Cheerful yet pensive; while the minstrels come
With merry sounds to cheer the Burgher's home.
Now rouse the warrior's soul; now in the lute
With thy fine touch the lover's ear salute.
A ballet at the Opera it seems
Is what a poet fancies when he dreams :
Oh what a world of poesy is there!
What delicate spirits people earth and air!
Angels of light, too fine for Man's embrace-
They are, if Angels, then a fallen race.
What are these beings of ethereal mould
By whom the "Muses' tales are truly told?"
Young Claudius knows, whose heart such beauty warms, That these all-glorious sprites have venal charms.
But Freedom here can show a nobler prize
Than loveliest nymph, if Claudius will be wise;
Fortune and birth, be he but blest with sense,
Will give him more than labour'd eloquence!
What though deficient he in Grattan's fire,
Canning's fine irony, Grey's noble ire,
Let him but heed the People's genuine voice,
Their boundless love will make his heart rejoice
Soon will he thank his God that gratitude
Can warm a peasant's heart, however rude!
Smiles that light up fair woman's face impart
Joy to the senses, sunshine to the heart:
While gay good humour laughs from Clara's eyes,
Her brow is more serene than summer skies:
A wit offends, soon anger in her frown,
Like thunder sleeping in a cloud, is shown:
Hapless the wight on whom it chance to burst;
What devil than a scold is more accurst?
Metella, Fashion's most prevailing star,
Brilliant as Venus rising in her car ;
Metella (scorn sits lovely on her lips)
Frowns, can another's radiance her's eclipse?
A purse-proud rival, not in loveliness
Dares to surpass her, but in wealth's excess.
Shall then the Day-God's flower that flaunting shows
Its yellow hue, raise envy in the rose?
Oh, no! Metella's splendour far outshines
Her rival's grandeur, were she queen of mines.
Taste, birth's obedient fairy, waves her wand
Through her saloon-Gold cannot taste command.
Turn we from scenes like these; and long and loud
The Preacher's voice is heard above the crowd,
Denouncing all those vanities that late
Gladden'd our spirits: these awhile we hate,
Though Saints far more attractive to the eye
Than Guido's fair Madonnas near us sigh.
One act of real virtue bears the impress
Of Deity upon it, nothing less,
Outlasting all the glittering gauds that Pride
Delights the fool with, aye, the wise beside.
So says the Preacher: trembling, we believe
His words, but still again ourselves deceive;
Still to the world return, with zest increased,
Like parting coursers in the field released.
Though timid Cocknies scorn (a nerveless race)
That life of life, the madness of the chase,
The draw, the find, the soul-exciting burst,
The burning emulation to be first;
These are delights-but sports must lose their zest,
When days are blank, and spirits are deprest.
Lucilius, burden'd with superfluous coin,
Pants the kind sharers in his wealth to join,
Where Crockford's palace glares upon his eyes,
As a proud harlot sense of shame defies.
How true the proverb, "Cobwebs that enfold
The less, on greater reptiles loose their hold."
Wondering that men can thus their money lose;
Sons of vertù, a better part you choose.
Some book, it matters not in prose or rhyme,
You buy, we'll call it "Pleasure's rare Passe-tyme;"
Or drag some dusty picture to the day,—
Cheap, if you have five hundred pounds to pay :
The picture, you remove the sacred dust,
Had better in its former station rust ;-
The book—how vast your agony of grief-
More precious than the Sibyl's, wants a leaf!
Tullius, whose well-stored library's a hive
Of sweets the varied flowers of genius give,
Is but a drone: from book to book he flies,
Tastes all, contributes nothing,-useless dies.
Where to support the poor, Bazaars are graced
With high-born dames behind the counter placed,
Fair Seraphina studiously displays
Her pretty wares for charity, or praise.
Works finish'd by her lovely hands attract
Attention-here a novel, there a tract:
These works her varied inclinations paint;
The Fair, as fashion wills, is blue, or saint!
This sickly feeling, that can never thrive,
Unless by Pleasure's aid 'tis kept alive-
Call you this Charity that He approves
Who knows the spring that every action moves?
This charity, that's borne, as Angels sing,
To God's eternal mount, on Seraph's wing?
Though Nature in her noblest mood has made
Sydney in camps, and Howard in the shade,
(Moral phenomena! more rare, I fear,
Than an Iago or Sir Giles are here)
Benevolence, pure element of good,
Is dash'd with grosser matter in our blood.
Orfellus gives you feasts, to glut his pride;
You ask a loan of him, he turns aside.
While Bavius prates of friendship in his verse,
Yet from the dearest friend withholds his purse.
The generous man-he whom the world commends-
Fills high the sparkling wine-cup for his friends;
And yet this hospitable reveller lives
For self-for self alone his banquet gives.
What though this Pharisee exalts his horn
On high, and views a brother's woes with scorn;
When placed before the judgment seat of Heaven,
The scorner may be lost, the scorn'd forgiven!
Fame cries that Appius, generous wight, but lives
To bless his neighbour: all he has he gives.
Though in subscriptions be his name enroll'd,
His virtue glitters-'tis not sterling gold:
prayer of those he has relieved by stealth Consecrates alms that trumpet forth his wealth.
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