Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets Part 125

2 On a sudden shrilly sounding, Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; Then each heart with fear confounding, A sad troop of ghosts appeared, All in dreary hammocks shrouded, Which for winding-sheets they wore, And with looks by sorrow clouded, Frowning on that hostile sh.o.r.e.

3 On them gleamed the moon's wan l.u.s.tre, When the shade of Hosier brave His pale bands was seen to muster, Rising from their watery grave: O'er the glimmering wave he hied him, Where the Burford[1] reared her sail, With three thousand ghosts beside him, And in groans did Vernon hail:

4 'Heed, O heed, our fatal story, I am Hosier's injured ghost, You, who now have purchased glory At this place where I was lost; Though in Porto-Bello's ruin You now triumph free from fears, When you think on our undoing, You will mix your joy with tears.

5 'See these mournful spectres, sweeping Ghastly o'er this hated wave, Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping; These were English captains brave: Mark those numbers pale and horrid, Those were once my sailors bold, Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead, While his dismal tale is told.

6 'I, by twenty sail attended, Did this Spanish town affright: Nothing then its wealth defended But my orders not to fight: Oh! that in this rolling ocean I had cast them with disdain, And obeyed my heart's warm motion, To have quelled the pride of Spain.

7 'For resistance I could fear none, But with twenty s.h.i.+ps had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast achieved with six alone.

Then the Bastimentos never Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver Of this gallant train had been.

8 'Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying, And her galleons leading home, Though condemned for disobeying, I had met a traitor's doom; To have fallen, my country crying, He has played an English part, Had been better far than dying Of a grieved and broken heart.

9 'Unrepining at thy glory, Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story, And let Hosier's wrongs prevail.

Sent in this foul clime to languish, Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish, Not in glorious battle slain.

10 'Hence, with all my train attending From their oozy tombs below, Through the h.o.a.ry foam ascending, Here I feed my constant woe: Here the Bastimentos viewing, We recall our shameful doom, And our plaintive cries renewing, Wander through the midnight gloom.

11 'O'er these waves for ever mourning Shall we roam deprived of rest, If to Britain's sh.o.r.es returning, You neglect my just request.

After this proud foe subduing, When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin, And for England shamed in me.'

[1] 'The Burford:' Admiral Vernon's s.h.i.+p.

WILLIAM WHITEHEAD.

There was also a Paul Whitehead, who wrote a satire ent.i.tled 'Manners,'

which is highly praised by Boswell, and mentioned contemptuously by Campbell, and who lives in the couplet of Churchill--

'May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?) Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul.'

William Whitehead was the son of a baker in Cambridge, was born in 1715, and studied first at Winchester, and then in Clare Hall, in his own city. He became tutor to the son of the Earl of Jersey, wrote one or two poor plays, and in 1757, on the death of Colley Cibber, was appointed Poet-Laureate--the office having previously been refused by Gray. This roused against him a large cla.s.s of those 'beings capable of envying even a poet-laureate,' to use Gray's expression, and especially the wrath of Churchill, then the man-mountain of satiric literature, who, in his 'Ghost,' says--

'But he who in the laureate chair, By grace, not merit, planted there, In awkward pomp is seen to sit, And by his patent proves his wit,' &c.

To these attacks Whitehead, who was a good-natured and modest man, made no reply. In his latter years the Laureate resided in the family of Lord Jersey, and died in 1785. His poem called 'Variety' is light and pleasant, and deserves a niche in our 'Specimens.'

VARIETY.

A TALE FOR MARRIED PEOPLE.

A gentle maid, of rural breeding, By Nature first, and then by reading, Was filled with all those soft sensations Which we restrain in near relations, Lest future husbands should be jealous, And think their wives too fond of fellows.

The morning sun beheld her rove A nymph, or G.o.ddess of the grove!

At eve she paced the dewy lawn, And called each clown she saw, a faun!

Then, scudding homeward, locked her door, And turned some copious volume o'er.

For much she read; and chiefly those Great authors, who in verse, or prose, Or something betwixt both, unwind The secret springs which move the mind.

These much she read; and thought she knew The human heart's minutest clue; Yet shrewd observers still declare, (To show how shrewd observers are,) Though plays, which breathed heroic flame, And novels, in profusion, came, Imported fresh-and-fresh from France, She only read the heart's romance.

The world, no doubt, was well enough To smooth the manners of the rough; Might please the giddy and the vain, Those tinselled slaves of folly's train: But, for her part, the truest taste She found was in retirement placed, Where, as in verse it sweetly flows, 'On every thorn instruction grows.'

Not that she wished to 'be alone,'

As some affected prudes have done; She knew it was decreed on high We should 'increase and multiply;'

And therefore, if kind Fate would grant Her fondest wish, her only want, A cottage with the man she loved Was what her gentle heart approved; In some delightful solitude Where step profane might ne'er intrude; But Hymen guard the sacred ground, And virtuous Cupids hover round.

Not such as flutter on a fan Round Crete's vile bull, or Leda's swan, (Who scatter myrtles, scatter roses, And hold their fingers to their noses,) But simpering, mild, and innocent, As angels on a monument.

Fate heard her prayer: a lover came, Who felt, like her, the innoxious flame; One who had trod, as well as she, The flowery paths of poesy; Had warmed himself with Milton's heat, Could every line of Pope repeat, Or chant in Shenstone's tender strains, 'The lover's hopes,' 'the lover's pains.'

Attentive to the charmer's tongue, With him she thought no evening long; With him she sauntered half the day; And sometimes, in a laughing way, Ran o'er the catalogue by rote Of who might marry, and who not; 'Consider, sir, we're near relations--'

'I hope so in our inclinations.'-- In short, she looked, she blushed consent; He grasped her hand, to church they went; And every matron that was there, With tongue so voluble and supple, Said for her part, she must declare, She never saw a finer couple.

halcyon days! 'Twas Nature's reign, 'Twas Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain, The fields a.s.sumed unusual bloom, And every zephyr breathed perfume, The laughing sun with genial beams Danced lightly on the exulting streams; And the pale regent of the night In dewy softness shed delight.

'Twas transport not to be expressed; 'Twas Paradise!--But mark the rest.

Two smiling springs had waked the flowers That paint the meads, or fringe the bowers, (Ye lovers, lend your wondering ears, Who count by months, and not by years,) Two smiling springs had chaplets wove To crown their solitude, and love: When lo, they find, they can't tell how, Their walks are not so pleasant now.

The seasons sure were changed; the place Had, somehow, got a different face.

Some blast had struck the cheerful scene; The lawns, the woods, were not so green.

The purling rill, which murmured by, And once was liquid harmony, Became a sluggish, reedy pool: The days grew hot, the evenings cool.

The moon, with all the starry reign, Were melancholy's silent train.

And then the tedious winter night-- They could not read by candle-light.

Full oft, unknowing why they did, They called in advent.i.tious aid.

A faithful, favourite dog ('twas thus With Tobit and Telemachus) Amused their steps; and for a while They viewed his gambols with a smile.

The kitten too was comical, She played so oddly with her tail, Or in the gla.s.s was pleased to find Another cat, and peeped behind.

A courteous neighbour at the door Was deemed intrusive noise no more.

For rural visits, now and then, Are right, as men must live with men.

Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town,

A new recruit, a dear delight!

Made many a heavy hour go down, At morn, at noon, at eve, at night: Sure they could hear her jokes for ever, She was so sprightly, and so clever!

Yet neighbours were not quite the thing; What joy, alas! could converse bring With awkward creatures bred at home?-- The dog grew dull, or troublesome.

The cat had spoiled the kitten's merit, And, with her youth, had lost her spirit.

And jokes repeated o'er and o'er, Had quite exhausted Jenny's store.

--'And then, my dear, I can't abide This always sauntering side by side.'

'Enough!' he cries, 'the reason's plain: For causes never rack your brain.

Our neighbours are like other folks, Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes, Are still delightful, still would please, Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease.

Look round, with an impartial eye, On yonder fields, on yonder sky; The azure cope, the flowers below, With all their wonted colours glow.

The rill still murmurs; and the moon s.h.i.+nes, as she did, a softer sun.

No change has made the seasons fail, No comet brushed us with his tail.

The scene's the same, the same the weather-- We live, my dear, too much together.'

Agreed. A rich old uncle dies, And added wealth the means supplies.