PARODIES
OF THE WORKS OF
ENGLISH AND AMERICAN AUTHORS,
COLLECTED AND ANNOTATED BY
WALTER HAMILTON,
Fellow of the Royal Geographical and Royal Historical Societies;
Author of “A History of National Anthems and Patriotic Songs,” “A Memoir of George Cruikshank”
“The Poets Laureate of England,” “The Æsthetic Movement in England,” etc.
“I have here only made a Nosegay of culled Flowers, and have brought little more of my own than the band which ties them.”
VOLUME V.
CONTAINING PARODIES OF
Thomas Gray’s “Elegy in a Country Churchyard,”
AND OTHER POEMS.
WILLIAM COWPER. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
S. T. COLERIDGE. M. G. LEWIS. LEIGH HUNT.
LORD MACAULAY.
W. M. PRAED. W. M. THACKERAY. LORD LYTTON.
P. B. Shelley. Mrs. Browning. The Ingoldsby Legends.
J. ADDISON. W. COLLINS. S. ROGERS. E. WALLER.
NATIONAL SONGS OF THE UNITED STATES.
MODERN AMERICAN POETS.
SONGS OF THE CIVIL WAR.
REEVES & TURNER, 196, STRAND, LONDON, W.C.
1888.
INTRODUCTION.
VOLUME V.
HE completion of the Fifth Volume of this collection of Parodies affords me an opportunity of acknowledging many acts of courtesy shown by gentlemen who take an interest in the subject.
They have appreciated the importance of making the collection complete, and reliable as a book of reference on Parody and Burlesque, and by the information they have sent, have assisted me to carry out my design so far as it has gone.
In some few cases the difficulty of finding the authors has prevented me from obtaining their permission to insert their poems, but in every instance due acknowledgment has been made.
No trouble has been spared to obtain every parody worth quoting, to trace every poem to its original source, and to give the Authors’ names, wherever they could be ascertained.
Without the assistance of the Authors themselves it would have been impossible to collect and verify such a mass of information, and my thanks are especially due to the following gentlemen, either for permission to reprint their parodies, or for other literary assistance in the compilation of the work: E. B. Anstee, Cuthbert Bede, (Rev. E. Bradley,) F. W. Crawford, T. F. Dillon-Croker, J. G. Dalton (of Boston, U.S.) F. B. Doveton, James Gordon, F.S.A., J. H. Ingram, J. Brodie-Innes, John Lane, Rev. H. C. Leonard, J. M. Lowry, A. W. Mackenzie, F. B. Perkins (of San Francisco, U.S.) Walter Parke, Edward Simpson, G. R. Sims, T. H. Smith, (of Chicago, U.S.) Edward Walford, M.A., C. H. Waring, and Edmund H. Yates.
Not only has their friendly aid cheered my labors, but it has encouraged me to hope for equally valuable assistance during the publication of the Sixth Volume, which will deal principally with the works of living poets, or with the poems of those who have only recently passed away.
WALTER HAMILTON,
57, Gauden Road, Clapham, S.W.
December, 1888.
THOMAS GRAY
Born in Cornhill, London, December 26, 1716.
Died in Cambridge, July 30, 1771.
The following is a list of the principal poems written by Thomas Gray, upon most of which parodies will be given:
- Elegy written in a Country Church-Yard.
- Ode on the Spring.
- On the Death of a favourite Cat.
- On a distant Prospect of Eton College.
- To Adversity.
- The Progress of Poesy.
- The Bard.
- Ode for Music.
- The Fatal Sisters.
- The Triumphs of Owen.
- The Descent of Odin.
- The Death of Hoel.
- A Long Story.
——:o:——
The Elegy in a Country Churchyard was commenced by Gray in 1742, at the age of 34; it was then laid aside, to be taken up again after the death of his aunt, Mary Antrobus, in 1749. Stoke-Poges Churchyard, where this lady was buried, is the generally accepted scene of the poem, and there the poet was himself afterwards laid to rest.
The “Elegy” was completed at Stoke in June, 1750, a copy, in MS., was sent immediately by Gray to his friend Horace Walpole, and another to Dr. Wharton of Durham, which latter is now in the library of the British Museum. Another MS. is in the library of Pembroke College, Cambridge, but which was really the original MS. cannot be definitely ascertained, as Gray sent out several other copies to his friends. Hence the difficulty there is now in deciding upon the particular version of the “Elegy” which received the last finishing touches of the author, who was known to be most fastidious in the diction, and punctuation of his poems.
On the 12th June, 1750, Gray announced to Walpole that “a thing,” whose beginning he had seen long before, had at last got an end to it, “a merit,” he added, “that most of my writings have wanted and are like to want.” This “thing” was the “Elegy.” Walpole showed it about, copies were taken, and early in 1751 Gray received a letter from the editors of the “Magazine of Magazines” informing him that his “ingenious poem” was in the press, and begging not only his indulgence, but the honour of his correspondence. “I am not at all disposed,” wrote Gray, “to be either so indulgent or so correspondent as they desire.” Gray had not intended to publish the poem, but annoyed at the unscrupulous action of the proprietors of the “Magazine of Magazines,” he determined to forestall them if possible, and requested Walpole to get the “Elegy” printed without the author’s name, “in what form is most convenient to the printer, but on his best paper and character; he must correct the press himself, and print it without any intervals between the stanzas, because the sense is in some places continued beyond them.” Accordingly, on the 16th of February, 1751, five days after this letter was written, the first edition was printed and published by Robert Dodsley of Pall Mall. In this hasty manner, and without the author’s corrections, was issued from the press one of the most popular poems in the English language.
It also appeared in The Magazine of Magazines (London) for February, 1751, where it was introduced as having been composed “by the very ingenious Mr. Gray, of Peterhouse, Cambridge.” In this it was entitled, Stanzas written in a Country Churchyard, although it was entered in the Index as An Elegy made in a Country Churchyard. This was more modern in its orthography, and contained several variations from the authorised edition published by Dodsley.
There can be little doubt but that this pirated version of the “Elegy” was at first generally preferred to Gray’s authorised edition, in which there were some very obvious errors, due to its hasty production. Certain it is that all subsequent editions far more nearly resembled the pirated version, than that printed by Dodsley at Gray’s request.
Dodsley’s first edition was in quarto, and is now excessively rare. The following is an exact reprint of it, the original orthography and style of printing being in strict accordance with the copy now in the library of the British Museum. The only variation being that the stanzas are numbered for convenience of reference to the foot notes.
AN
ELEGY
WROTE IN A
COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.
London:
Printed for R. Dodsley, in Pall-mall; and sold by M. Cooper in Pater-noster-Row. 1751.
[Price Six-pence.]
ADVERTISEMENT.
The following Poem came into my Hands by accident, if the general Approbation with which this little Piece has been spread, may be call’d by so slight a Term as accident. It is this approbation which makes it unnecessary for me to make any Apology but to the Author: As he cannot but feel some Satisfaction in having pleas’d so many Readers already, I flatter myself he will forgive my communicating that Pleasure to many more.
THE EDITOR.
1The Curfeu tolls the Knell of parting Day,
The lowing Herd winds slowly o’er the Lea,
The Plow-man homeward plods his weary Way,
And leaves the World to Darkness, and to me.
2Now fades the glimmering Landscape on the Sight,
And all the Air a solemn Stillness holds,
Save where the Beetle wheels his droning Flight,
And drowsy Tinklings lull the distant Folds.
3Save that from yonder Ivy-mantled Tow’r,
The moping Owl does to the Moon complain
Of such, as wand’ring near her secret Bow’r,
Molest her ancient solitary Reign.
4Beneath those rugged Elms, that Yew-Tree’s shade,
Where heaves the Turf in many a mould’ring Heap,
Each in his narrow Cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the Hamlet sleep.
5The breezy Call of Incense-breathing Morn,
The Swallow twitt’ring from the Straw-built Shed,
The Cock’s shrill Clarion, or the ecchoing Horn,
No more shall wake them from their lowly Bed.
6For them no more the blazing Hearth shall burn,
Or busy Houswife ply her Evening-Care:
No Children run to lisp their Sire’s Return,
Or climb his Knees the envied Kiss to share.
7Oft did the Harvest to their Sickle yield,
Their Furrow oft the stubborn Glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their Team afield!
How bow’d the Woods beneath their sturdy Stroke!
8Let not Ambition mock their useful Toil,
Their homely Joys and Destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful Smile
The short and simple Annals of the Poor.
9The Boast of Heraldry, the Pomp of Power,
And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable Hour.
The Paths of Glory lead but to the Grave.
10Forgive, ye Proud, th’ involuntary Fault
If Memory to these no Trophies raise,
Where thro’ the long-drawn Isle and fretted Vault
The pealing Anthem swells the Note of Praise.
11Can storied Urn or animated Bust
Back to its Mansion call the fleeting Breath?
Can Honour’s Voice provoke the silent Dust,
Or Flatt’ry sooth the dull cold Ear of Death?
12Perhaps in this neglected Spot is laid
Some Heart once pregnant with celestial Fire;
Hands that the Reins of Empire might have sway’d,
Or wak’d to Extacy the living Lyre.
13But Knowledge to their Eyes her ample Page
Rich with the Spoils of Time did ne’er unroll,
Chill Penury repress’d their noble Rage,
And froze the genial Current of the Soul.
14Full many a Gem of purest Ray serene,
The dark unfathom’d Caves of Ocean bear:
Full many a Flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its Sweetness on the desart Air.
15Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless Breast
The little Tyrant of his Fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his Country’s Blood.
16Th’ Applause of list’ning Senates to command,
The Threats of Pain and Ruin to despise,
To scatter Plenty o’er a smiling Land;
And read their Hist’ry in a Nation’s Eyes
17Their Lot forbad: nor circumscrib’d alone
Their growing Virtues, but their Crimes confin’d;
Forbad to wade through Slaughter to a Throne,
And shut the Gates of Mercy on Mankind,
18The struggling Pangs of conscious Truth to hide,
To quench the Blushes of ingenuous Shame,
Or heap the Shrine of Luxury and Pride
With Incense, kindled at the Muse’s Flame.
19Far from the madding Crowd’s ignoble Strife,
Their sober Wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d Vale of Life
They kept the noiseless Tenor of their Way.
20Yet ev’n these Bones from Insult to protect
Some frail Memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth Rhimes and shapeless Sculpture deck’d,
Implores the passing Tribute of a Sigh.
21Their Name, their Years, spelt by th’ unletter’d Muse,
The Place of Fame and Elegy supply:
And many a holy Text around she strews,
That teach the rustic Moralist to die.
22For who to dumb Forgetfulness a Prey,
This pleasing anxious Being e’er resign’d,
Left the warm Precincts of the chearful Day,
Nor cast one longing ling’ring Look behind!
23On some fond Breast the parting Soul relies,
Some pious Drops the closing Eye requires;
Ev’n from the Tomb the Voice of Nature cries
Ev’n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
24For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead,
Dost in these Lines their artless Tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some hidden Spirit shall enquire thy Fate,
25Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,
“Oft have we seen him at the Peep of Dawn
“Brushing with hasty Steps the Dews away,
“To meet the Sun upon the upland Lawn,
26“There at the Foot of yonder nodding Beech,
“That wreathes its old fantastic Roots so high,
“His listless Length at Noontide wou’d he stretch,
“And pore upon the Brook that babbles by.
27“Hard by yon Wood, now frowning as in Scorn,
“Mutt’ring his wayward Fancies he wou’d rove;
“Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
“Or craz’d with Care, or cross’d in hopeless Love.
28“One Morn I miss’d him on the custom’d Hill,
“Along the Heath, and near his fav’rite Tree;
“Another came; nor yet beside the Rill,
“Nor up the Lawn, nor at the Wood was he;
29“The next with Dirges due in sad Array
“Slow thro’ the Church-way Path we saw him born.
“Approach and read (for thou can’st read) the Lay,
“Grav’d on the Stone beneath yon aged Thorn.”
THE EPITAPH.
Here rests his Head upon the Lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble Birth,
And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.
Large was his Bounty, and his Soul sincere,
Heav’n did a Recompence as largely send:
He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a Tear:
He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a Friend.
No farther seek his Merits to disclose,
Or draw his Frailties from their dread Abode,
(There they alike in trembling Hope repose,)
The Bosom of his Father and his God.
FINIS.
1. Curfew in later editions.
The Curfeu tolls the knell of parting day.
—— squilla di lontano
Che paia ’l giorno pianger, che si muore.
Dante, Purgat. l. 8.
And pilgrim newly on his road with love
Thrills, if he hear the vesper bell from far
That seems to mourn for the expiring day.
Cary’s Translation.
2. This verse seems to have strong features of similarity with the following in Collins’s “Ode to Evening:”
“Now air is hush’d, save where the weak-ey’d bat
“With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,
“Or where the beetle winds
“His small but sullen horn.”
10. Another version reads;
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise.
11. Burns borrowed an idea from this verse in his epitaph on the monument to Robert Fergusson, the poet:—
No sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay,
No storied urn or animated bust.
This simple stone directs pale Scotia’s way
To pour her sorrows o’er her poet’s dust.
14. This beautiful comparison of the Gem and the Flower seems borrowed (but with added force and elegance) from Dr. Young:
“—— Such blessings Nature pours,
“O’erstock’d mankind enjoy but half her stores;
“In distant wilds, by human eyes unseen,
“She rears her flow’rs, and spreads her velvet green:
“Pure gurgling rills the lonely desert trace,
“And waste their music on the savage race.”
Universal Passion, Sat. V.
15. Mr. Edwards (author of the Canons of Criticism), who, though an old bachelor, like Mr. Gray, was far more attentive to the fair sex, endeavoured to supply what he thought a defect in this Poem, by introducing after this the two following stanzas:
Some lovely fair, whose unaffected charms
Shone with attraction to herself unknown;
Whose beauty might have blest a monarch’s arms,
And virtue cast a lustre on the throne:
That humble beauty warm’d an honest heart,
And cheer’d the labours of a faithful spouse;
That virtue form’d, for every decent part,
The healthy offspring that adorn’d their house.
18. After this verse, in Mr. Gray’s first MS. of the Poem, were the four following:—
The thoughtless world to Majesty may bow,
Exalt the brave, and idolize success;
But more to innocence their safety owe,
Than Pow’r or Genius e’er conspir’d to bless.
And thou who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead,
Dost in these notes their artless tale relate,
By night and lonely contemplation led
To wander in the gloomy walks of fate:
Hark! how the sacred calm, that breathes around,
Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease;
In still small accents whispering from the ground,
A grateful earnest of eternal peace.
No more, with reason and thyself at strife,
Give anxious cares and endless wishes room;
But through the cool sequestred vale of life
Pursue the silent tenor of thy doom.
And here the Poem was originally intended to conclude, before the happy idea of the hoary-headed Swain, &c. suggested itself to him.
23.
Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
Ch’i veggio nel pensier, dolce mio fuoco,
Fredda una lingua, et due begli occhi chiusi
Rimaner doppo noi pien di faville.
Petrarch, Son. 169.
25. In the M.S. copy of the Elegy bequeathed by Gray to his friend Mason which is now in the possession of Sir William Fraser, Bart., the last two lines of this stanza read:—
With hasty footsteps brush the dews away
On the high brow of yonder hanging lawn.
After this stanza in the same manuscript there was the following:—
Him have we seen the greenwood side along,
While o’er the heath we hied, our labour’s done,
Oft as the woodlark pip’d her farewell song,
With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun.
“I rather wonder (says Mr. Mason) that he rejected this stanza, as it completes the account of his whole day; whereas, this Evening scene being omitted, we have only his Morning walk, and his Noontide repose.”
29. Before the Epitaph, Mr. Gray originally inserted a very beautiful stanza, which was printed in some of the first editions, but afterwards omitted, because he thought that it was too long a parenthesis in this place. The lines however are, in themselves, exquisitely fine, and demand preservation.
There scatter’d oft, the earliest of the Year,
By Hands unseen are show’rs of Violets found;
The Redbreast loves to build and warble there,
And little Footsteps lightly print the ground.
To some readers they may appear to be an imitation of the following in Collins’s “Dirge in Cymbeline:”
“The female fays shall haunt the green,
“And dress thy grave with pearly dew;
“The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
“Shall kindly lend his little aid,
“With hoary moss and gather’d flow’rs,
“To deck the ground where thou art laid.”
Notwithstanding the want of originality in some detached passages of this “Elegy,” and the obvious truisms of many of its ideas, it is doubtless the finest poem of its kind in the language, not even excepting the beautiful, and perhaps more pathetic, “Elegy on the Death of Sir John Moore.” The best proof of its popularity is to be found in the immense number of Parodies, Imitations, and Translations to which it has given rise. In dealing with the Parodies the chief difficulty has been to decide which were worthy of preservation. To reprint all the Parodies, in full, is out of the question, yet the omission of any important or noteworthy example would destroy the utility of this Collection as a work of reference, especially in the eyes of the numerous admirers of Thomas Gray.
To readers not having access to either of our great public libraries it is the earlier parodies which are the most difficult to refer to, these will therefore be inserted complete, though it must be admitted that the first half dozen will be found rather heavy reading.
These will be followed by selections from the most amusing modern parodies, and a few of the best imitations and translations.
The earliest parody I can trace of Gray’s “Elegy” is one entitled—
AN
EVENING CONTEMPLATION
IN A
COLLEGE.
Being a Parody on the
ELEGY
IN
A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
By another Gentleman of Cambridge.
London:
Printed for R. and J. Dodsley in Pall-mall; and Sold
by M. Cooper in Pater-noster Row. 1753.
[Price Sixpence.]
ADVERTISEMENT.
The Author of the excellent Poem on which the following Parody is built, it is hop’d will forgive this innocent Play upon it; which a sincere admiration of its beauties invited the Parodist to attempt: and if it should be thought there is any merit in this Imitation, it must be attributed in a great measure to his working after so fine an Original.
An Evening Contemplation in a College.
The Curfew tolls the hour of closing gates;
With jarring sound the porter turns the key,
Then in his dreary mansion slumb’ring waits,
And slowly, sternly quits it—tho’ for me.
Now shine the spires beneath the paly moon,
And thro’ the cloyster Peace and Silence reign;
Save where some fidler scrapes a drowsy tune,
Or copious bowls inspire a jovial strain:
Save that in yonder cobweb-mantled room,
Where lies a student in profound repose,
Oppress’d with ale, wide-echos thro’ the gloom
The droning music of his vocal nose.
Within those walls, where thro’ the glimm’ring shade
Appear the pamphlets in a mold’ring heap,
Each in his narrow bed till morning laid,
The peaceful fellows of the college sleep.
The tinkling bell proclaiming early pray’rs,
The noisy servants rattling o’er their head,
The calls of business, and domestic cares,
Ne’er rouse these sleepers from their downy bed.
No chatt’ring females crowd their social fire,
No dread have they of discord and of strife;
Unknown the names of husband and of sire,
Unfelt the plagues of matrimonial life.
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:
Nor let the fair with a contemptuous sneer,
On these unmarry’d men reflections cast!
The splendid fortune and the beauteous face
(Themselves confess it, and their sires bemoan)
Too soon are caught by scarlet and by lace:
These sons of Science shine in black alone.
Forgive, ye fair, th’ involuntary fault,
If these no feats of gayety display,
Where thro’ proud Ranelagh’s wide-echoing vault
Melodious Frasi trills her quav’ring lay.
Say, is the sword well suited to the band?
Does broider’d coat agree with sable gown?
Can Dresden’s laces shade a Churchman’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
Rebellion’s torrent shall, like him oppose;
Some mute, some thoughtless Hardwicke here may rest,
Some Pelham, dreadful to his country’s foes.
From prince and people to command applause,
’Midst ermin’d peers to guide the high debate,
To shield Britannia’s and Religion’s laws,
And steer with steady course the helm of state
Fate yet forbids; nor circumscribes alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confines;
Forbids in Freedom’s veil t’ insult the throne,
Beneath her mask to hide the worst designs,
To fill the madding crowd’s perverted mind,
With “Pensions, Taxes, Marriages, and Jews;”
Or shut the gates of Heav’n on lost mankind,
And wrest their darling hopes, their future views.
Far from the giddy town’s tumultuous strife,
Their wishes yet have never learn’d to stray;
Content and happy in a single life,
They keep the noiseless tenor of their way,
Ev’n now, their books from cobwebs to protect,
Inclos’d by doors of glass, in Doric style,
On fluted pillars rais’d, with bronzes deck’d,
They claim the passing tribute of a smile.
Oft are the authors’ names, tho’ richly bound,
Mis-spelt by blundering binders’ want of care;
And many a catalogue is strow’d around,
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?
Reports attract the lawyer’s parting eyes,
Novels Lord Fopling and Sir Plume require;
For songs and plays the voice of Beauty cries,
And Sense and Nature Grandison desire.
For thee, who mindful of thy lov’d compeers
Dost in these lines their artless tales relate,
If Chance, with prying search, in future years,
Some antiquarian shall enquire thy fate,
Haply some friend may shake his hoary head
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.
“The next we heard that in a neighbouring shire,
“That day to church he led a blushing bride;
“A nymph, whose snowy vest and maiden fear
“Improv’d her beauty while the knot was ty’d.
“Now, by his patron’s bounteous care remov’d,
“He roves enraptur’d thro’ the fields of Kent;
“Yet, ever mindful of the place he lov’d,
“Read here the letter which he lately sent.”
the Letter.
“In rural innocence secure I dwell,
Alike to Fortune and to Fame unknown:
Approving Conscience chears my humble cell,
And social Quiet marks me for her own.
Next to the blessings of Religious Truth
Two gifts my endless gratitude engage;
A wife—the joy and transport of my youth,
Now, with a son, the comfort of my age.
Seek not to draw me from this kind retreat,
In loftier spheres unfit, untaught to move;
Content with calm, domestic life, where meet
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.
——:o:——
The next parody, which bears no date, was probably published only a little later than the above, as it was issued in quarto in the same general style, and by the same firm.
THE
NUNNERY.
AN
ELEGY.
In imitation of the
ELEGY in a CHURCH-YARD.
Son pittore anche io.—Corregio.
London:
Printed for R. and J. Dodsley, at Tully’s-Head, Pall-Mall.
[Price Sixpence.]
The Nunnery.
Retirement’s Hour proclaims the tolling Bell,
Each sacred Virgin follows its Decree;
With meek submission seeks her lonely Cell,
And leaves the grate to Solitude and me.
Now shows the sinking sun a fainter glare
And Silence thro’ the Convent reigns confest,
Save where some pale-ey’d Novice (wrap’d in Pray’r)
Heaves a deep groan, and smites her guiltless breast.
Save where in artless melancholy Strains
Some Eloisa whom soft Passion moves,
Absorpt in Sorrow to the night complains;
For ever bar’d the Abelard she loves.
Within those ancient walls by moss o’erspread,
Where the relenting sinner learns to weep;
Each in her narrow Bed till Mid-night laid,
The gentle Daughters of Devotion sleep.
No stings of Conscience goad their easy Breast,
No unrepented Crimes their Slumbers fright,
No mournful Dreams invade their peaceful Rest
Nor shrouded Spectres stalk afore their sight!
Th’ endearing scenes of Life They all forego
Ev’n Hymen’s Torch for Them must never blaze,
The Husband’s fond Embrace They ne’er shall know,
Nor view their Image in their Children’s Face.
Oft did they steal the flow’ry Robe of May
To deck the altar and the shrines around:
How fervent did They chant the pious Lay,
While the deep organ swell’d the sacred sound?
Let not the gay Coquette with Jest profane,
Mock their veil’d Life and Destiny severe:
Nor Worldly Beauty with a sneer disdain
The humble Duties of the Cloyster’d Fair.
The glist’ning Eye: The half seen Breast of Snow,
The coral Lip, the clear vermilion Bloom
Awaits alike th’ inexorable Foe,
The Paths of Pleasure lead but to the Tomb.
Forgive, Ye fair, whom Britain’s Sons admire,
If This her meanest Bard incur your Blame,
While He devotes not to your Praise the Lyre,
But to the convent dedicates his Theme.
Can These partake the sprightly-moving Dance?
Or in the Garb of Luxury appear?
Can These e’er pierce the Lover with a Glance?
Or grace the Tragic scene with Pity’s Tear?
Perhaps in this drear Mansion are confin’d
Some whose accomplish’d Beauty cou’d impart
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
Unheard, untasted, by the thirsty Swain,
Full many a Philomel attunes her Lay,
And pours her plaintive Melody in vain.
Some veil’d Eliza (like the clouded Sun)
May here reside inglorious and unknown;
Some, like Augusta, might have rear’d a Son
To bless a Nation and adorn a Throne.
From Flatt’ry’s Lip to drink the Sweets of Praise,
In Wit and Charms with other Belles to vie,
In Circles to attract the partial Gaze
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
To break the sacred Ties of married Life
And give to many what they vow’d to one.
Far from the Bustle of the splendid Throng
They tread Obscurity’s sequester’d Vale,
Where the white Hours glide silently along
Smooth as the Stream, when sleeps the breezy Gale.
Yet tho’ they’re sprinkled with ethereal Dew?
With blooming Wreaths by Hands of Seraphs crown’d?
Tho’ Heav’n’s eternal Splendors burst to View?
And Harps celestial to their Ear resound?
Still grateful Mem’ry paints the absent Friend,
Not e’en the World to their Remembrance dies:
Their Mid-night Orisons to Heav’ns ascend
To stop the Bolt descending from the Skies.
For who entranc’d, in Visions from above
The Thought of Kindred razes from the Mind?
Feels in the Soul no warm returning Love
For some endear’d Companion left behind.
From Friendship’s Breast reluctant they withdrew,
And with a sigh forsook their native air:
To their fond Parents when they bad adieu
Gush’d from their Eye the tender filial Tear.
For Thee, who mindful of th’ encloyster’d Fair
Dost in these Lines their artless Tale relate,
If Chance in distant Time’s revolving Year
Some kindred Spirit shall enquire thy Fate.
Haply some aged Vestal may reply,
“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
“Along the Isle, and in the Sacristy;
“Another came, nor yet beside the Tomb,
“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,
Severe Discretion urg’d me to retreat;
Now at my native rural Home I dwell,
Where Contemplation keeps her lonely seat.
Seek not to draw me from this still abode,
Where the kind Muses to my Aid repair,
And when the Thoughts of hapless Love corrode
Check the deep Sigh, and wipe the trickling Tear.
This is given from the original quarto; there have been numerous reprints, all containing considerable variations from the above, which it would be alike tedious and unnecessary to enumerate. One version, and perhaps the best known, is to be found in The Repository, Vol. 2, London, 1777.
——:o:——
Elegy
On the Death of
“The Guardian Outwitted.” 1764.[1]
The shrill bell rings the knell of “Curtain rise”
From the thrum’d string the scraping herd to warn
Behind the scenes the plodding snuffer hies
And leaves the stage to operas and to Arne.
Now strike the glimmering lamps upon the sight
And all the house a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the Seaman from the Gallery’s height,
For roast beef bawling, the cu’d Fiddler scolds;
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,[2]
Miss Hallam[2] twittering from her tender throat,
Thy clarion, Beard,[2] that Echo’s ear has rent,
No more shall rouze each lowly-slumbering note.
For these no more a parent’s breast shall burn;
His busy fingers ply their evening care;
Poor banish’d children! never to return,
Nor their own tender sire’s applause to share.
Oft did the City Nymph their sweetness own
Their force the stubborn sentinel has broke;
How jocund did they drive the dull farce down,
When wit and sense expir’d without a joke!
Yet let not genius mock their useless toil,
Their transient honours and their life not long,
Nor sense behold with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of a song.
The pomp of Tragedy, expression’s power,
And all that Garrick, all that Quin e’er gave,
Have found alike th’ inevitable hour,
And the Fifth Act still led them to the grave.
Forgive, ye Bards, th’ involuntary fault,
If love parental shall no trophies raise,
Where in th’ Orchestra’s low sequestered vault
The coxcomb Fidler plies his arm for praise.
Can pensive Arne, with animated strain,
Back to its audience call his fleeting Play?
Can Music’s voice the hand of death restrain,
Or soothing sounds prolong the fatal day?
Perhaps, ere this, he many an Opera made,
Which, though not pregnant with celestial fire,
Might yet, like this, its little night have sway’d,
And wak’d to extacy the living lyre.
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;
Full many a pamphlet leaves the press unseen,
In Moorfields dangling to the desart air.
Some village * * * * * *, who a wife’s fell frown,
A vixen wife with music has withstood,
Some blind Corelli oft may scrape unknown,
Some Arne, not guilty of an Opera’s blood
Th’ applause of listening Boxes to command,
Damnation’s pain and ruin to dispise;
To scatter crotchets o’er a fidling land,
And read their influence in a lady’s eyes,
Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib’d alone
Their tuneful empire, but their pride confin’d,
Forbade pert Nonsense to usurp the throne
Of Taste, and banish genius from mankind.
Oft pilfer’d airs and borrow’d strains to hide.
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
And feed the fondness of a Fidler’s pride
With dull pretences to a Muse’s flame.
Far from the merry wake, and rustic ball,
No vain pursuits, their sober wishes led;
Along the streets and round his worship’s hall
They scrap’d the noisy tenor for their bread:
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;
And songs of grace at Christmas would she chuse,
Repaid with luncheons from the grey-goose pye.
For who, so much to gloominess a prey,
Whose spirits music knows not to advance?
Or who could listen to her roundelay,
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 to a march the moving spirits rise,
E’en in a minuet wake our youthful fires.
For Thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead,
Dost in these lines the Guardian’s Tale relate,
If chance, by love of Elegy misled,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate;
Haply some antiquated Maid may say;
“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,
“In vain I took my spectacles to see;
“His wonted surplice did another wear,
“Nor in the vestry, nor the desk was he.
“The next with dirges due, in sad array,
“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.
Here 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;
So small a salary did his Rector send;
He left his laundress all he had—a book
He found in Death, ’twas all he wish’d—a friend.
No longer seek his wardrobe to disclose,
Nor draw his breeches from their darksome cell;
There, like their master, let them find repose,
Nor dread the horrors of a Taylor’s hell.
——:o:——
An Epitaph
ON
A Certain Poet.
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
One nor to Fortune nor to Fame unknown;
Fair Science frown’d not on his humble Birth,
And smooth-tongued Flattery mark’d him for her own.
Large was his wish—in this he was sincere,
Fate did a recompence as largely send,
Gave the poor C——r four hundred pounds a year
And made a dirty minister his friend.
No further seek his deeds to bring to light
For, ah! he offer’d at Corruption’s shrine;
And basely strove to wash an Æthiop white,
While Truth and Honour bled in every line!
——:o:——
An Elegy,
Written in Covent-Garden.
(Printed before 1777.)
St. Paul’s proclaims the solemn midnight hour,
The wary Cit slow turns the master-key;
Time-stinted ’prentices up Ludgate scour,
And leave the streets to darkness and to me.
Now glimmering lamps afford a doubtful ray,
And scarce a sound disturbs the Night’s dull ear;
Save where some rumbling Hack directs its way,
Or frequent tinklings rouse the tavern-bar:
Save that, at yonder iron-grated tower,[3]
The watchmen to the constable complain
Of such as, in defiance to his power,
Molest their ancient, solitary reign.
Beneath those butchers stalls, that pent-house shade,
Where rankling offals fret in many a heap,
Each in his nasty stye of garbage laid,
The dextrous sons of Buckhorse stink and sleep.
The chearful call of “Chair! your honour—chair!”
Rakes drunk and roaring from the Bedford-head,
The oaths of coachmen squabbling for a fare,
No more can rouse them from their filthy bed.
For them the blazing links no longer burn,
Or busy bunters ply their evening care;
No Setters watch the muddled Cit’s return,
In hopes some pittance of the prey to share.
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,
Their vulgar crimes and villainy obscure;
Nor rich rogues hear with a disdainful smile
The low and petty knaveries of the poor.
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,
The dark and sooty flues of chimnies bear;
Full many a rogue is born to cheat unseen,
And dies unhang’d for want of proper care.
Some petty Chartres, that with dauntless breast
Each call of worth or honesty withstood;
Some mute, inglorious Wilmot[4] here may rest;
Some * * * * * * *, guiltless of his steward’s blood.
The votes of venal senates to command,
The worthy man’s opinion to despise,
To scatter mischiefs o’er a trusting land,
And read their curses in a nation’s eyes,
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.
The struggling pangs of conscious guilt to hide,
To bid defiance to all sense of shame;
Their bleeding Country’s sorrow to deride,
And heap fresh fuel on Sedition’s flame;
To such high crimes, such prodigies of vice,
Their vulgar wishes ne’er presum’d to soar;
Content at wheel-barrows to cogg the dice,
Or pick a pocket at a Play-house door.
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,
(Though doubtful all) the Ord’nary supplies;
Points out what first debauch’d their tender age,
And with what words each ripen’d felon dies.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
When to the dreadful tree of death consign’d,
But yearns to think upon the fatal day
That first seduc’d to sin his pliant mind?
No soul so callous but remorse may wring,
No heart so hard but grief may teach to sigh;
Contrition forces heartfelt tears to spring,
And melts to tenderness the sternest eye.
For him, the master of the pilfering herd,
Whom certain punishment attends, though late;
If, when his wretched carcase is interr’d,
Some curious person should enquire his fate;
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’d,
“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.”
The Epitaph.
Here festering rots a quondam pest of earth,
To virtue and to honest shame unknown;
Low-cunning on a dung-hill gave him birth;
Vice clapp’d her hands, and mark’d him for her own.
Quick were his fingers, and his soul was dark;
In lucky knavery lay all his hope;
No pains he spar’d, and seldom miss’d his mark,
So gain’d (’twas what he merited) a rope.
If further you his villainies would know,
And genuine anecdotes desire to meet,
Go read the story of his weal and woe,
Printed and sold by Simpson, near The Fleet.
The exact dates of the first appearance of this and the following parody are unknown, but they were both included in Vol. 2 of “The Repository; a Select Collection of Fugitive Pieces of Wit and Humour.” London, 1777.
——:o:——
An Elegy.
Written in Westminster Hall during the long Vacation.
(Printed before 1777.)
The courts are shut—departed every judge,
Each greedy lawyer gripes his double fee:
In doleful mood the suitors homeward trudge,
And leave the hall to silence and to me.
Now not a barrister attracts the sight,
And all the dome a solemn stillness holds,
Save at the entrance, where with all her might,
The Quean of Apples at the porter scolds:
Save that at fives a group of wrangling boys
At intervals pursue the bounding ball,
Make Henderson,[5] the studious, damn their noise,
When battering down the plaister from the wall
From every court, with every virtue crown’d,
Where many get, and many lose their bread,
Elsewhere to squabble, puzzle, and confound,
Attornies, clerks, and council—all are fled.
Contending fools too stubborn to agree,
The good fat client (name for ever dear!)
The long-drawn brief, and spirit-stirring fee
No more, ’till Michaelmas shall send them here.
’Till then, no more th’ Exchequer[6] nymphs shall run
To fetch their wigs, and giggling stroke the tail,
Or dressy orange-wenches ply their fun
And offer their commodities to sale.
With these the Templar oft has stopped to chat,
And tipped them sixpence for each cake he broke;
How jocund did they give him tit for tat!
And bonnily return’d him joke for joke!
Let not droll Peter[7] look with eyes askew,
Nor envy them the profits of the hall;
Let him not think that with a spiteful view,
They mean to draw the custom from his stall.
The cinder-wench in dust-cart seated high,
With arms begrim’d, and dirty as her sieve,
The ragged trulls, who, sprats and herrings cry,
The meanest trollops, have a right to live.
Nor you, ye belles! impute the fault to these,
If at the glittering ball they not appear,
Where music has a thousand charms to please,
And with its sweetness almost wounds the ear.
Will Almack, or the goddess of Soho,
Inlist these misses in their brilliant train,
Admit them e’en to see the puppet-show,
To take one peep and light them out again?
Perhaps in their neglected minds were sown
The seeds of worth from Nature’s large supply;
The seeds of worth, which might in time have grown,
And flourish’d lovely to the ravish’d eye.
But the calm sun-shine of a parent’s care,
With one warm ray their bosom’s ne’er imprest;
Ill-usage drove the wretches to despair,
And check’d each growing virtue of the breast.
Full many a rural lass in Britain’s land
The vile unwarrantable brothels hold;
Full many a town-bred damsel walks the Strand,
And trucks her beauty for a piece of gold.
Some ghost of Jefferies will this floor parade,
Some daring Pettifogger, stern of brow,
Who might have done due honour to the spade,
Whirl’d the tough flail, or grasp’d the peaceful plough.
This upstart thing some useful trade to learn,
By far more suited to his shallow head,
Some trade, by which he might have known to earn
With honest industry, his daily bread,
False pride forbade; nor to himself alone,
Confines his views, but to his son extends;
Forbade the youth, to quirks already prone,
To mind the means, so he could gain the ends.
Forbade to bind him ’prentice to a trade,
Behind the compter all the day to stand,
His birth by work mechanic to degrade,
Or wait on customers with cap in hand,
Far from the worthy members of the law,
A rogue in grain, he ever kept aloof;
From learn’d bum-bailiffs learn’d his briefs to draw,
And where he could not find, he coin’d a proof.
Yet doth this wretch, illiterate as proud,
With low-lif’d homage low-lif’d business meet,
And pick the pockets of th’ unhappy crowd,
Moor’d in th’ Compter, Newgate, and The Fleet.
Bound by their creditors in durance fast!
In plaintive murmurs they bewail their fate,
And many an eager, wishful eye they cast,
Whene’er the turn-key opes and shuts the gate.
For who to dull imprisonment a prey,
The pleasing thoughts of freedom e’er resign’d,
From home, from wife and children dragg’d away,
“Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind!”
Some sharp attorney must the captive hire,
Who knows each secret winding of the laws;
Some previous fees th’ attorney will require
Before he ventures to conduct his cause,
For you, who traverse up and down this shrine,
And lounge and saunter at your wonted rate,
If in some future chat, with arch design,
Some wag should ask this Pettifogger’s fate;
In sneering mood some brother quill may say,
“I’ve seen him oft at ale-house table sit,
“Brushing with dirty hands, the crumbs away,
“And eye the mutton roasting on the spit.
“There in the snug warm corner of the bench,
“Part stain’d with grease, and part defil’d with beer
“His thirst with cooling porter would he quench,
“And bend his noddle o’er the Gazetteer.
“Hard by yon steps, now grinning as in scorn,
“Muttering his oaths and quibbles he would stand;
“Now hanging down his pate like one forlorn,
“As if some dread commitment was at hand.
“One morn I miss’d him in this custom’d hall,
“And at the Oak,[8] where he was wont to be,
“His clerk came down, and answered to my call,
“But by me stepp’d, nor at the Oak was he.
“The next I heard (oh, melancholy tale!
“On our profession was a foul reproach!)
“That he for forgery was confin’d in jail,
“And dragg’d (oh, shameful!) there without “a coach.”
His Character.
Vulture, the arrant’st rascal upon earth,
At length is caught, and into Newgate thrown.
Fair Honesty disclaim’d him at his birth,
And Villainy confess’d him as her own.
Grown old in sin, at no one crime dismay’d,
’Gainst nature’s cries he arm’d his callous heart,
For when his father was to death convey’d,
He growl’d, and damn’d the slowness of the cart.
Jack Ketch, to shew his duty to his friend
Will soon confirm it with the strongest tie;
But on such ties what mortal would depend?
A rogue he liv’d, and like a rogue he’ll die.
Now prest with guilt, he feels its sharpest sting,
Great his transgressions, and but small his hope,
He gave the Sheriff (all he had!) a ring,
He gain’d from justice (all he fear’d!) a rope.
No farther seek his vices to disclose,
But leave the culprit to his dark abode;
There let him rest, till, breaking his repose,
The hangman summons him to Tyburn-road.
——:o:——
An Elegy written in St. Stephens.
Gazettes now toll the melancholy knell,