The Works of Charles and Mary Lamb Volume V Part 45

33 And look where mantled up in white He sleds it, like the Muscovite.

I know him by the port he bears, And his lifeguard of mountaineers.

34 Their caps are furr'd with h.o.a.ry frosts, The bravery their cold kingdom boasts; Their spungy plads are milk-white frieze, Spun from the snowy mountain's fleece.

35 Their partizans are fine carv'd gla.s.s, Fring'd with the morning's spangled gra.s.s; And pendant by their brawny thighs Hang cimetars of burnish'd ice.

38 Fly, fly, the foe advances fast, Into our fortress let us haste, Where all the roarers of the north Can neither storm, nor starve, us forth.

39 There under ground a magazine Of sovran juice is cellar'd in, Liquor that will the siege maintain, Should Phoebus ne'er return again.

40 'Tis that, that gives the poet rage, And thaws the gelly'd blood of age, Matures the young, restores the old, And makes the fainting coward bold.

41 It lays the careful head to rest, Calms palpitations in the breast, Renders our live's misfortunes sweet, And Venus frolic in the sheet.

42 Then let the chill Scirocco blow, And gird us round with hills of snow, Or else go whistle to the sh.o.r.e, And make the hollow mountains roar.

43 Whilst we together jovial sit, Careless, and crown'd with mirth and wit, Where tho' bleak winds confine us home, Our fancies thro' the world shall roam.

44 We'll think of all the friends we know, And drink to all, worth drinking to; When, having drunk all thine and mine, We rather shall want health than wine!

45 But, where friends fail us, we'll supply Our friends.h.i.+ps with our Charity.

Men that remote in sorrows live, Shall by our l.u.s.ty b.u.mpers thrive.

46 We'll drink the wanting into wealth, And those that languish into health, Th' afflicted into joy, th' opprest Into security & rest.

47 The worthy in disgrace shall find Favour return again more kind, And in restraint who stifled lye, Shall taste the air of liberty.

48 The brave shall triumph in success, The lovers shall have mistresses, Poor unregarded virtue praise, And the neglected Poet bays.

49 Thus shall our healths do others good, While we ourselves do all we wou'd, For freed from envy, and from care, What would we be, but what we are?

50 'Tis the plump Grape's immortal juice, That does this happiness produce, And will preserve us free together, Maugre mischance, or wind, & weather.

51 Then let old winter take his course, And roar abroad till he be hoa.r.s.e, And his lungs crack with ruthless ire, It shall but serve to blow our fire.

52 Let him our little castle ply With all his loud artillery, Whilst sack and claret man the fort, His fury shall become our sport.

53 Or let him Scotland take, and there Confine the plotting Presbyter; His zeal may freeze, whilst we kept warm With love and wine can know no harm.

[Footnote 1: The winds.]

How could Burns miss the series of lines from 42 to 49?

There is also a long poem from the Latin on the inconveniences of old age. I can't set down the whole, tho' right worthy, having dedicated the remainder of my sheet to something else. I just excerp here and there, to convince you, if after this you need it, that Cotton was a first rate. Tis old Callus speaks of himself, once the delight of the Ladies and Gallants of Rome:--

The beauty of my shape & face are fled, And my revolted form bespeaks me dead, For fair, and s.h.i.+ning age, has now put on A bloodless, funeral complexion.

My skin's dry'd up, my nerves unpliant are, And my poor limbs my nails plow up and tear.

My chearful eyes now with a constant spring Of tears bewail their own sad suffering; And those soft lids, that once secured my eye Now rude, and bristled grown, do drooping lie, Bolting mine eyes, as in a gloomy cave, Which there on furies, and grim objects, rave.

'Twould fright the full-blown Gallant to behold The dying object of a man so old.

And can you think, that once a man he was, Of human reason who no portion has.

The letters split, when I consult my book, And every leaf I turn does broader look.

In darkness do I dream I see the light, When light is darkness to my perishd sight.

Is it not hard we may not from men's eyes Cloak and conceal Age's indecencies.

Unseeming spruceness th' old man discommends, And in old men, only to live, offends.

How can I him a living man believe, Whom light, and air, by whom he panteth, grieve; The gentle sleeps, which other mortals ease, Scarce in a winter's night my eyelids seize.

The boys, and girls, deride me now forlorn, And but to call me, Sir, now think it scorn, They jeer my countnance, and my feeble pace, And scoff that nodding head, that awful was.

A song written by Cowper, which in stile is much above his usual, and emulates in n.o.ble plainness any old balad I have seen. Hayley has just published it &c. with a Life. I did not think Cowper _up_ to it:--

SONG ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE

1 Toll for the Brave!

The Brave, that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native sh.o.r.e.--

2 Eight hundred of the Brave, Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side.

3 A Land breeze shook the shrouds, And she was over set; Down went the Royal George, With all her sails complete.

4 Toll for the Brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone: His last sea-fight is fought; His work of glory done.

5 It was not in the battle, No tempest gave the shock; She sprang no fatal leak; She ran upon no rock.

6 His sword was in its sheath; His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down, With twice four hundred men.

7 Weigh the vessel up!

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with the cup The tear that England owes.

8 Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charg'd with England's thunder, And plow the distant main.

9 But Kempenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er; And he, and his eight hundred, Shall plow the wave no more.

In your obscure part of the world, which I take to be Ultima Thule, I thought these verses out of Books which cannot be accessible would not be unwelcome. Having room, I will put in an Epitaph I writ for a _real occasion_, a year or two back.

ON MARY DRUIT WHO DIED AGED 19