [C.].
To horse! he cried, or by this good right hand
And better spear, I smite you where you stand. 170
Sir Airy, not a whit dismay'd or scar'd,
Buckled his helm, and to his steed repair'd;
Whose bridle, while he cropp'd the grass below,
Hung not far off upon a myrtle bough.
He mounts at once, such confidence infus'd
Th' insidious witch that had his wits abus'd;
And she, regardless of her softer kind,
Seiz'd fast the saddle and sprang up behind.
Oh shame to knighthood! his assailant cried;
Oh shame! ten thousand echoing nymphs replied.
Plac'd with advantage at his list'ning ear,
She whisper'd still that he had nought to fear;
That he was cas'd in such inchanted steel,
So polish'd and compact from head to heel,
Come ten, come twenty, should an army call
Thee to the field, thou shouldst withstand them all.
By Dian's beams, Sir Marmadan exclaim'd,
The guiltiest still are ever least asham'd!
But guard thee well, expect no feign'd attack;
And guard beside the sorc'ress at thy back.
He spoke indignant, and his spurs applied, Though little need, to his good palfrey's side; The barb sprang forward, and his lord, whose force Was equal to the swiftness of his horse, Rushed with a whirlwind's fury on the foe, And, Phineas like, transfix'd them at a blow. Then sang the married and the maiden throng, Love grac'd the theme, and harmony the song; The Fauns and Satyrs, a lascivious race,
Shriek'd at the sight, and, conscious, fled the place:
And Hymen, trimming his dim torch anew,
His snowy mantle o'er his shoulders threw;
He turn'd, and view'd it oft on ev'ry side,
And redd'ning with a just and gen'rous pride,
Bless'd the glad beams of that propitious day,
The spot he loath'd so much for ever cleans'd away.
TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY
[Written (?). Published 1782.]
THE Swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing,
And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early spring.
The keenest frost that binds the stream,
The wildest wind that blows,
Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,
Secure of their repose.
But man, all feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys;
With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.
And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day,
To crown the smiling hours.
A glimpse of joy, that we have met,
Shall shine, and dry the tear,
THE POET, THE OYSTER, AND
SENSITIVE PLANT
[Written (?). Published 1782.]
AN Oyster, cast upon the shore,
Was heard, though never heard before,
Complaining in a speech well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded-
Ah, hapless wretch! condemn'd to dwell
For ever in my native shell;
Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or ease;
But toss'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water and now out.
"Twere better to be born a stone,
Of ruder shape, and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And sensibilities so fine!
I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Fast rooted against ev'ry rub.
The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the sneer with scorn enough;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with asperity replied.
(When, cry the botanists-and stareDid plants call'd sensitive grow there? No matter when-a poet's muse is
To make them grow just where she chooses.)
You, shapeless nothing in a dish-
You that are but almost a fish-
I scorn your coarse insinuation,
And have most plentiful occasion
To wish myself the rock I view,
Or such another dolt as you:
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd spark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;
And, when I bend, retire, and shrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think!
Thus life is spent (oh, fie upon't!)
In being touch'd, and crying-Don't!
A poet, in his ev'ning walk,
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.
And your fine sense, he said, and your's,
Whatever evil it endures,
Deserves not, if so soon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Disputes, though short, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings, in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.
You, in your grotto-work enclos'd,
Complain of being thus expos'd;
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driv'n by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill beside.
And, as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the scene around
Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all-not you.
The noblest minds their virtue prove
By pity, sympathy, and love;
These, these are feelings truly fine,
And prove their owner half divine.
His censure reach'd them as he dealt it,
And each by shrinking show'd he felt it.
[Written Feb., 1781 (MS. in British Museum). Published by Southey, 1836.]
POOR Vestris, griev'd beyond all measure,
To have incurr'd so much displeasure,
Although a Frenchman, disconcerted,
And though lightheeled, yet heavy-hearted,
Begs humbly to inform his friends
Next first of April he intends
To take a boat and row right down
To Cuckold's Point from Richmond town,
And as he goes, alert and gay,
Leap all the bridges in his way.
The boat, borne downward with the tide,
Shall catch him safe on t'other side.
He humbly hopes by this expedient
To prove himself their most obedient,
(Which shall be always his endeavour,)
And jump into the former favour.
TO SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS
[Written 1781 (?) (MS. in British Museum). Published
by Johnson, 1824.]
DEAR President, whose art sublime
Gives perpetuity to time,
And bids transactions of a day
That fleeting hours would waft away,
To dark Futurity survive,
And in unfading beauty live,
You cannot with a grace decline
A special mandate of the Nine-
Yourself, whatever task you choose,
So much indebted to the Muse.
Thus say the sisterhood-We come--
Fix well your pallet on your thumb,
Prepare the pencil and the tints,
We come to furnish you with hints.
French disappointment, British glory
Must be the subject of the story.
First strike a curve, a graceful bow,
Then slope it to a point below;
Your outline easy, airy, light,
Fill'd up becomes a paper kite.
Let independence, sanguine, horrid,
Blaze, like a meteor in the forehead;
Beneath, (but lay aside your graces)
Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces,
24 The Members of Congress, I suppose, two from each colonynote in BM.
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