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