Money was always at command,
And tripped with Pleasure hand in hand.
Money was equipage, was show,
Gallini's, Almack's, and Soho;
The passe-partout through every vein
Of dissipation's hydra reign.
O London, thou prolific source,
Parent of vice, and folly's nurse!
Fruitful as Nile, thy copious springs
Spawn hourly births-and all with stings:
But happiest far the he or she,
I know not which, that livelier dunce
Who first contrived the coterie,
To crush domestic bliss at once,
Then grinned, no doubt, amidst the dames,
As Nero fiddled to the flames.
Of thee, Pantheon, let me speak
With reverence, though in numbers weak;
Thy beauties satire's frown beguile,—
We spare the follies for the pile.
Flounced, furbelowed, and tricked for show,
With lamps above and lamps below,
Thy charms even modern taste defied,
They could not spoil thee, though they tried.
Ah pity that Time's hasty wings
Must sweep thee off with vulgar things!
Let architects of humbler name
On frail materials build their fame;
Their noblest works the world might want;
Wyatt should build in adamant.
But what are these to scenes which lie Secreted from the vulgar eye,
And baffle all the powers of song?—
A brazen throat, an iron tongue
(Which poets wish for, when at length
Their subject soars above their strength),
Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse,
Who only reads the public news,
And idly utters what she gleans
From chronicles and magazines,
Recoiling feels her feeble fires,
And blushing to her shades retires.
Alas she knows not how to treat
The finer follies of the great,
Where even, Democritus, thy sneer
Were vain as Heraclitus' tear.
Suffice it that by just degrees
They reached all heights, and rose with ease;
For beauty wins its way, uncalled,
And ready dupes are ne'er black-balled.
Each gambling dame she knew, and he
Knew every shark of quality;
From the grave cautious few who live
On thoughtless youth, and living thrive,
To the light train who mimic France,
And the soft sons of nonchalance.
While Jenny, now no more of use,
Excuse succeeding to excuse,
Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew
To shilling whist and chicken loo.
Advanced to fashion's wavering head, They now, where once they followed, led; Devised new systems of delight,
Abed all day, and up all night,
In different circles reigned supreme.
Wives copied her, and husbands him;
Till so divinely life ran on,
So separate, so quite bon-ton,
That, meeting in a public place,
They scarcely knew each other's face.
At last they met, by his desire,
A tête-à-tête across the fire;
Looked in each other's face awhile,
With half a tear, and half a smile.
The ruddy health, which wont to grace
With manly glow his rural face,
Now scarce retained its faintest streak;
So sallow was his leathern cheek.
She, lank and pale and hollow-eyed,
With rouge had striven in vain to hide
What once was beauty, and repair
The rapine of the midnight air.
Silence is eloquence, 'tis said.
Both wished to speak, both hung the head. At length it burst.- "Tis time," he cries, "When tired of folly, to be wise.
Are you too tired?"-then checked a groan. She wept consent, and he went on :
"How delicate the married life! You love your husband, I my wife. Not even satiety could tame, Nor dissipation quench, the flame. True to the bias of our kind, 'Tis happiness we wish to find. In rural scenes retired we sought
In vain the dear delicious draught;
Though blest with love's indulgent store,
We found we wanted something more.
'Twas company, 'twas friends to share
The bliss we languished to declare.
'Twas social converse, change of scene,
To soothe the sullen hour of spleen;
Short absences to wake desire,
And sweet regrets to fan the fire.
We left the lonesome place; and found,
In dissipation's giddy round,
A thousand novelties to wake
The springs of life, and not to break.
As, from the nest not wandering far,
In light excursions through the air,
The feathered tenants of the grove
Around in mazy circles move,
Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow,
Or taste the blossom on the bough,
We sported freely with the rest ;
And still, returning to the nest,
In easy mirth we chatted o'er
The trifles of the day before.
Behold us now, dissolving quite
In the full ocean of delight,
In pleasures every hour employ,
Immersed in all the world calls joy;
Our affluence easing the expense
Of splendour and magnificence;
Our company, the exalted set
Of all that's gay, and all that's great :
Nor happy yet!-and where's the wonder?—
We live, my dear, too much asunder."
The moral of my tale is this,-
Variety's the soul of bliss;
But such variety alone
As makes our home the more our own.
As from the heart's impelling power
The life-blood pours its genial store;
Though taking each a various way,
The active streams meandering play
Through every artery, every vein,
All to the heart return again;
From thence resume their new career,
But still return and centre there :
So real happiness below
Must from the heart sincerely flow;
Nor, listening to the siren's song,
Must stray too far, or rest too long.
All human pleasures thither tend;
Must there begin, and there must end;
Must there recruit their languid force,
And gain fresh vigour from their source.
[Born in London, 26 November 1716, son of a scrivener; died at Cambridge, 13 July 1771].
ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT,
DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD-FISHES.
'TWAS on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
Her conscious tail her joy declared;
The fair round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw, and purred applause.
Still had she gazed, but, 'midst the tide,
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream:
Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue,
Through richest purple, to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw :
A whisker first, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize :
What female heart can gold despise ?
What Cat's averse to fish?
Presumptuous maid! with looks intent,
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between.
Malignant Fate sat by and smiled :
The slippery verge her feet beguiled;
She stumbled headlong in.
Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mewed to every watery god
Some speedy aid to send.
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred,
Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard:
A favourite has no friend!
From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived,
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold :
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize,
Nor all that glisters, gold.
BISHOP (WILLIAM) BARNARD.
[William Barnard, Bishop of Limerick, was born in 1727, and died in 1806. The verses which ensue arose from the following incident. "Dr. Barnard had
asserted, in Dr. Johnson's presence, that men did not improve after the age of forty-five. That is not true, Sir,' said Johnson. 'You, who perhaps are fortyeight, may still improve, if you will try: I wish you would set about it. And I am afraid,' he added, there is great room for it."" Johnson afterwards greatly regretted his rudeness to the Bishop; who took the insult in good part, wrote the following verses next day, and sent them to Sir Joshua Reynolds].
I LATELY thought no man alive
Could e'er improve past forty-five,
And ventured to assert it.
The observation was not new,
But seemed to me so just and true
That none could controvert it.
"No, sir," said Johnson, "'tis not so;
'Tis your mistake, and I can show
An instance, if you doubt it.
You, who perhaps are forty-eight,
May still improve, 'tis not too late;
I wish you'd set about it."
Encouraged thus to mend my faults,
I turned his counsel in my thoughts,
Which way I could apply it;
Genius I knew was past my reach,
For who can learn what none can teach?
And wit-I could not buy it.
Then come, my friends, and try your skill
You may improve me if you will
(My books are at a distance) :
With you I'll live and learn, and then
Instead of books shall read men,
So lend me your assistance.
Dear Knight of Plympton, teach me how
To suffer with unclouded brow,
And smile serene as thine,
The jest uncouth and truth severe ;
Like thee to turn my deafest ear,
And calmly drink my wine.
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