Part 95 (1/2)

Happy the man who, void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid s.h.i.+lling: he nor hears with pain New oysters cried, nor sighs for cheerful ale; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpie or Town-Hall[1] repairs: Where, mindful of the nymph whose wanton eye Transfixed his soul and kindled amorous flames, Chloe, or Phillis, he each circling gla.s.s Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love.

Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint.

But I, whom griping Penury surrounds, And Hunger, sure attendant upon Want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, (Wretched repast!) my meagre corpse sustain: Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chilled fingers; or from tube as black As winter-chimney, or well-polished jet, Exhale mundungus, ill-perfuming scent!

Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (versed in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallader and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of famed Cestrian cheese, High over-shadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at the Arvonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Ycleped Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil!

Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie With Ma.s.sic, Setin, or renowned Falern.

Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a Dun, Horrible monster! hated by G.o.ds and men, To my aerial citadel ascends, With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound.

What should I do? or whither turn? Amazed, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and, wonderful to tell!

My tongue forgets her faculty of speech; So horrible he seems! His faded brow, Entrenched with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admired by modern saints, Disastrous acts forebode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscribed, Grievous to mortal eyes; ye G.o.ds, avert Such plagues from righteous men! Behind him stalks Another monster, not unlike himself, Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the G.o.ds, With force incredible, and magic charms, Erst have endued; if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body, to the touch Obsequious, as whilom knights were wont, To some enchanted castle is conveyed, Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains, In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free.

Beware, ye Debtors! when ye walk, beware, Be circ.u.mspect; oft with insidious ken The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a c.h.i.n.ky gap, Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands Within her woven cell; the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue; The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And b.u.t.terfly, proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make: with eager strides, She towering flies to her expected spoils; Then, with envenomed jaws, the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carca.s.ses triumphant drags.

So pa.s.s my days. But, when nocturnal shades This world envelop, and the inclement air Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood; Me lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights; distressed, forlorn, Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperate lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow-tree.

Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought, And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: But if a slumber haply does invade My weary limbs, my fancy's still awake, Thoughtful of drink, and, eager, in a dream, Tipples imaginary pots of ale, In vain; awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse.

Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure, Nor medlar, fruit delicious in decay; Afflictions great! yet greater still remain: My galligaskins, that have long withstood The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts, By time subdued (what will not time subdue!) An horrid chasm disclosed with orifice Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught s.h.i.+p, Long sailed secure, or through the Aegean deep, Or the Ionian, till cruising near The Lilybean sh.o.r.e, with hideous crush On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks!) She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak, So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea; in at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they pray; Vain efforts! still the battering waves rush in, Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, The s.h.i.+p sinks foundering in the vast abyss.

[1]'Magpie or Town-hall:' two noted alehouses at Oxford in 1700.

We may here mention a name or two of poets from whose verses we can afford no extracts,--such as Walsh, called by Pope 'knowing Walsh,'

a man of some critical discernment, if not of much genius; Gould, a domestic of the Earl of Dorset, and afterwards a schoolmaster, from whom Campbell quotes one or two tolerable songs; and Dr Walter Pope, a man of wit and knowledge, who was junior proctor of Oxford, one of the first chosen fellows of the Royal Society, and who succeeded Sir Christopher Wren as professor of astronomy in Gresham College. He is the author of a comico-serious song of some merit, ent.i.tled 'The Old Man's Wish.'

SIR SAMUEL GARTH.

Of Garth little is known, save that he was an eminent physician, a scholar, a man of benevolence, a keen Whig, and yet an admirer of old Dryden, and a patron of young Pope--a friend of Addison, and the author of the 'Dispensary.' The College of Physicians had inst.i.tuted a dispensary, for the purpose of furnis.h.i.+ng the poor with medicines gratis. This measure was opposed by the apothecaries, who had an obvious interest in the sale of drugs; and to ridicule their selfishness Garth wrote his poem, which is mock-heroic, in six cantos, copied in form from the 'Lutrin,' and which, though ingenious and elaborate, seems now tedious, and on the whole uninteresting. It appeared in 1696, and the author died in 1718. We extract some of the opening lines of the first canto of the poem.

THE DISPENSARY.

Speak, G.o.ddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; And why physicans were so cautious grown Of others' lives, and lavish of their own; How by a journey to the Elysian plain Peace triumphed, and old Time returned again.

Not far from that most celebrated place, Where angry Justice shows her awful face; Where little villains must submit to fate, That great ones may enjoy the world in state; There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill: This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, Raised for a use as n.o.ble as its frame; Nor did the learn'd society decline The propagation of that great design; In all her mazes, nature's face they viewed, And, as she disappeared, their search pursued.

Wrapped in the shade of night the G.o.ddess lies, Yet to the learn'd unveils her dark disguise, But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes.

Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife Of infant atoms kindling into life; How ductile matter new meanders takes, And slender trains of twisting fibres makes; And how the viscous seeks a closer tone, By just degrees to harden into bone; While the more loose flow from the vital urn, And in full tides of purple streams return; How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise, And dart in emanations through the eyes; How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours, To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers; Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; How great their force, how delicate their frame; How the same nerves are fas.h.i.+oned to sustain The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain; Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, And floods of chyle in silver currents run; How the dim speck of ent.i.ty began To extend its recent form, and stretch to man; To how minute an origin we owe Young Ammon, Caesar, and the great Na.s.sau; Why paler looks impetuous rage proclaim, And why chill virgins redden into flame; Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise, And why gay mirth sits smiling in the eyes; All ice, why Lucrece; or Semp.r.o.nia, fire; Why Scarsdale rages to survive desire; When Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shown, Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane; How matter, by the varied shape of pores, Or idiots frames, or solemn senators.

Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, How body acts upon impa.s.sive mind; How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire; Why our complexions oft our soul declare, And how the pa.s.sions in the features are; How touch and harmony arise between Corporeal figure, and a form unseen; How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil, And act at every summons of the will.

With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, Which in the womb of distant causes lie.

But now no grand inquiries are descried, Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside, Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside.

Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal, And for important nothings show a zeal: The drooping sciences neglected pine, And Paean's beams with fading l.u.s.tre s.h.i.+ne.

No readers here with hectic looks are found, Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight watching, drowned; The lonely edifice in sweats complains That nothing there but sullen silence reigns.

This place, so fit for undisturbed repose, The G.o.d of sloth for his asylum chose; Upon a couch of down in these abodes, Supine with folded arms he thoughtless nods; Indulging dreams his G.o.dhead lull to ease, With murmurs of soft rills and whispering trees: The poppy and each numbing plant dispense Their drowsy virtue, and dull indolence; No pa.s.sions interrupt his easy reign, No problems puzzle his lethargic brain; But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed, And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head.

SIR RICHARD BLACKMORE.

Our next name is that of one who, like the former, was a knight, a physician, and (in a manner) a poet. Blackmore was the son of Robert Blackmore of Corsham, in Wilts.h.i.+re, who is styled by Wood _gentleman_, and is believed to have been an attorney. He took his degree of M.A. at Oxford, in June 1676. He afterwards travelled, was made Doctor of Physic at Padua, and, when he returned home, began to practise in London with great success. In 1695, he tried his hand at poetry, producing an epic ent.i.tled 'King Arthur,' which was followed by a series on 'King Alfred,'