face, that as the king of a party, was, in effect, only king of half his fubjects; the fame might with truth, be affirmed of the writer of impious or obscene compofitions, which can be perufed only by readers of a certain defcription. Such productions, however they may, for the moment, please puerile wantonnefs, or irritate debilitated rakes, will fink into the oblivion they merit, or be handed down to pofterity, as badges of infamy to their authors. With fuch pefts of fociety, I fear, the pleafing, the dangerous Voltaire muft rank, over his memory, fays a judicious critic, modefty muft blufh, religion figh, and charity drop a tear. In the attempt of which I have been speaking, this hitherto obnoxious guest was rendered admiffible into good company. The tranflator tried, perhaps he vainly tried, to separate wit and fine fentiment from religious and voluptuous indecorum; fuch a design might, perhaps, excufe want of fuccefs in its execution, but the action of the poem which took place during the most brilliant æra of English history, when our arms were triumphant at the gates of Paris, probably inflamed the imagination of a Briton, diffused a patriotic brightness over the period, and attached him ftrongly to the fubject, "Fortia facta patrum." Voltaire's commencement which is a rich and genuine fpecimen of the mock heroic, pleafed me much. Fain wou'd I celebrate the faints of old, My voice is weak, unequal to their fame, Whom England's wolves as ten der fheep devour, Be to thy people a protecting rock, Or ftorms of adverfe fate will foon o'erpow'r. Thou patron faint of thy most chriftian fon, But for thy well tim'd aid the Had been eclips'd by England's happier fun, Whofe rival rays ftill threaten from afar. "Yes, by St. Paul," the holy Dennis cry'd, "Thefe English dogs we quickly must deftroy, "Their herefies, unless the fates have ly'd, "Will rebel arms against the Pope employ. Will reafon chufe, in fpite of holy church, "Nor bulls, nor anathemas fhall difturb, With truth their guide, they holy writ will fearch, "Nor tyrant, priest, or quibbling law can curb. "Their thund'ring navies traverfing the poles, "Through a long courfe of years alas, I fee, "Where Ganges glides, pr where th' Atlantic rolls, Britannia reigns as emprefs of the fea. Since Charles is held in harlot dalliance bound, All ills 'tis faid by oppofites are cur'd, Some virgin chafte and pure fhall ftraight be found, To rouze the krag in luft and cafe immur'd. !" With pious indignation and patriotic purpose, St. Dennis haftens to Orleans, where a council of Gallic chiefs is held; his address, and their anfwer cannot but force a fmile from the fair, and will almost efface frowns from the godly. "Ye warlike chiefs who draw in vain your fwords, "While Charles your king to heav'n and glory loft, "Gives to a harlot's fafcinating words, "That ear deny'd to you and all his hoft. "Hafte, let us find fome virgin chafte and pure, "Whom heav'n ordains to bless your grief-fwoln eyes, And if you wish that church or ftate endure, "Affift me in my holy enterprize. "Ah holy faint." the roguish Richmond fwears, "If this your errand, here you come in vain, "Our kings and captains make the virgins fcarce, "You have them plentier in your bleft domain. "Perhaps fome nunnery's fequefter'd fhade, "May this rare phoenix for a faint produce, "Yet there I fear the monks their tricks have play'd, "Apply'd this public good to private ufe. "In fpite of fermons and divine command, "Soldiers and failors by ftrong paffion fir'd, For making baftards througly thiş am'rous land, Than "Than making orphans have been more admir'd. "The virgin flow'r is fcarce in this our clime, "Where curious amateurs fo thickly fwarm, "Impatience plucks it, long before its time, "Or the rank hot-house keeps the plant too warm." Piqu'd at thefe words, St. Dennis look'd afkance, And then withdrew, on cherubs' pinions born, Aly courteous reader, may it be thy lot To crop this rofe, which blooms without a thorn. Offended at the profane farcafms of his military audience, the faint feeks farther for, and at laft discovers at a little inn, where she officiated as oftler, Joan of Arc, who after many ftruggles with amorous ruftics, and their indifcreet hands, after being caft lots for by Grisbourdon, a sturdy cordelier, and a furious mulatteer, preferves her honor inviolate from thefe libidinous ruffians, who ftimulated by unhallowed paffion, and affifted by magic art, could have been driven from their purpurpose by Divine interference alone. The poet is lavish in his praises of the village which produced this female warrior. Let Doremy o'er ev'ry town prefide, Tho' fhe no vineyards, no rich wines can boast, But for her Joan, the fleur-de-lis had dy'd, But for her Joan, the Gallic name were loft. What though thy fields afford no fplendid mines, What tho' nor gold nor pearls thy maids adorn, Thou still hadft that which brighteft gems outfhines,, Pure as the dew drops of the early morn. Thus did a Saint who maiden purenefs fought, Inftead of palaces or noble domes, Fine female honor in an ale-house cot, Nor cloath'd in filk, nor poifon'd by perfumes. Whilft ev'ry vein with luft and rage beat high, Fell Grifbourdon the pow'rs of hell invok'd, By incantations forc'd, the fprites drew nigh, By And love defpis'd to keen revenge provok'd. potent herbs and spells of hor rid name, In death-like trance the forc'rer When good St. Dennis to her refbound his prey, cue came, At whofe approach the monster fed away. So when fair juftice fhackled by chicane, Languifh'd in legal net-work ftrictly bound, Thurlow difpell'd the artful quibbling train, And foon the heav'n born goddefs freedom found. The Saint then addreffes the future champion of her country, in the following manner: "I am St. Dennis, patron faint of France," "Sent "Sent by high heaven's command, your king to fave, "Given up to Agnes, riot, play, and dance; "And you I chufe as humble, chafte and brave. "Fear not my child, but quit thy humble task, "For nobler works thy hands are now defign'd, "Of heav'n, through me, an easy conqueft afk, "And turn to warlike deeds thy docile mind." The Gallic faint thus footh'd the trembling maid, Who felt her mind inflam'd with martial fire, Her foul expands, and now no more afraid, Courage and love of fame her breaft infpire. So when dame Fortune in her blind career, The long with'd ticket fome poor cit bequeaths, He quits his drudgery and room in air, And eaft of Temple-bar he fcarce. ly breathes. The fecond canto of the tranflation commenced as follows. 'Tis not enough in battles' loud alarms, Cool and undaunted o'er the field to ftride, He who wou'd wish to meet fuccefs Pafs'd for the fons of Jove, that happy art, And fierceft nations at their fhrine ador'd. Rome by fuch arts attain'd imperial fway, Whilft warlike chieftains trembled at her nod, Augurs and oracles prepar'd the way; What foe on equal terms cou'd meet a god? Good Charles the Seventh in his youthful days, At Tours beheld a damfel paffing fair, This prince delighted much in dance and plays, And Agnes Sorrel was his partner there. Cou'd Venus form a maid in beauty's mould, More apt the pow'r of female charms to prove? Who cou'd thofe eyes, that wellturn'd shape behold, Nor feel the melting ecftacy of love? The blifs of harmony inspir'd her fongs, The youth of Flora heighten'd ev'ry grace, The jufteft fymmetry to her belongs, The rofe and lilly, mingled in her face. Kings, heroes, fages, gloried in her chains, To fee and love her was their greatest pride, The fpeechlefs figh, th' in vain concealed pains, The look difcov'ring what it ftrives to hide. The The loyal Agnes to her monarch kind, That tedious court, hard-hearted' dames approve Relax'd, nor Charles in long fufpence repin'd, Princes and kings make rapid ftrides in love. Trufty Bonneau th' enraptur'd lovers bore, Safe from keen fcandal's penetrating eyes, To a fair caftle on the banks of Loire, Whofe rural fcenes resembled paradise. At court Bonneau was held in high repute, To the king's pleasure an obedient imp, Myfterious, trufty, filent, as a mute, Plain country folks wou'd call the rogue a pimp. Imagine lovers! ye who know the blifs Of keen defires, which many a tedious hour Has deeply ftung, the pointed rapt'rous kifs, The eye that speaks, the tongue that wants the pow'r. Alternate struggles heave her fnowy breast, Love and her virgin pride alternate beat; 'Till pride, by warmth of paffion closely preft, Gives to great love a victory compleat. On poignant viands feast the youth ful pair, Whilft varied tones the voice and ftring afford, Vol. I. |