An English Eclogue, by Southey, but not in his works.
WHOM are they ushering from the world, with all This pageantry and long parade of Death?
A long parade, indeed, Sir; and yet here
You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches
A furlong farther, carriage behind carriage.
Townsman.
Yonder schoolboy,
Who plays the truant, says, the Proclamation
Of Peace was nothing to the show; and even
The chairing of the members at election
Would not have been a finer sight than this,
Only that red and green are prettier colours
Than all this mourning. There, Sir, you behold
One of the red-gown'd Worthies of the City,
The envy and the boast of our Exchange,
Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half million,
Screw'd down in yonder hearse.
Stranger.
Then he was born
Under a lucky planet, who to-day
Puts mourning on for his inheritance.
When first I heard his death, that
very
Leap'd to my lips; but now the closing scene
Of the comedy hath waken'd wiser thoughts;
And I bless God, that when I go to the grave,
There will not be the weight of wealth like his
To sink me down.
Is that, then, in your mind?
Townsman.
Even so. The text
Is Gospel wisdom. I would ride the Camel
Yea, leap him flying, through the Needle's eve,
Townsman.
Your pardon, too, Sir.
If, with this text before me, I should feel
In the preaching mood! But for these barren fig-trees,
With all their flourish and their leafiness,
We have been told their destiny and use,
When the axe is laid unto the root, and they
Cumber the earth no longer.
Stor'd fraudfully, the spoil of orphans wrong'd,
And widows who had none to plead their right?
Townsman.
All honest, open, honourable gains,
Fair legal interest, bonds and mortgages,
Ships to the East and West.
Townsman.
For what he left
Undone; for sins, not one of which is mention'd
In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him,
Believ'd no other gods than those of the Creed:
Bow'd to no idols-but his money-bags:
Swore no false oaths, except at the Custom-house:
Kept the Sabbath idle: built a monument
To honour his dead father: did no murder:
Was too old-fashioned for adultery;
Never pick'd pockets: never bore false witness;
And never, with that all-commanding wealth,
Coveted his neighbour's house, nor ox, nor ass.
Stranger.
You know him, then, it seems.
Townsman.
As all men know
The virtues of your hundred thousanders;
They never hide their lights beneath a bushel-
Doth bounty, like a streamlet, flow unseen,
Freshening and giving life along its source.
Townsman.
We track the streamlet by the brighter green
And livelier growth it gives; but as for this-
This was a pool that stagnated and stunk;
The rains of Heaven engendered nothing in it
But slime and foul corruption.
Are reservoirs, whence public charity
Still keeps her channels full.
Townsman.
Now, Sir, you touch
Upon the point. This man of half a million
Had all these public virtues which you praise;
But the poor man rung never at his door;
And the old beggar at the public gate
Who, all the summer long, stands hat in hand,
He knew how vain it was to lift an eye
To that hard face. Yet he was always found
Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers,
Your benefactors in the Newspapers.
His alms were money put to interest
In the other world, donations to keep open
A running charity-account with Heaven:
Retaining fees against the last assizes,
When, for the trusted talents, strict account
Shall be required from all, and the old arch lawyer
Plead his own cause as plaintiff.
Believe you, Sir; these are your witnesses,
These mourners here, who from their carriages
Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind
Were to be pray'd for now, to lend their eyes
Some decent rheum. The very hireling mute
Bears not a face blanker of all emotion
Than the old servant of the family!
How can this man have liv'd, that thus his death
Cost not the soiling of one white handkerchief!!!
Who should lament for him, Sir, in whose heart
Love had no place; nor natural charity?
The parlour spaniel, when she heard his step,
Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside
With creeping pace; she never rais'd her eyes
To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head
Uprais'd upon his knee, with fondling whine.
How could it be but thus! Arithmetic
Was the sole science he was ever taught.
The Multiplication-table was his Creed,
His Paternoster, and his Decalogue.
When yet he was a boy, and should have breath'd
The open air and sunshine of the fields,
To give his blood his natural spring and play,
He in a close and dusky counting-house,
Smoke-dried, and sear'd, and shrivell'd up his heart.
So, from the way in which he was trained up,
His feet departed not; he toil'd and moil'd,'
Poor muckworm! through his threescore years and ten,
And when the earth shall now be shovel'd on him;
If that which serv'd him for a soul were still
Within its husk, 'twould still be dirt to dirt.
Yet your next Newspapers will blazon him
For industry and honourable wealth
Gets him no other praise. But come this way
Some twelvemonths hence, and you will find his virtues
Trimly set forth in lapidary lines,
Faith with her torch beside, and little Cupids
Dropping upon his urn their marble tears.
From a very rare Volume of old Poetry.
THE Fountaines smoake, and yet no flames they shewe;
Starres shine all night though undeserned by day;
And Trees does spring, yet are not seene to growe;
And Shadowes moove, although they seeme to stay:
In Winter's woe is buried Summer's blisse,
And Love loves most, when Love most secret is.
The stillest streame descries the greatest deepe;
The clearest skie is subject to a shower;
Conceit 's most sweete when as it seemes to sleepe;
And fairest dayes doe in the morning lower.
The silent groves sweete nymphs they cannot misse,
For Love loves most where Love most secret is.
The rarest jewels hidden virtue yeeld,
The sweete of traffique is a secret gaine, The yeere once old doth shew a barren field,
And plants seeme dead, and yet they spring again. Cupid is blind; the reason why, is this,
Love loveth most when Love most secret is.
LA BAILLEE.
UN Capitaine hardi d'Halifax
Demeurant dans son quartier,
Seduit une fille, qui se pendit
Un Lundi avec sa jarretiere;
Sa conscience le tourmenta,
Son estomac fut gate,
Il prit le fort ratifia,
Et ne pensa que de Miss Baillee.
Ah! la Baillee, la malheureuse Baillee.
Ah! la Baillee, la malheureuse Baillee!!
Un soir se couchant de bonne heure,
Car il avoit la fievre,
Dit-il, "Je suis un beau garcon.
Mais volage comme un chevre."
Sa lumiere brule pale et bleu,
Le suif et coton mele,
Un revenant approche son lit,
Et cria "Voici Baillee,"
Ah! la Baillee, &c.
"Va-t-en," dit-il, "ou Diable m'emporte, Je tirai la sonnette."
"Cher capitaine," repond la dame,
"Quelle conduite malhonnete!"
"Le commissaire fut trop severe
Envers une fille si grelee,
Et le pretre ne vout pas dire la messe
Pour l'ame de maʼm'selle Baillee.”
Ah! la Baillee, &c.
"Cher revenant," dit-il tout bas,
"Arrangeons notre affaire;
Un banquenotte dans ma culotte
Ferme ta cimetiere;"
Gaiement s'enfuit alors l'esprit,
Son sort si bien demele,
"Adieu, cher fripon capitaine Smith,
N'oubliez pas votre Baillee."
|