LEWESDON HILL.

LEWESDON HILL,
WITH
OTHER POEMS.

BY
THE REV. WILLIAM CROWE,
PUBLIC ORATOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Χαιρ’ ω πεδον αγχιαλον,

Και μ’ ευπλοιᾳ πεμψον αμεμπτως

Ενθ’ ἡ μεγαλη μοιρα κομιζει,

——χῳ πανδαματωρ

Δαιμων, ος ταυτ’ επεκρανεν.

SOPH.

Farewell thy printless sands and pebbly shore!

I hear the white surge beat thy coast no more,

Pure, gentle source of the high, rapturous mood!—

—Where’er, like the great Flood, by thy dread force

Propell’d—shape Thou my calm, my blameless course,

Heaven, Earth, and Ocean’s Lord!—and Father of the Good!

***

A CORRECTED AND MUCH ENLARGED EDITION, WITH NOTES.

LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE-STREET.
1827.

LONDON:
PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The Hill which gives title to the following Poem is situated in the western part of Dorsetshire. This choice of a subject, to which the Author was led by his residence near the spot, may seem perhaps to confine him to topics of mere rural and local description. But he begs leave here to inform the Reader that he has advanced beyond those narrow limits to something more general and important. On the other hand he trusts, that in his farthest excursions the connexion between him and his subject will easily be traced. The few notes which are subjoined he thought necessary to elucidate the passages to which they refer. He will only add in this place, from Hutchins’s History of Dorsetshire, (vol. i. p. 366), what is there said of Lewesdon (or, as it is now corruptly called, Lewson): “This and Pillesdon Hill surmount all the hills, though very high, between them and the sea. Mariners call them the Cow and Calf, in which forms they are fancied to appear, being eminent sea-marks to those who sail upon the coast.”

To the top of this Hill the Author describes himself as walking on a May morning.

TO THE
RIGHT REV. FATHER IN GOD JONATHAN,
LORD BISHOP OF ST. ASAPH,
WHO, IN A LEARNED, FREE, AND LIBERAL AGE,
IS HIMSELF MOST HIGHLY DISTINGUISHED
BY EXTENSIVE, USEFUL, AND ELEGANT LEARNING,
BY A DISINTERESTED SUPPORT OF FREEDOM,
AND BY A TRULY CHRISTIAN LIBERALITY OF MIND,
THIS POEM,
WITH ALL RESPECT, IS DEDICATED
BY HIS LORDSHIP’S MOST OBLIGED
AND MOST OBEDIENT SERVANT,

THE AUTHOR.

Jan. 1788.

CONTENTS.

LEWESDON HILL.

Up to thy Summit, Lewesdon, to the brow

Of yon proud rising, where the lonely thorn

Bends from the rude South-east with top cut sheer

By his keen breath, along the narrow track,

By which the scanty-pastured sheep ascend

Up to thy furze-clad summit, let me climb,—

My morning exercise,—and thence look round

Upon the variegated scene, of hills

And woods and fruitful vales, and villages

Half hid in tufted orchards, and the sea

Boundless, and studded thick with many a sail.

Ye dew-fed vapours, nightly balm, exhaled

From earth, young herbs and flowers, that in the morn

Ascend as incense to the Lord of day,

I come to breathe your odours; while they float

Yet near this surface, let me walk embathed

In your invisible perfumes, to health

So friendly, nor less grateful to the mind,

Administering sweet peace and cheerfulness.

How changed is thy appearance, beauteous hill!

Thou hast put off thy wintry garb, brown heath

And russet fern, thy seemly-colour’d cloak

To bide the hoary frosts and dripping rains

Of chill December, and art gaily robed

In livery of the spring: upon thy brow

A cap of flowery hawthorn, and thy neck

Mantled with new-sprung furze and spangles thick

Of golden bloom: nor lack thee tufted woods

Adown thy sides: tall oaks of lusty green,

The darker fir, light ash, and the nesh tops

Of the young hazel join, to form thy skirts

In many a wavy fold of verdant wreath:—

So gorgeously hath Nature drest thee up

Against the birth of May: and, vested so,

Thou dost appear more gracefully array’d

Than Fashion’s worshippers, whose gaudy shows,

Fantastical as are a sick man’s dreams,

From vanity to costly vanity

Change ofter than the moon. Thy comely dress,

From sad to gay returning with the year,

Shall grace thee still till Nature’s self shall change.

These are the beauties of thy woodland scene

At each return of spring: yet some[1] delight

Rather to view the change; and fondly gaze

On fading colours, and the thousand tints

Which Autumn lays upon the varying leaf:

I like them not, for all their boasted hues

Are kin to Sickliness; mortal Decay

Is drinking up their vital juice; that gone,

They turn to sear and yellow. Should I praise

Such false complexions, and for beauty take

A look consumption-bred? As soon, if gray

Were mixt in young Louisa’s tresses brown,

I’d call it beautiful variety,

And therefore dote on her. Yet I can spy

A beauty in that fruitful change, when comes

The yellow Autumn and the hopes o’ the year

Brings on to golden ripeness; nor dispraise

The pure and spotless form of that sharp time,

When January spreads a pall of snow

O’er the dead face of th’ undistinguish’d earth.

Then stand I in the hollow comb beneath,

And bless this friendly mount, that weather-fends

My reed-roof’d cottage, while the wintry blast

From the thick north comes howling: till the Spring

Return, who leads my devious steps abroad,

To climb, as now, to Lewesdon’s airy top.

Above the noise and stir of yonder fields

Uplifted, on this height I feel the mind

Expand itself in wider liberty.

The distant sounds break gently on my sense,

Soothing to meditation: so methinks,

Even so, sequester’d from the noisy world,

Could I wear out this transitory being

In peaceful contemplation and calm ease.

But Conscience, which still censures on our acts,

That awful voice within us, and the sense

Of an Hereafter, wake and rouse us up

From such unshaped retirement; which were else

A blest condition on this earthly stage.

For who would make his life a life of toil

For wealth, o’erbalanced with a thousand cares;

Or power, which base compliance must uphold;

Or honour, lavish’d most on courtly slaves;

Or fame, vain breath of a misjudging world;

Who for such perishable gaudes would put

A yoke upon his free unbroken spirit,

And gall himself with trammels and the rubs

Of this world’s business; so he might stand clear

Of judgment and the tax of idleness

In that dread audit, when his mortal hours

(Which now with soft and silent stealth pace by)

Must all be counted for? But, for this fear,

And to remove, according to our power,

The wants and evils of our brother’s state,

’Tis meet we justle with the world; content,

If by our sovereign Master we be found

At last not profitless: for worldly meed,

Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.

From this proud eminence on all sides round

Th’ unbroken prospect opens to my view,

On all sides large; save only where the head

Of Pillesdon rises, Pillesdon’s lofty Pen:

So call (still rendering to his ancient name

Observance due) that rival Height south-west,

Which like a rampire bounds the vale beneath.

There woods, there blooming orchards, there are seen

Herds ranging, or at rest beneath the shade

Of some wide-branching oak; there goodly fields

Of corn, and verdant pasture, whence the kine

Returning with their milky treasure home

Store the rich dairy: such fair plenty fills

The pleasant vale of Marshwood, pleasant now,

Since that the Spring has deck’d anew the meads

With flowery vesture, and the warmer sun

Their foggy moistness drain’d; in wintry days

Cold, vapourish, miry, wet, and to the flocks

Unfriendly, when autumnal rains begin

To drench the spungy turf: but ere that time

The careful shepherd moves to healthier soil,

Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath[2]

In the dank pasturage. Yet not the fields

Of Evesham, nor that ample valley named

Of the White Horse, its antique monument

Carved in the chalky bourne, for beauty and wealth

Might equal, though surpassing in extent,

This fertile vale, in length from Lewesdon’s base

Extended to the sea, and water’d well

By many a rill; but chief with thy clear stream,

Thou nameless Rivulet, who, from the side

Of Lewesdon softly welling forth, dost trip

Adown the valley, wandering sportively.

Alas, how soon thy little course will end!

How soon thy infant stream shall lose itself

In the salt mass of waters, ere it grow

To name or greatness! Yet it flows along

Untainted with the commerce of the world,

Nor passing by the noisy haunts of men;

But through sequester’d meads, a little space,

Winds secretly, and in its wanton path

May cheer some drooping flower, or minister

Of its cool water to the thirsty lamb:

Then falls into the ravenous sea, as pure

As when it issued from its native hill.

So to thine early grave didst thou run on,

Spotless Francesca, so, after short course,

Thine innocent and playful infancy

Was swallowed up in death, and thy pure spirit

In that illimitable gulf which bounds

Our mortal continent. But not there lost,

Not there extinguish’d, as some falsely teach,

Who can talk much and learnedly of life,

Who know our frame and fashion, who can tell

The substance and the properties of man,

As they had seen him made,—aye and stood by

Spies on Heaven’s work. They also can discourse

Wisely, to prove that what must be must be,

And show how thoughts are jogg’d out of the brain

By a mechanical impulse; pushing on

The minds of us, poor unaccountables,

To fatal resolution. Know they not,

That in this mortal life, whate’er it be,

We take the path that leads to good or evil,

And therein find our bliss or misery?

And this includes all reasonable ends

Of knowledge or of being; farther to go

Is toil unprofitable, and th’ effect

Most perilous wandering. Yet of this be sure,

Where freedom is not, there no virtue is:

If there be none, this world is all a cheat,

And the divine stability of Heaven

(That assured seat for good men after death)

Is but a transient cloud, display’d so fair

To cherish virtuous hope, but at our need

Eludes the sense, and fools our honest faith,

Vanishing in a lie. If this be so,

Were it not better to be born a beast,

Only to feel what is, and thus to ’scape

The aguish fear that shakes the afflicted breast

With sore anxiety of what shall be—

And all for nought? Since our most wicked act

Is not our sin, and our religious awe

Delusion, if that strong Necessity

Chains up our will. But that the mind is free,

The Mind herself, best judge of her own state,

Is feelingly convinced; nor to be moved

By subtle words, that may perplex the head,

But ne’er persuade the heart. Vain argument,

That with false weapons of Philosophy

Fights against Hope, and Sense, and Nature’s strength!

See how the Sun, here clouded, afar off

Pours down the golden radiance of his light

Upon the enridged sea; where the black ship

Sails on the phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,

But falsely-flattering, was yon surface calm,

When forth for India sail’d, in evil time,

That Vessel, whose disastrous fate, when told,

Fill’d every breast with horror, and each eye

With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss[3].

Methinks I see her, as, by the wintry storm

Shatter’d and driven along past yonder Isle,

She strove, her latest hope, by strength or art,

To gain the port within it, or at worst

To shun that harbourless and hollow coast

From Portland eastward to the Promontory[4],

Where still St. Alban’s high built chapel stands.

But art nor strength avail her—on she drives,

In storm and darkness to the fatal coast:

And there ’mong rocks and high-o’erhanging cliffs

Dash’d piteously, with all her precious freight

Was lost, by Neptune’s wild and foamy jaws

Swallow’d up quick! The richliest-laden ship

Of spicy Ternate, or that Annual, sent

To the Philippines o’er the Southern main

From Acapulco, carrying massy gold,

Were poor to this;—freighted with hopeful Youth,

And Beauty, and high Courage undismayed

By mortal terrors, and paternal Love

Strong, and unconquerable even in death—

Alas, they perish’d all, all in one hour!

Now yonder high way view, wide-beaten, bare

With ceaseless tread of men and beasts, and track

Of many indenting wheels, heavy and light,

That in their different courses as they pass,

Rush violently down precipitate,

Or slowly turn, oft resting, up the steep.

Mark how that road, with mazes serpentine,

From Shipton’s[5] bottom to the lofty down

Winds like a path of pleasure, drawn by art

Through park or flowery garden for delight.

Nor less delightful this—if, while he mounts

Not wearied, the free Journeyer will pause

To view the prospect oft, as oft to see

Beauty still changing: yet not so contrived

By fancy, or choice, but of necessity,

By soft gradations of ascent to lead

The labouring and way-worn feet along,

And make their toil less toilsome. Half way up,

Or nearer to the top, behold a cot,

O’er which the branchy trees, those sycamores,

Wave gently: at their roots a rustic bench

Invites to short refreshment, and to taste

What grateful beverage the house may yield

After fatigue, or dusty heat; thence call’d

The Traveller’s Rest. Welcome, embower’d seat,

Friendly repose to the slow passenger

Ascending, ere he takes his sultry way

Along th’ interminable road, stretch’d out

Over th’ unshelter’d down; or when at last

He has that hard and solitary path

Measured by painful steps. And blest are they,

Who in life’s toilsome journey may make pause

After a march of glory: yet not such

As rise in causeless war, troubling the world

By their mad quarrel, and in fields of blood

Hail’d victors, thence renown’d, and call’d on earth

Kings, heroes, demi-gods, but in high Heaven

Thieves, ruffians, murderers; these find no repose:

Thee rather, patriot Conqueror, to thee

Belongs such rest; who in the western world,

Thine own deliver’d country, for thyself

Hast planted an immortal grove, and there,

Upon the glorious mount of Liberty

Reposing, sit’st beneath the palmy shade.

And Thou, not less renown’d in like attempt

Of high achievement, though thy virtue fail’d

To save thy little country, Patriot Prince,

Hero, Philosopher—what more could they

Who wisely chose thee, Paoli, to bless

Thy native Isle, long struggling to be free?

But Heaven allow’d not—yet may’st thou repose

After thy glorious toil, secure of fame

Well-earn’d by virtue: while ambitious France,

Who stretch’d her lawless hand to seize thine isle,

Enjoys not rest or glory; with her prey

Gorged but not satisfied, and craving still

Against th’ intent of Nature. See Her now

Upon the adverse shore, her Norman coast,

Plying[6] her monstrous labour unrestrained!

A rank of castles in the rough sea sunk,

With towery shape and height, and armed heads

Uprising o’er the surge; and these between,

Unmeasurable mass of ponderous rock

Projected many a mile to rear her wall

Midst the deep waters. She, the mighty work

Still urging, in her arrogant attempt,

As with a lordly voice to the Ocean cries,

‘Hitherto come, no farther; here be staid

‘The raging of thy waves; within this bound

‘Be all my haven’—and therewith takes in

A space of amplest circuit, wide and deep,

Won from the straiten’d main: nor less in strength

Than in dimensions, giant-like in both,—

On each side flank’d with citadels and towers

And rocky walls, and arches massy proof

Against the storm of war. Compared with this

Less[7] and less hazardous emprize achieved

Resistless Alexander, when he cast

The strong foundations of that high-raised mound

Deep in the hostile waves, his martial way,

Built on before him up to sea-girt Tyre.

Nor[8] aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful,

At Athos or the fetter’d Hellespont,

Imagined in his pride that Asian vain,

Xerxes,—but ere he turn’d from Salamis

Flying through the blood-red waves in one poor bark,

Retarded by thick-weltering carcasses.

Nor[9] yet that elder work (if work it were,

Not fable) raised upon the Phrygian shore,

(Where lay the fleet confederate against Troy,

A thousand ships behind the vasty mole

All shelter’d) could with this compare, though built

It seem’d, of greatness worthy to create

Envy in the immortals; and at last

Not overthrown without th’ embattled aid

Of angry Neptune. So may He once more

Rise from his troubled bed, and send his waves,

Urged on to fury by contending winds,

With horned violence to push and whelm

This pile, usurping on his watry reign!

From hostile shores returning, glad I look

On native scenes again; and first salute

Thee, Burton[10], and thy lofty cliff, where oft

The nightly blaze is kindled; further seen

Than erst was that love-tended cresset, hung

Beside the Hellespont: yet not like that

Inviting to the hospitable arms

Of Beauty and Youth, but lighted up, the sign

Of danger, and of ambush’d foes to warn

The stealth-approaching Vessel, homeward bound

From Havre or the Norman isles, with freight

Of wines and hotter drinks, the trash of France,

Forbidden merchandize. Such fraud to quell

Many a light skiff and well-appointed sloop

Lies hovering near the coast, or hid behind

Some curved promontory, in hope to seize

These contraband: vain hope! on that high shore

Station’d, th’ associates of their lawless trade

Keep watch, and to their fellows off at sea

Give the known signal; they with fearful haste

Observant, put about the ship, and plunge

Into concealing darkness. As a fox,

That from the cry of hounds and hunters’ din

Runs crafty down the wind, and steals away

Forth from his cover, hopeful so t’ elude

The not yet following pack,—if chance the shout

Of eager or unpractised boy betray

His meditated flight, back he retires

To shelter him in the thick wood: so these

Retiring, ply to south, and shun the land

Too perilous to approach: and oft at sea

Secure (or ever nigh the guarded coast

They venture) to the trackless deep they trust

Their forfeitable cargo, rundlets small,

Together link’d upon their cable’s length,

And to the shelving bottom sunk and fixt

By stony weights; till happier hour arrive

To land it on the vacant beach unrisk’d.

But what is yonder Hill[11], whose dusky brow

Wears, like a regal diadem, the round

Of ancient battlements and ramparts high,

And frowns upon the vales? I know thee not—

Thou hast no name, no honourable note,

No chronicle of all thy warlike pride,

To testify what once thou wert, how great,

How glorious, and how fear’d. So perish all,

Who seek their greatness in dominion held

Over their fellows, or the pomp of war,

And be as thou forgotten, and their fame

Cancell’d like thine! But thee in after times

Reclaim’d to culture, Shepherds visited,

And call’d thee Orgarston; so thee they call’d

Of Orgar, Saxon Earl, the wealthy sire

Of fair Elfrida; She, whose happy Bard

Has with his gentle witchery so wrought

Upon our sense, that we can see no more

Her mad ambition, treacherous cruelty,

And purple robes of state with royal blood

Inhospitably stain’d; but in their place

Pure faith, soft manners, filial duty meek,

Connubial love, and stoles of saintly white.

Sure ’tis all false what poets fondly tell

Of rural innocence and village love;

Else had thy simple annals, Nethercombe,

Who bosom’d in the vale below dost look

This morn so cheerful, been unstain’d with crimes,

Which the pale rustic shudders to relate.

There lived, the blessing of her father’s age,—

I fable not, nor will with fabled names

Varnish a melancholy tale all true,—

A lowly maid; lowly, but like that flower,

Which grows in lowly place, and thence has name,

Lily o’ the vale, within her parent leaves

As in retreat she lives; yet fair and sweet

Above the gaudiest Blooms, that flaunt abroad,

And play with every wanton breath of Heaven.

Thus innocent, her beauties caught the eye

Of a young villager, whose vows of love

Soon won her easy faith: her sire meantime,

Alas! nor knowing nor suspecting ought,

Till that her shape, erewhile so graceful seen,

(Dian first rising after change was not

More delicate) betray’d her secret act,

And grew to guilty fulness: then farewell

Her maiden dignity, and comely pride,

And virtuous reputation. But this loss

Worse follow’d, loss of shame, and wilful wreck

Of what was left her yet of good, or fair,

Or decent: now her meek and gentle voice

To petulant turn’d; her simply-neat attire

To sluttish tawdry: her once timid eye

Grew fix’d, and parley’d wantonly with those

It look’d on. Change detestable! For she,

Erewhile the light of her fond father’s house,

Became a grievous darkness: but his heart

Endured not long; all in despair he went

Into the chambers of the grave, to seek

A comfortless repose from sorrow and shame.

What then befell this daughter desolate?

For He, the partner of her earliest fault,

Had left her, false perhaps, or in dislike

Of her light carriage. What could then befall,

What else, but of her self-injurious life

The too sad penance—hopeless penury,

Loathsome disease unpitied, and thereto

The brand of all-avoided infamy

Set on her, like the fearful token o’er

A plague-infested house:—at length to death

Impatient and distract she made bold way.

Fain would I view thee, Corscombe, fain would hail

The ground where Hollis[12] lies; his choice retreat,

Where, from the busy world withdrawn, he lived

To generous Virtue, and the holy love

Of Liberty, a dedicated spirit;

And left his ashes there; still honouring

Thy fields, with title given of patriot names,

But more with his untitled sepulchre.

That envious ridge conceals thee from my sight,

Which, passing o’er thy place north-east, looks on

To Sherburne’s ancient towers and rich domains,

The noble Digby’s mansion; where he dwells

Inviolate, and fearless of thy curse,

War-glutted Osmund,[13] superstitious Lord!

Who with Heaven’s justice for a bloody life

Madest thy presumptuous bargain; giving more

Than thy just having to redeem thy guilt,

And darest bid th’ Almighty to become

The minister of thy curse. But sure it fell,

So bigots fondly judged, full sure it fell

With sacred vengeance pointed on the head

Of many a bold usurper: chief on thine

(Favourite of Fortune once, but last her thrall),

Accomplish’d[14] Raleigh! in that lawless day

When, like a goodly hart, thou wert beset

With crafty blood-hounds, lurching for thy life,

While as they feign’d to chase thee fairly down;

And that foul Scot, the minion-kissing King,

Pursued with havoc in the tyrannous hunt.

How is it vanish’d in a hasty spleen,

The Tor of Glastonbury! Even but now

I saw the hoary pile cresting the top

Of that north-western hill; and in this Now

A cloud hath pass’d on it, and its dim bulk

Becomes annihilate, or if not, a spot

Which the strain’d vision tires itself to find.

And even so fares it with the things of earth

Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud

That shall infold them up, and leave their place

A seat for Emptiness. Our narrow ken

Reaches too far, when all that we behold

Is but the havoc of wide-wasting Time,

Or what he soon shall spoil. His outspread wings

(Which bear him like an eagle o’er the earth)

Are plumed in front so downy soft, they seem

To foster what they touch, and mortal fools

Rejoice beneath their hovering: woe the while!

For in that indefatigable flight

The multitudinous strokes incessantly

Bruise all beneath their cope, and mark on all

His secret injury; on the front of man

Gray hairs and wrinkles; still as Time speeds on

Hard and more hard his iron pennons beat

With ceaseless violence; nor overpass,

Till all the creatures of this nether world

Are one wide quarry: following dark behind,

The cormorant Oblivion swallows up

The carcasses that Time has made his prey.

But, hark! the village clock strikes nine—the chimes

Merrily follow, tuneful to the sense

Of the pleased clown attentive, while they make

False-measured melody on crazy bells.

O wond’rous Power of modulated sound!

Which, like the air (whose all-obedient shape

Thou makest thy slave), canst subtilly pervade

The yielded avenues of sense, unlock

The close affections, by some fairy path

Winning an easy way through every ear,

And with thine unsubstantial quality

Holding in mighty chains the hearts of all;

All, but some cold and sullen-temper’d spirits,

Who feel no touch of sympathy or love.

Yet what is music, and the blended power

Of voice with instruments of wind and string?

What but an empty pageant of sweet noise?

’Tis past: and all that it has left behind

Is but an echo dwelling in the ear

Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside,

A void and countless hour in life’s brief day.

But ill accords my verse with the delights

Of this gay month:—and see the Villagers

Assembling jocund in their best attire

To grace this genial morn. Now I descend

To join the worldly crowd; perchance to talk,

To think, to act as they: then all these thoughts,

That lift th’ expanded heart above this spot

To heavenly musing, these shall pass away

(Even as this goodly prospect from my view)

Hidden by near and earthy-rooted cares.

So passeth human life—our better mind

Is as a Sunday’s garment, then put on

When we have nought to do; but at our work

We wear a worse for thrift. Of this enough:

To-morrow for severer thought; but now

To breakfast, and keep festival to-day.

NOTES.

[Note 1, page 4, line 10.]

At each return of spring: yet some delight, &c.

An adventitious beauty, arising from that gradual decay, which loosens the withering leaf, gilds the autumnal landscape with a temporary splendor superior to the verdure of spring, or the luxuriance of summer. The infinitely various and ever-changing hues of the leaves at this season, melting into every soft gradation of tint and shade, have long engaged the imitation of the painter, and are equally happy ornaments in the description of the poet.—Aikin’s Essay on the Character of Thompson’s Seasons, prefixed to his edition of them, 1791.

[Note 2, p. 10, line 7.]

Rechasing, lest his tender ewes should coath.

To coath, Skinner says, is a word common in Lincolnshire, and signifies, to faint. He derives it from the Anglo-Saxon coðe, a disease. In Dorsetshire it is in common use, but it is used of sheep only: a coathed sheep is a rotten sheep; to coath is to take the rot. Rechasing is also a term in that county appropriated to flocks: to chase and rechase is to drive sheep at certain times from one sort of ground to another, or from one parish to another.

The author having ventured to introduce some provincial and other terms, takes this occasion to say, that it is a liberty in which he has not indulged himself, but when he conceived them to be allowable for the sake of ornament or expression.

[Note 3, page 16, line 4.]

With piteous tears, so cruel was the loss.

The distressful condition of the Halswell here alluded to is thus circumstantially described in the narrative of her loss, p. 13.

“Thursday the 5th, at two in the morning, the wind came to the southward, blew fresh, and the weather was very thick; at noon Portland was seen, bearing N. by E. distance two or three leagues; at eight at night it blew a strong gale at S. and at this time the Portland lights were seen bearing N. W. distance four or five leagues, when they wore ship, and got her head to the westward; but finding they lost ground upon that tack, they wore again, and kept stretching on eastward, in hopes to have weathered Peverel-point, in which case they intended to have anchored in Studland Bay: at 11 at night it cleared, and they saw St. Alban’s-head a mile and a half to the leeward of them; upon which they took in sail immediately, and let go the small bower anchor, which brought up the ship at a whole cable, and she rode for about an hour, but then drove; they now let go the sheet anchor, and wore away a whole cable, and the ship rode for about two hours longer, when she drove again. They were then driving very fast on shore, and might expect every moment to strike!”

[Note 4, page 16, line 10.]

From Portland eastward to the Promontory.

“Not far from this (Encombe) stands St. Aldene’s Chapel; which took name from the dedication to St. Adeline, the first bishop of Sherbourne in this shire: but now it serves for a sea-mark.”—Coker’s Survey of Dorsetshire, p. 47.

“Near the sea is the high land of St. Aldhelm’s, commonly called St. Alban’s, a noted sea-mark. The cliff here is 147 yards perpendicular. On this promontory, about a mile south of Worth, stands a chapel of the same name.” Hutchins’s Dorsetsh. vol. i. p. 228. But this headland is not marked by name in Hutchins’s map. “The very utter part of St. Aldhelm’s point is five miles from Sandwich (Swanwich).”—Lel. Itin. vol. iii. p. 53.

[Note 5, page 18, line 6.]

From Shipton’s bottom to the lofty down.

Shipton is a hill, which, according to common report, is so called from its shape; the top of it being formed like a ship with the keel upwards. It stands three miles from Bridport on the road towards London; which road passes by the foot of it to the North.

[Note 6, page 22, line 1.]

Plying her monstrous labour unrestrained.

The works now carrying on at Cherburgh, (A. D. 1787) to make a haven for ships of war, are principally the following. Of these however it is not intended to give a full description; but only to mention some particulars, from which an idea may be formed of the greatness of the scheme.

In the open sea, above a league from the town, and within half a mile west of a rock called L’isle Pelée, a pier is begun, with design of conducting it on to the shore somewhat beyond Point Hommet, about two miles westward of Cherburgh. In order to this, a strong frame of timber-work, of the shape of a truncated cone, having been constructed on the beach, was buoyed out, and sunk in a depth of water; which at lowest ebb is 35 feet, and where the tide rises near 20 feet. The diameter of this cone at bottom is about 60 yards, its height 70 feet; and the area on its top large enough to receive a battery of cannon, with which it is hereafter to be fortified. Its solid contents are 2500 French toises; which, in our measure (allowing the French foot to be to the English as 144 to 135), will amount to 24,250 cubic yards nearly. Several other cones, of equal dimensions, are sunk at convenient distances from each other, forming the line of the pier: their number, when complete, it is said, will be forty. As soon as any one of these is carried to its place, it is filled with stones, which are dug from mount Rouille and other rocks near the coast, and brought on horses to the shore: whence they are conveyed to the cones in vessels of forty, sixty, or eighty tons burden. In like manner, but with much greater labour and expense, the spaces between the cones are filled up with stones thrown loosely into the sea, till the heap is raised above the water. On this mass, as on a foundation, a wall of masonry-work is to be erected. The length of the whole is near five miles. On L’isle Pelée and Point Hommet before-mentioned large fortifications are constructed bomb-proof, to defend the haven and pier. It is the opinion of some persons that this stupendous mole may be injured or destroyed by what is called a ground-sea, i. e. a sea when the waters are agitated to the bottom: and this happens when a strong wind, after having put the waves in motion, suddenly shifts to the opposite quarter. The description given in the Poem of this vast undertaking closes with an allusion to this opinion.

[Note 7, page 23, lines 5 and 6.]

Less and less hazardous emprize achieved

Resistless Alexander.

Quint. Curt. lib. 4, cap. 2, 3.

[Note 8, page 23, line 10.]

Nor aught so bold, so vast, so wonderful.

——creditur olim

Velificatus Athos—

Densa cadavera prora.

Juv. Sat. x. v. 173. 186.

[Note 9, page 24, line 2.]

Nor yet that elder work.

——τειχος εδειμαν,——

——αμαλδυνηται Αχαιων.

Hom. Il. vii. v. 436. 463.

Ὡσ ὁ μεν εν κλισιησι,—

——καλλιροον ὑδωρ.

Il. xii. v. 1, 33.

[Note 10, page 25, line 3.]

Thee, Burton, and thy lofty cliff.

Burton is a village near the sea, lying S. E. from Lewesdon, and about two miles S. of Shipton hill before mentioned. The cliff is among the loftiest of all upon that coast; and smugglers often take advantage of its height for the purpose related in the poem.

[Note 11, page 27, line 11.]

But what is yonder Hill, whose dusky brow.

“Eggardon Hill is a very high hill, and gives name to the hundred. Mr. Coker says it is uncertain whether it takes its name from Edgar, king of the West Saxons, or from Orgarus, earl of Cornwall: and indeed this last derivation is the truest; there being little reason to doubt that it is the old Orgarestone. The camp on the brow of this hill is a large and strong fortification, and seems to be Roman.”—Hutchins’s Dorset, vol. i. p. 289; where there is an engraving of this camp. But Hutchins has misrepresented Mr. Coker, who indeed prefers the derivation from Orgar. His words are these: “That it takes name from Edgar, the West Saxon king, I dare not affirm, having nothing to prove it but the nearnesse of the name. It better likes me to think this the place which in Doomsday-book is called Orgareston; but whether it take name from Orgareus, earl of Cornwall, I know not; though I think I should run into no great error to believe it.”—Coker’s Survey of Dorsetshire, p. 26.

[Note 12, page 33, line 2.]

The ground where Hollis lies; his choice retreat.

“Mr. Hollis, in order to preserve the memory of those heroes and patriots for whom he had a veneration, as the assertors and defenders of his country, called many of the farms and fields in his estate at Corscombe by their names; and by these names they are still distinguished. In the middle of one of those fields, not far from his house, he ordered his corpse to be deposited in a grave ten feet deep; and that the field should be immediately ploughed over, that no trace of his burial-place might remain.”—Memoirs of Thomas Hollis, Esq. vol. i. p. 481.

[Note 13, page 34, line 1.]

War-glutted Osmund, superstitious lord!

Of the strange curse belonging to Shireburne-Castle. From a MS. of the late Bishop of Ely (Bishop John More) now in the Royal Library at Cambridge.

“Osmund, a Norman knight, who had served William Duke of Normandy from his youth, in all his wars against the French king, and the duke’s (William’s) subjects, with much valour and discretion, for all his faithful service (when his master had by conquest obteyned the crown of England) was rewarded with many great gifts; among the which was the earldome of Dorsett, and the gift of many other possessions, whereof the castle and baronie of Sherburne were parcell. But Osmund, in the declyninge of his age, calling to mynde the great effusion of blood which, from his infancie, he had shedd; he resolved to leave all worldly delights, and betake himself to a religious life, the better to contemplate on his former sinnes, and to obteyn pardon for them. And, with much importunitie, having gotten leave of the kinge (who was unwilling to want the assistance of so grave and worthy a counsellor) to resign his temporal honors; and having obteyned the bishoprick of Sarum, he gave Sherburne, with other lands, to the bishoprick. To which gift he annexed this curse:—

“‘That whosoever should take those lands from the bishoprick, or diminish them in great or in small, should be accursed, not only in this world, but also in the world to come; unless in his life-time he made restitution thereof.’ And so he died bishop of Sarum.”

Those lands continued in the possession of his successors till the reign of King Stephen, who took them away: “whereupon (says this account) his prosperity forsook him.” King Stephen being dead, “these lands came into the hands of some of the Montagues (after earles of Sarum), who whilest they held the same, underwent many disasters. For one or other of them fell by misfortune. And finally, all the males of them became extinct, and the earldome received an end in their name. So ill was their success.”

After this the lands were restored to the bishoprick; but were taken away a second time by the Duke of Somerset, in the reign of Edward VI.; “when the duke, being hunting in the parke of Sherburne, he was sent for presently unto the kinge (to whome he was protector) and at his coming up to London, was forthwith committed unto the Tower, and shortly after lost his head.” The lands then, in a suit at law, were adjudged to the Bishop of Sarum; and so remained, “till Sir Walter Raleigh procured a grant of them; he afterwards unfortunately lost them, and at last his head also. Upon his attainder they came, by the king’s gift, to Prince Henry; who died not long after the possession thereof. After Prince Henry’s death, the Earle of Somerset (Carr) did possesse them. Finally, he lost them, and many other fortunes.”—Peck’s Desid. Cur. Lib. 14. No. 6.

[Note 14, page 34, line 11.]

Accomplish’d Raleigh! in that lawless day.

“How Dr. John Coldwell, of a physitian, became a bishop, I have heard by more than a good many; and I will briefly handle it, and as tenderly as I can; bearing myself equal between the living (Sir Walter Raleigh) and the dead (Bishop Coldwell). Yet the manifest judgements of God on both of them I may not pass over with silence. And to speak first of the knight, who carried off the Spolia opima of the bishoprick. He, having gotten Sherborne castle, park, and parsonage, was in those days in so great favour with the queen, as I may boldly say, that with less suit than he was fain to make to her, ere he could perfect this his purchase, and with less money than he bestowed since in Sherborne (in building, and buying out leases, and in drawing the river through rocks into his garden), he might, very justly, and without offence of either church or state, have compassed a much better purchase. Also, as I have been truly informed, he had a presage before he first attempted it, which did foreshow it would turn to his ruin, and might have kept him from meddling with it, Si mens non læva fuisset: for, as he was riding post between Plymouth and the court (as many times he did upon no small employments), this castle being right in the way, he cast such an eye upon it as Ahab did upon Naboth’s vineyard. And, once above the rest, being talking of it (of the commodiousness of the place, of the strength of the seat, and how easily it might be got from the bishoprick), suddenly over and over came his horse, that his very face (which was then thought a very good face) plowed up the earth where he fell. This fall was ominous, I make no question; and himself was apt to construe it so. But his brother Adrian would needs have him interpret it as a conqueror, that his fall presaged the quiet possession of it. And accordingly, for the present, it so fell out. So that with much labor, cost, envy, and obloquy, he got it habendum et tenendum to him and his heirs. But see what became of him. In the public joy and jubilee of the whole realm (when favor, peace, and pardon, were offered even to offenders), he who in wit, in wealth, in courage, was inferior to few, fell suddenly (I cannot tell how) into such a downfall of despair, as his greatest enemy would not have wished him so much harm, as he would have done himself. Can any man be so willfully blind as not to see, and say, Digitus Dei hic est!”—Harrington’s Brief View, p. 88.

To these Notes are added the following, taken from Æschylus, to show the resemblance between the expressions of that author and certain passages in this poem.

——Let me walk embathed

In your invisible perfumes.—[P. 2, v. 16.]

Τις οδμα προσεπτα μ’ αφεγγης; Prom. Vinc. 115.

——For worldly meed,

Given or withheld, I deem of it alike.—[P. 8, v. 98.]

ου δ’ αινειν ειτε με ψεγειν θελεις,

Ομοιον. Agam. 1412.

The aguish fear that shakes th’ afflicted breast

With sore anxiety of what shall be—

And all for nought.—[P. 14, v. 179.]

ματαιος εκ γυκτων φοβας

Κινει, ταρασσει, και διωκεται πολεως

Χαλχηκλατῳ πλαστιγγι λυμανθεν δεμας. Choeph. 286.

To shun that harbourless and hollow coast.—[P. 16, v. 204.]

μολοντες αλιμενον χθονα

Ες νυκτ’ αποστειχοντος ἡλιου, φιλει

Ωδινα τικτειν νυξ χυβερνητῃ σοφῳ. Supplices, 775.

——the promontory

Where still St. Alban’s high-built chapel stands.—[P. 16. v. 205.]

Την αιπυνωτον αμφι Δωδωνην, ινα

Μαντεια θωκος τ’ εστι Θεσπρωτου Διος. Prom. Vinct. 829.

Was lost, by Neptune’s wild and foamy jaws

Swallow’d up quick.—[P. 17, v. 211.]

ενθεν εκραγησονταιν ποτε

Ποταμοι πυρος δαπτοντες αγριαις γναθοις. Prom. Vinct. 367.

Alas! they perish’d all: all in one hour!—[P. 17, v. 220.]

In the Persæ the Chorus demand of Xerxes what was become of his friends the Nobles; he answers, “I left them wrecked on the shores of Salamis:” they ask farther, “Where is Pharnuchus and Ariomardus? Where is the royal Sebalces?” &c. Xerxes replies,

Ιω, ιω, μοι μοι

παντες

Ενι πιτυλῳ,

(Ε, ε, ε,) τλαμονες

Ασπαιρουσι χερσῳ. 978.

——flank’d with citadels and towers,

And rocky walls, and arches massy-proof

Against the storm of war.—[P. 23, v. 292.]

Συ δ’ ωστε νηος κεδνος διακοστροφος

Φραξαι πολισμα, πριν καταιγισαι πνοας

Αρεος. Sept. cont. Theb. 62.

With horned violence to push and whelm

This pile.—[P. 24, v. 319.]

ἁι δε, κερωτυπουμεναι βιᾳ

Χειμωνοτυφῳ, συν ζαλῃ τ’ ομβροκτυπῳ. Agam. 664.

Χειμωνοτυφῳ; so I read the passage, instead of Χειμωνι, τυφω, κτλ.

In the Supplices of this author there is a similar phrase on a similar subject,

Πεμψατε ποντονδ’, ενθα δε λαιλαπι

Χειμωνοτυπῳ, βροντη στεροπη

Τ’, ομβροφοροισι τ’ ανεμοις αγριας

Αλος αντησαντες ολοιντο. 34.

In the Clouds of Aristophanes, A. 1. S. 4, this word occurs, ἑκατογκεφαλατυφω, and the Scholiast says, in τυφων or τυφως the first syllable is long.

To generous Virtue, and the holy love

Of liberty, a dedicated spirit.—[P. 33, v. 433.]

In the Eumenides the Fury calls Orestes

δαιμοναν σκια

Εμοι τραφεις τε και καθιερωμενος. 303.

So fares it with the things of earth

Which seem most constant: there will come the cloud

That shall enfold them up.—[P. 35, v. 466.]

Ιω βροτεια πραγματ’· ευτυχουντα μεν

Σκια τις αντρεψειεν. Agam. 1336.

The multitudinous strokes incessantly

Bruise all, &c.—[P. 36, v. 478.]

There is a singular similarity in the length of the words here, and in the following passage of the Choephori, where Electra speaks of the murder of her father; intending, perhaps, to express the multitude of wounds by the polysyllabic term;

πολυπλαγκτα δ’ ην ιδειν

Επασσυτεροτριβη τα χερος ορεγματα. 423.

POEMS.

INSCRIBED BENEATH THE PICTURE OF
AN ASS.

Meek animal, whose simple mien

Provokes th’ insulting eye of Spleen

To mock the melancholy trait

Of patience in thy front display’d,

By thy Great Author fitly so pourtray’d,

To character the sorrows of thy fate;

Say, Heir of misery, what to thee

Is life?—A long, long, gloomy stage

Through the sad vale of labour and of pain!

No pleasure hath thine youth, no rest thine age,

Nor in the vasty round of this terrene

Hast thou a friend to set thee free,

Till Death, perhaps too late,

In the dark evening of thy cheerless day,

Shall take thee, fainting on thy way,

From the rude storm of unresisted hate.

Yet dares the erroneous crowd to mark

With folly thy despised race,

Th’ ungovernable pack, who bark

With impious howlings in Heaven’s awful face,

If e’er on their impatient head

Affliction’s bitter show’r is shed.

But ’tis the weakness of thy kind

Meekly to bear the inevitable sway;

The wisdom of the human mind

Is to murmur and obey.

ODE
TO THE LYRIC MUSE.
SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE AT THE INSTALLATION OF LORD NORTH, CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

STROPHE I.

Fair sov’reign of the golden lyre,

Descend, Thalia, from th’ enchanted grove

Of Mona, where thou lov’st to rove,

List’ning the echoes of thy Druid quire;

The ling’ring sounds that yet respire

Waked by the breezes of the Western main;

And bring some high and solemn strain,

Such as was heard that solemn day

When Rome’s dread Eagle stoop’d to prey

On Mona’s free-born sons, while Liberty

Struck on the magic harp her dying song.—

Dealing vengeance on her foes,

The mortal Genius of battle rose,

And call’d Despair and Death to lead her host along.

STROPHE II.

O, Muse divine! whene’er thy strain

Devotes the tyrant head to shame,

The Patriot Virtues brighten in thy train;

And Glory hears the loud appeal;

And thou, unconquerable flame,

First-born of ancient Freedom, Public Zeal:

Thou in the dark and dreary hour

When Tyranny her dragon-wing outspread,

And Sloth a sullen influence shed,

And every coward Vice that loves the night

Revell’d on Corsica’s ill-fated shore;

Thou didst one dauntless heart inflame,

Lo, Paoli, father of his country, came,

And with a giant-voice

Cried, “Liberty!” unto the drowsy race

That slept in Slav’ry’s dull embrace;

Roused at the sound, they hail’d thy glorious choice,

And ev’ry manly breast

Shook off the unnerving load of rest;

And Virtue chasing the foul forms of night,

Rose like a summer sun, and shed a golden light.

ANTISTROPHE I.

But, ah! how sunk her veiled head,

Untimely dimm’d by Gaul’s o’ershadowing pow’r—

And shalt thou rise, fair isle, no more?

Thy patriot heroes sleep among the dead:

Thy gallant virtues all are fled;

Save Fortitude, sole refuge from despair.

O Gaul, Oppression’s blood-stain’d heir,

Let me not tell how, taught by thee,

England’s rude sons smote Liberty

On Vincent’s sable rock, her Indian throne:—

Not unavenged; for in her cause the sky

Storms and fiery vapours pour’d,

While Pestilence waved wide his tainted sword

To smite[15]...

EPODE.

Then, O Thalia! let thy sacred shell

Wake the lofty sounds that swell

With rapture unreproved the patriot breast!

Robed in her many-colour’d vest

On Isis’ banks shall Science stand,

Waving in her bounteous hand

A wond’rous chaplet; high reward

Of toils, by public virtue dared:

And while to claim the envied meed

Fair Fame her vot’ries leads, thy voice,

O Muse, shall join th’ applauded choice

That fix’d the glorious wreath on Frederick’s honour’d head!

[15] The remainder of this, and the whole of the second antistrophe, were not repeated in the theatre, having been suppressed by the academical authorities, on account of their political sentiments, and subsequently lost.

VERSES
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE TO THE DUKE OF PORTLAND, AT HIS INSTALLATION AS CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, IN THE YEAR 1793.

In evil hour, and with unhallow’d voice,

Profaning the pure gift of Poesy,

Did he begin to sing, He, first who sung

Of arms and combats, and the proud array

Of warriors on th’ embattled plain, and raised

Th’ aspiring spirit to hopes of fair renown

By deeds of violence!—For since that time

Th’ imperious victor oft, unsatisfied

With bloody spoil and tyrannous conquest, dares

To challenge fame and honour; and too oft

The poet, bending low, to lawless pow’r

Hath paid unseemly reverence, yea, and brought

Streams clearest of th’ Aonian fount to wash

Blood-stain’d Ambition. If the stroke of war

Fell certain on the guilty head, none else,

If they that make the cause might taste th’ effect,

And drink, themselves, the bitter cup they mix,

Then might the bard (tho’ child of peace) delight

To twine fresh wreaths around the Conqueror’s brow;

Or haply strike his high-toned harp, to swell

The trumpet’s martial sound, and bid them on

Whom Justice arms for vengeance: but, alas!

That undistinguishing and deathful storm

Beats heaviest on th’ exposed innocent,

And they that stir its fury, while it raves,

Stand at safe distance, send their mandate forth

Unto the mortal ministers that wait

To do their bidding.—Ah! who then regards

The widow’s tears, the friendless orphan’s cry,

And Famine, and the ghastly train of woes

That follow at the dogged heels of War?

They, in the pomp and pride of victory

Rejoicing, o’er the desolated earth,

As at an altar wet with human blood,

And flaming with the fire of cities burnt,

Sing their mad hymns of triumph; hymns to God,

O’er the destruction of his gracious works!

Hymns to the Father, o’er his slaughter’d sons!

Detested be their sword! abhorr’d their name,

And scorn’d the tongues that praise them!—Happier Thou,

Of peace and science friend, hast held thy course

Blameless and pure; and such is thy renown.

And let that secret voice within thy breast

Approve thee, then shall these high sounds of praise

Which thou hast heard be as sweet harmony,

Beyond this Concave to the starry sphere

Ascending, where the spirits of the blest

Hear it well pleased:—For Fame can enter Heaven,

If Truth and Virtue lead her; else, forbid,

She rises not above this earthy spot;

And then her voice, transient and valueless,

Speaks only to the herd.—With other praise

And worthier duty may She tend on Thee,

Follow thee still with honour, such as time

Shall never violate, and with just applause,

Such as the wise and good might love to share.

ON THE
DEATH OF CAPTAIN COOK.

I will not meditate in idle show

Of labour’d lines my sorrow to relate;

All artless as the tears my verse shall flow

That good men weep for his untimely fate.

The friends of peace and friends of human kind

To mourn thy loss, adventurous Chief, agree;

And all who love the bold or generous mind,

And all who science love must weep for thee.

By thee to soft Taheite’s sultry clime,

By thee to chill Kamschatzcha’s frozen zone,

And Isles ne’er view’d till George’s golden time

Britannia’s mighty name at length was known.

O how unlike Magellan! he who bent

His daring sail to untried winds, and first

The world encompass’d—save in sad event

Of timeless death by savage hands accurst.

The Arts of Peace He cared not to extend;

For gold th’ untravel’d sea his bark explored,

For lust of gold he rashly strove to bend

The free-born Indian to his lawless sword.

Not such the generous purpose of thy will;

With zeal untired and patient toil it strove

To make th’ untutor’d savage learn thy skill,

And the fierce-manner’d tribes embrace thy love.

For this thy vessel plough’d the stormy wave,

For this the pendent globe thrice circled round,

When the rude hand of some unconscious slave

With brutal fury dealt the fatal wound.

Hold! hold, Barbarian! shall the guilty strife

Provoke to mortal acts thy frantic hand?

Let fall thy stroke on some less-valued life;

But save, O! save the Chieftain of the band!

E’en hostile kings bade spare his honour’d head,

The bloodless trophies of his fame bade spare;

And Peace and Science wide their influence spread

To guard him from the wasteful rage of war:

In vain—he falls—he dies—behold him bleed—

Ah wretched Isle! ah murderous, murderous race!

The guilt, the memory of this ruffian deed

What pains can expiate, or what time efface?

Henceforth no ship shall spread her canvas wing

To visit that inhospitable strand;

Save that in after times if chance shall bring

Some bark storm driven near the hateful land;

Ev’n then the hardy mariner shall mourn;

And as he views it rising from the main,

Far from the inhuman shore his prow shall turn,

Cursing the murderous isle where Cook was slain.

ELEGY
TO THE MEMORY OF DR. W. HAYES,
PROFESSOR OF MUSIC IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Set to Music by his Son and Successor, P. Hayes.

SYMPHONY.

These sounds of grief, this solemn air,

To thee I sing, dear, honour’d shade!

Hear, spirit of my father, hear!

To thee these mournful rites are paid.

Here followed an Organ Movement, being a
Psalm Tune of the Professor, Dr. Wm. Hayes.

Such the last strains by thee were tried,

Strains that to holy Choirs belong;

While Age, that wasted all beside,

Yet spared the sweetness of thy song.

So pass’d he: nor approved alone

In science; like his gentle art,

His life was Music, and in tone

With Virtue’s harmony his heart.

O! let thy tuneful Spirit, to hear

The melancholy strains we raise,

Now stoop from that celestial sphere

Where Music is the voice of Praise!

THE WORLD[16].
INTENDED AS AN APOLOGY FOR NOT WRITING.
BY A LADY.

Wide Habitation of the Sons of Men,

Wherein the seeds of vice and virtue lie

Mix’d, like the undigested Elements

Ere Chaos lost his kingdom; where blind Chance

With Passion holds divided anarchy;

O! who can rightly scan thee, or describe?

Subject ill suited to a Virgin’s Muse,

That cannot praise, and is to blame untaught:

Wherefore from this unprofitable theme

She turns, leaving unsung its argument;

Save that with careless hand her lute she strikes

Lightly, nor hoping that the myrtle wreath

Shall crown her unpremeditated lay.

[16] This was among the subjects for a Prize Poem, given out by Sir John and Lady Miller at Bath Easton.

THE BRITISH THEATRE.
WRITTEN IN 1775.

When first was rear’d the British Stage,

Rude was the scene and weak the lay;

The Bard explored the sacred Page,

And holy Mystery form’d his Play.

Th’ affections of the mortal breast

In simple Moral next he sung,

Each Vice[17] in human shape he drest,

And to each Virtue[17] gave a tongue.

Then ’gan the Comic Muse unfold

In coarser jests her homely art:

Of Gammer Gurton’s[18] loss she told,

And laugh’d at Hodge’s awkward smart.

Come from thy wildly-winding stream,

First-born of Genius, Shakspeare, come!

The listening World attends thy theme,

And bids each elder Bard[19] be dumb:

For thou, within the human Mind

Fix’d, as on thy peculiar throne,

Sitt’st like a Deity inshrined;

And either Muse is all thine own!

Yet shall not Time’s rough hand destroy

The scenes by learned Jonson writ;

Nor shall Oblivion e’er enjoy

The charms of Fletcher’s courtly wit:

And still in matchless beauty live

The numbers of that Lyric Strain

Sung gayly to the Star of Eve

By Comus and his jovial Train.

Here sunk the Stage:—and dire alarms

The Muse’s voice did overwhelm;

For wounded Freedom call’d to arms,

And Discord shook the embattled Realm.

But Peace return’d; and with her came

(Alas! how changed!) the tuneful Pair:

Thalia’s eye should blench with shame,

And her sad Sister weep to hear

How the mask’d[20] Fair, in Charles’s reign,

Her lewd and riotous Fancy fed

At Killigrew’s debauchful scene,

While hapless Otway pined for Bread.

Thus the sweet Lark shall sing unheard,

And Philomel sit silent by;

While every vile and chattering bird

Torments the grove with ribald cry.

And see what witless Bards presume

With buskin’d fools to rhyme and rage;

While Mason’s idle Muse is dumb,

And weary Garrick quits the Stage.

[17] Personification of the passions in the moralities.

[18] Gammer Gurton’s Needle is the oldest English comedy; the distress of it arises from the loss of the needle, which at last is discovered in her man Hodge’s breeches.

[19] There were no plays of any note before Shakspeare.

[20] The custom of that time, for fear of hearing indecencies, otherwise too gross to be supported.

ON TWO PUBLICATIONS,
ENTITLED
EDITIONS OF TWO OF OUR POETS.

When Critic Science first was known,

Somewhere upon the Muse’s ground

The pruning knife of wit was thrown;

Not that which Aristarchus found:

That had a stout and longer blade,

Would at one stroke cut off a limb;