English Satires Part 26

May the Babylonish curse Straight confound my stammering verse, If I can a pa.s.sage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to my mind (Still the phrase is wide or scant), To take leave of thee, Great Plant!

Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate: For I hate yet love thee so, That, whichever thing I show, The plain truth will seem to be A constrained hyperbole, And the pa.s.sions to proceed More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine, Bacchus' black servant, negro fine; Sorcerer, that mak'st us dote upon Thy begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay Much too in the female way, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy heightening steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem, And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness

Thou through such a mist dost show us, That our best friends do not know us, And, for those allowed features, Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell Chimeras-- Monsters that, who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex canst show What his deity can do, As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle?

Some few vapours thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze.

But to the reins and n.o.bler heart Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born, The old world was sure forlorn Wanting thee, that aidest more The G.o.d's victories than before All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Baccha.n.a.ls.

These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of _thee_ meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed G.o.d now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sovereign to the brain.

Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell.

Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind, Africa, that brags her foison, Breeds no such prodigious poison, Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite-- Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.

'Twas but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prospered who defamed thee; Irony all, and feigned abuse, Such as perplexed lovers use At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike, And, instead of Dearest Miss, Jewel, Honey, Sweetheart, Bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her c.o.c.katrice and Siren, Basilisk, and all that's evil, Witch, Hyena, Mermaid, Devil, Ethiop, Wench, and Blackamoor, Monkey, Ape, and twenty more; Friendly Trait'ress, Loving Foe,-- Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know A contentment to express, Borders so upon excess, That they do not rightly wot Whether it be pain or not.

Or as men, constrained to part With what's nearest to their heart, While their sorrow's at the height, Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing whatever Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce Guiltless of the sad divorce.

For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee.

For thy sake, Tobacco, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise.

But, as she who once hath been A king's consort is a queen Ever after, nor will bate Any t.i.tle of her state, Though a widow or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Katherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest Tobacco Boys; Where, though I, by sour physician, Am debarred the full fruition Of thy favours, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and s.n.a.t.c.h Sidelong odours, that give life Like glances from a neighbour's wife; And still live in the byplaces And the suburbs of thy graces, And in thy borders take delight, An unconquered Canaanite.

THOMAS MOORE.

(1779-1852.)

XLIX. LINES ON LEIGH HUNT.

Suggested by Hunt's _Byron and his Contemporaries_.

Next week will be published (as "Lives" are the rage) The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange, Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in the cage Of the late n.o.ble lion at Exeter 'Change.

Though the dog is a dog of the kind they call "sad", 'Tis a puppy that much to good breeding pretends; And few dogs have such opportunities had Of knowing how lions behave--among friends.

How that animal eats, how he moves, how he drinks, Is all noted down by this Boswell so small; And 'tis plain, from each sentence, the puppy-dog thinks That the lion was no such great things after all.

Though he roar'd pretty well--this the puppy allows-- It was all, he says, borrow'd--all second-hand roar; And he vastly prefers his own little bow-wows To the loftiest war-note the lion could pour.

'Tis indeed as good fun as a cynic could ask, To see how this c.o.c.kney-bred setter of rabbits Takes gravely the lord of the forest to task, And judges of lions by puppy-dog habits.

Nay, fed as he was (and this makes it a dark case) With sops every day from the lion's own pan, He lifts up his leg at the n.o.ble beast's carcase, And--does all a dog, so diminutive, can.

However the book's a good book, being rich in Examples and warnings to lions high-bred, How they suffer small mongrelly curs in their kitchen, Who'll feed on them living, and foul them when dead.

GEORGE CANNING.

(1770-1827.)

L. EPISTLE FROM LORD BORINGDON TO LORD GRANVILLE.

Published in _Fugitive Verses_, and thence included among Canning's works.

Oft you have ask'd me, Granville, why Of late I heave the frequent sigh?

Why, moping, melancholy, low, From supper, commons, wine, I go?

Why bows my mind, by care oppress'd, By day no peace, by night no rest?

Hear, then, my friend, and ne'er you knew A tale so tender, and so true-- Hear what, tho' shame my tongue restrain, My pen with freedom shall explain.

Say, Granville, do you not remember, About the middle of November, When Blenheim's hospitable lord Received us at his cheerful board; How fair the Ladies Spencer smiled, Enchanting, witty, courteous, mild?

And mark'd you not, how many a glance Across the table, shot by chance From fair Eliza's graceful form, a.s.sail'd and took my heart by storm?

And mark'd you not, with earnest zeal, I ask'd her, if she'd have some veal?

And how, when conversation's charms Fresh vigour gave to love's alarms, My heart was scorch'd, and burnt to tinder, When talking to her at the _winder_?

These facts premised, you can't but guess The cause of my uneasiness, For you have heard, as well as I, That she'll be married speedily; And then--my grief more plain to tell-- Soft cares, sweet fears, fond hopes,--farewell!

But still, tho' false the fleeting dream, Indulge awhile the tender theme, And hear, had fortune yet been kind, How bright the prospect of the mind.

O! had I had it in my power To wed her--with a suited dower-- And proudly bear the beauteous maid To Saltrum's venerable shade,-- Or if she liked not woods at Saltrum, Why, nothing easier than to alter 'em,-- Then had I tasted bliss sincere, And happy been from year to year.

How changed this scene! for now, my Granville, Another match is on the anvil.

And I, a widow'd dove, complain, And feel no refuge from my pain-- Save that of pitying Spencer's sister, Who's lost a lord, and gained a Mister.

LI. REFORMATION OF THE KNAVE OF HEARTS.

This is an exquisite satire on the attempts at criticism which were current in _pre-Edinburgh Review_ days, when the majority of the journals were mere touts for the booksellers. The papers in question are taken from Nos. 11 and 12 of the _Microcosm_, published on Monday, February 12th, 1787--when Canning was seventeen years of age.

The epic poem on which I shall ground my present critique has for its chief characteristics brevity and simplicity. The author--whose name I lament that I am, in some degree, prevented from consecrating to immortal fame, by not knowing what it is--the author, I say, has not branched his poem into excrescences of episode, or prolixities of digression; it is neither variegated with diversity of unmeaning similitudes, nor glaring with the varnish of unnatural metaphor. The whole is plain and uniform; so much so, indeed, that I should hardly be surprised if some morose readers were to conjecture that the poet had been thus simple rather from necessity than choice; that he had been restrained, not so much by chast.i.ty of judgment, as sterility of imagination.

Nay, some there may be, perhaps, who will dispute his claim to the t.i.tle of an epic poet, and will endeavour to degrade him even to the rank of a ballad-monger. But I, as his commentator, will contend for the dignity of my author, and will plainly demonstrate his poem to be an epic poem, agreeable to the example of all poets, and the consent of all critics heretofore.

First, it is universally agreed that an epic poem should have three component parts--a beginning, a middle, and an end; secondly, it is allowed that it should have one grand action or main design, to the forwarding of which all the parts of it should directly or indirectly tend, and that this design should be in some measure consonant with, and conducive to, the purposes of morality; and thirdly, it is indisputably settled that it should have a hero. I trust that in none of these points the poem before us will be found deficient. There are other inferior properties which I shall consider in due order.

Not to keep my readers longer in suspense, the subject of the poem is "The Reformation of the Knave of Hearts". It is not improbable that some may object to me that a knave is an unworthy hero for an epic poem--that a hero ought to be all that is great and good. The objection is frivolous. The greatest work of this kind that the world has ever produced has "the Devil" for its hero; and supported as my author is by so great a precedent, I contend that his hero is a very decent hero, and especially as he has the advantage of Milton's, by reforming, at the end, is evidently ent.i.tled to a competent share of celebrity.