To find depravity so foul,
Or that, beneath such beauteous plumes,
A debauchée's corrupted soul,
The pagan manners of a Turk,
And tongue of infidel, should lurk.
In short his old conductress bore
The banished culprit to the port;
But in returning, as before,
He never bit our sister for 't;
For joyfully he left the shore,
And in a tilt-boat home return'd,
Where Nevers' nuns his absence mourn'd.
Such was the Iliad of his woes!.
But, ah! what unexpected mourning,
What clamour and despair arose,
When, to his former friends returning,
He shock'd them with a repetition
Of his late verbal acquisition!
What could th' afflicted sisters do?
With eyes in tears, and hearts in trouble,
Nine venerable nuns, for woe
Each in a veil funereal double,
Into the seat of judgment go,
Who, in their wrinkled fronts, resembled
Nine Ages in a court assembled.
There without hopes of happy ending,
Depriv'd of all to plead his cause
On whom there was the least depending,
Poor Ver-Vert sate, unskill'd in laws,
Chain'd to his cage, in open court,
And stripp'd of glory and support.
To condemnation they proceed:
Two Sibyls sentence him to bleed;
'Twas voted by two sisters more,
Not so religiously inhuman,
To send him to that Indian shore,
Unknown to any Christian woman,
That conscience might his bosom gore,
And yield him up a prey to death,
Where first, with Brachinen, he drew breath.
But the five others all according
In lesser punishments awarding,
For penance, two long months conclude
That he should pass in abstinence,
Three more in dismal solitude,
And four in speechless penitence;
During which season they preclude
Biscuits and fruits, the toilette's treasures,
Alcoves and walks, those convent-pleasures.
Nor was this all; for, to complete
His miserable situation,
They gave him, in his sad retreat,
For gaoler, guard, and conversation,
A stale lay-sister, or much rather
An old veil'd ape, all skin and bone,
Or, cover'd o'er with wrinkled leather,
A walking female skeleton,
An object proper to fall'n glory,
To cry aloud, memento mori.
Spite of this dragon's watchful soul,
The younger nuns would often go,
With looks of pity to condole;
Which e'en in exile soften'd woe.
Nay some, from morning prayers returning,
With nuts and candied almonds came;
But to a wretch in prison mourning
Weeds and ambrosia were the same.
Taught by misfortune's sound tuition,
Cloth'd with disgrace, and stung with pain,
Or sick of that old scare-crow vision,
The bird became in pure contrition
Acquainted with himself again:
Forgetting his belov'd dragoons,
And quite according with the nuns
In one continued unison
Of air, of manners, and of tone;
No sleek prebendal priest could be
More thoroughly devout than he.
When this conversion was related,
The grey divan at once awarded
His banishment should be abated,
And farther vengeance quite discarded.
There the blest day of his recall
Is annually a festival,
Whose silken moments, white and even,
Spun by the hands of smiling Love,
Whilst all th' attendant Fates approve,
To soft delights are ever given.
How short's the date of human pleasure! How faise of happiness the measure!
The dormitory, strew'd with flowers,
Short prayer, rejoicing, song, and feast,
Sweet tumult, freedom, thoughtless hours,
Their amiable zeal express'd,
And not a single sign of sorrow
The woes predicted of to morrow.
But, O! what favours misapplied
Our holy sisterhood bestow'd!
From abstinence's shallow tide
Into a stream that overflow'd
With sweets, so long debarr'd from tasting,
Poor Ver-Vert too abruptly hasting
(His skin with sugar being wadded,
With liquid fires his entrails burn'd,)
Beheld at once his roses faded,
And to funereal cypress turn'd.
The nuns endeavour'd, but in vain,
His fleeting spirit to detain;
But sweet excess had hasten'd fate;
And, whilst around the fair-ones cry'd,
Of love a victim fortunate
In pleasure's downy breast he died.
His dying words their bosoms fir'd,
And will for ever be admir'd.
Venus, herself his eye-lids clos'd,
And in Elysium plac'd his shade,
Where hero parrots safe repos'd
In almond-groves that never fade,
Near him, whose fate and fluent tongue,
Corinna's lover wept and sung.
What tongue sufficiently can tell
How much bemoan'd our hero fel!!
The nun, whose office 'twas, invited
The bearers to the illustrious dead;
And letters circular indited,
In which this mournful tale I read,
But, to transmit his image down
To generations yet unknown,
A painter, who each beauty knew,
His portraiture from nature drew;
And many a hand, guided by Love,
O'er the stretch'd sampler's canvass plain,
In broidery's various colours strove
To raise his form to life again;
Whilst Grief, t' assist each artist, came
And painted tears around the frame.
All rites funereal they bestow'd,
Which erst to birds of high renown
The band of Helicon allow'd,
When from the body life was flown.
Beneath a verdant myrtle's shade,
Which o'er the mausoleum spread,
A small sarcophagus was laid,
To keep the ashes of the dead.
On porphyry grav'd in characters
Of gold, with sculptur'd garlands grac'd,
These lines, exciting Pity's tears,
Our convent Artemisias plac'd.
"Ye novice nuns, who to this grove repair,
To chat by stealth, unaw'd by Age's frown;
Your tongues one moment, if you can, forbear,
Till the sad tale of our affliction's known.
If' tis too much that organ to restrain,
Use it to speak what anguish death imparts:
One line this cause for sorrow will explain; Here Ver-Vert lies; and here lie all our hearts."
'Tis said however (to pursue
My story but a word or two)
The soul of Ver-Vert is not pent
Within th' aforesaid monument,
But, by permission of the Fates,
Some holy sister animates;
And wll, in transmigration, run
From time to time, from nun to nun,
Transmitting to all ages hence
In them his deathless eloquence,
THE ESTIMATE OF LIFE,
IN THREE PARTS.
PART I.
MELPOMENE; OR, THE MELANCHOLY.
Reason thus with life;
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing,
That none but fools would weep.
Shaksp. Meas, for Meas.
OFFSPRING of folly and of noise,
Fantastic train of airy joys,
Cease, cease your vain delusive lore,
And tempt my serious thoughts no more,
Ye horrid forms, ye gloomy throng,
Who hear the bird of midnight's song,
Thou too, Despair, pale spectre, come,
From the self-murd'rer's haunted tomb,
While sad Melpomene relates,
How we're afflicted by the fates.
What's all this wish'd-for empire, life?
A scene of mis'ry, care, and strife;
And make the most, that 's all we have
Betwixt the cradle and the grave,
The being is not worth the charge:
Behold the estimate at large.
Our youth is silly, idle, vain;
Our age is full of care and pain;
From wealth accrues anxiety;
Contempt and want from poverty;
What trouble business has in store!
How idleness fatigues us more;
To reason, th' ignorant are blind;
The learned's eyes are too refin'd;
Each wit deems every wit his foe,
Each fool is naturally so;
And every rank and every station
Meet justly with disapprobation.
Say, man, is this the boasted state,
Where all is pleasant, all is great?
Alas! another face you 'll see,
Take off the veil of vanity.
Is aught in pleasure, aught in pow'r,
Has wisdom any gift in store,
To make thee stay a single hour?
Tell me, ye youthful, who approve
Th' intoxicating sweets of love,
What endless nameless throbs arise,
What heart-felt anguish and what sighs,
When jealousy has gnaw'd the root,
Whence love's united branches shoot?
Or grant that Hymen lights his torch,
To lead you to the nuptial porch,
Behold! the long'd-for rapture o'er!
Desire begins to lose its pow'r,
Then cold indifference takes place,
Fruition alters quite the case;
And what before was ecstasy,
Is scarcely now civility.
Your children bring a second care;
If childless then you want an heir;
So that in both alike you find
The same perplexity of mind.
Do pow'r or wealth more comfort own?
Behold yon pageant on a throne,
Where silken swarms of flattery
Obsequious wait his asking eye.
But view within his tortur'd breast,
No more the downy seat of rest,
Suspicion casts her poison'd dart,
And guilt, that scorpion, stings his heart.
Will knowledge give us happiness?
In that, alas! we know there's less,
For every pang of mental woe
Springs from the faculty to know,
Hark! at the death-betok'ning knell
Of yonder doleful passing-bell,
Perhaps a friend, a father's dead,
Or the lov'd partner of thy bed!
Perhaps thy only son lies there,
Breathless upon the sable bier!
Say, what can ease the present grief,
Can former joys afford relief?
Those former joys remember'd still,'
The more augment the recent ill,
And where you seek for comfort, gain
Additional increase of pain.
What woes from mortal ills accrue!
And what from natural ensue!
Disease and casualty attend
Our footsteps to the journey's end;
The cold catarrh, the gout and stone,
The dropsy, jaundice, join'd in one,
The raging fever's inward heat,
The pale consumption's fatal sweat,
And thousand more distempers roam,
To drag us to th' eternal home.
And when solution sets us free
From prison of mortality,
The soul dilated joins in air,
To go, alas! we know not where.
And the poor body will become
A clod within a lonely tomb.
Reflection sad! such bodies must
Return, and mingle with the dust!
But neither sense nor beauty have
Defensive charms against the grave,
Nor virtue's shield, nor wisdom's lore,
Nor true religion's sacred pow'r;
For as that charnel's earth you see,
L'en, my Eudocia, you will be.
Care puts an easier aspect on,
CALLIOPE; OR, THE CHEERFUL. Inter cuncta leges, et percunctabere doctos, Qua ratione queas traducere leniter ævum. Hor, lib. i. ep. 18.
GRIM Superstition, hence away
To native night, and leave the day,
Nor let thy hellish brood appear,
Begot on Ignorance and Fear.
Come, gentle Mirth, and Gaiety,
Sweet daughter of Society;
Whilst fair Calliope pursues
Flights worthy of the cheerful Muse.
O life, thou great essential good,
Where every blessing's understood!
Where Plenty, Freedom, Pleasure meet,
To make each fleeting moment sweet;
Where moral Love and Innocence,
The balm of sweet Content dispense;
Where Peace expands her turtle wings,
And Hope a constant requiem sings;
With easy thought my breast inspire,
To thee I tune the sprightly lyre.
From Heav'n this emanation flows,
To Heav'n again the wand'rer goes:
And whilst employ'd beneath on Earth,
Its boon attendants, Ease and Mirth,
Join'd with the social Virtues three,
And their calm parent Charity,
Conduct it to the sacred plains
Where happiness terrestrial reigns.
"Tis Discontent alone destroys
The harvest of our ripening joys;
Resolve to be exempt from woe,
Your resolution keeps you so.
Whate'er is needful man receives,
Nay more superfluous Nature gives,
Indulgent parent, source of bliss,
Profuse of goodness to excess!
For thee 'tis, man, the Zephyr blows,
For thee the purple vintage flows,
Each flow'r its various hue displays,
The lark exalts her vernal lays,
To view yon azure vault is thine,
And my Eudocia's form divine.
Hark! how the renovating Spring
Invites the feather'd choir to sing,
Spontaneous mirth and rapture glow
On every shrub, and every bough;
Their little airs a lesson give,
They teach us mortals how to live,
And well advise us, whilst we can,
To spend in joy the vital span.
Ye gay and youthful, all advance
Together knit in festive dance,
See blooming Hebe leads the way,
For youth is Nature's holiday.
If dire Misfortune should employ
Her dart to wound the timely joy,
Solicit Bacchus with your pray'r,
No earthly goblin dares come near,
Pale Anger smooths her threat'ning frown,
Mirth comes in Melancholy's stead,
And Discontent conceals her head.
The thoughts on vagrant pinions fly,
And mount exulting to the sky;
Thence with enraptur'd views look down
On golden empires all their own.
Or let, when Fancy spreads her sails,
Love waft you on with easier gales,
Where in the soul-bewitching groves,
Euphrosyne, sweet goddess, roves;
"Tis rapture all, 'tis ecstacy!
An earthly immortality!
This all the ancient bards employ'd,
'Twas all the ancient gods enjoy'd,
Who often from the realms above
Came down on Earth t' indulge in love,
Still there's one greater bliss in store,
'Tis virtuous Friendship's social hour,
When goodness from the heart sincere
Pours forth Compassion's balmy tear,
For from those tears such transports flow,
As none but friends and angels know.
Bless'd state! where every thing conspires
To fill the breast with heav'nly tires!
Where for a while the soul must roam,
To preconceive the state to come,
And when through life the journey's past,
Without repining or distaste,
Again the spirit will repair,
To breathe a more celestial air,
And reap, where blessed beings glow,
Completion of the joys below.
TERPSICHORE; OR, THE MODERATE. διδε δ' αγαθόν τε κακόν τε
Hæc satis est orare Jovem, qui donat et aufert; Det vitam, det opes; æquum mi animum ipse parabo.
DESCEND, Astræa, from above,
Where Jove's celestial daughters rove,
And deign once more to bring with thee
Thy earth-deserting family,
Calm Temperance, and Patience mild,
Sweet Contemplation's heavenly child,
Reflection firm, and Fancy free,
Religion pure, and Probity,
Whilst all the Heliconian throng
Shall join Terpsichore in song.
Ere man, great Reason's lord, was made,
Or the world's first foundations laid,
As high in their divine abode,
Consulting sat the mighty gods,
Jove on the chaos looking down,
Spoke thus from his imperial throne:
"Ye deities and potentates,
Aerial pow'rs, and heav'nly states,
Lo, in that gloomy place below,
Where darkuess reigns and discord now,
There a new world shall grace the skies,
And a new creature form'd arise,
Who shall partake of our perfections,
And live and act by our directions,
(For the chief bliss of any station
Is nought without communication)
Let therefore every godhead give
What this new being should receives
But care important must be had,
To mingle well of good and bad,
That, by th' allaying mixture, he
May not approach to deity."
The sovereign spake, the gods agree,
And each began in his degree:
Behind the throne of Jove there stood
Two vessels of celestial wood,
Containing just two equal measures;
One fill'd with pain, and one with pleasures;
The gods drew out from both of these,
And mix'd 'em with their essences,
(Which essences are heav'nly still,
When undisturb'd by nat'ral ill,
And man to moral good is prone,
Let but the moral pow'rs alone,
And not pervert 'em by tuition,
Or conjure 'em by superstition)
Hence man partakes an equal share
Of pleasing thoughts and gloomy care,
And Pain and Pleasure e'er shall be,
As Plato' says, in company.
Receive the one, and soon the other
Will follow to rejoin his brother.
Those who with pious pain pursue
Calm Virtue by her sacred clue,
Will surely find the mental treasure
Of Virtue, only real pleasure:
Follow the pleasurable road,
That fatal Siren reckons good,
Twill lead thee to the gloomy cell,
Where Pain and Melancholy dwell.
Health is the child of Abstinence,
Disease, of a luxurious sense;
Despair, that hellish fiend, proceeds
From loosen'd thoughts, and impious deeds;
And the sweet offspring of Content,
Flows from the mind's calm government.
Thus, man, thy state is free from woe,
If thou would'st choose to make it so.
Murmur not then at Heaven's decree,
The gods have given thee liberty,
And plac'd within thy conscious breast,
Reason, as an unerring test,
And shouldst thou fix on misery,
The fault is not in them, but thee.
IN THE CHANCEL OF ST. MARGARET'S CHURCH,
LEICESTER.
Hic jacet
Quod mori potuit
HENRICI GILBERTI COOPER
Infantis desideratissimi
Filii natu maximi
JOHANNIS GILBERTI COOPER
De Thurgaton, in agro Nottinghamiensi,
EX SUSANNÆ, uxoris ejus:
Natus 25 Julii, denatus 26, 1749.
Atavis esset editus antiquis:
Nulla alia in re claruit,
Nec potuit:
Flosculus enim in ipsa quoque dulcis ætatula,
Prima gemma pullulaturus,
Parcarum heu parcere nesciarum
Fatali aflatu contactus
Exaruit.
Mæstus itaque et mærens pater
Charissimi infantuli sui memoria
Hoc etsi inane munus
Amoris monumentum
Collocavit.
TRANSLATION.
Beneath doth lie
OF HENRY GILBERT COOPER
All that could die:
The prettiest, sweetest, dearest babe
That ever dropt into a grave,
This lovely boy,
His dad's first joy,
Was son of 'Squire JOHN,
And SUE his wife, who led their life,
At town call'd Thurgaton.
Descended from an ancient line,
This charming child began to shine
The 25th of July:
And that was all that he could boast:
For suddenly his life was lost
The 26th, good truly!
This floweret pretty, though young yet witty,
Just opening from the bud,
A blighting blast from angry Fate,
Who knows not how to spare the great,
Nipp'd up his vital blood:
The sorrowing father cry'd, and said,
"Alas! my only child is dead!
His memory I'll adore:
Though vain, a monument I'll raise,
To show my love, and sound his praise,
Till time shall be no more."
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