As intended to have been Spoken before the Dramatic Entertainment of "Not at Home," by R. C. Dallas, Esq. WRITTEN BY WALLER RODWELL WRIGHT, ESQ *.
OUR Author, anxious for your approbation,
Has sent me here by way of preparation;
But undetermined still what means to use,
To recommend this bantling of his Muse:
From thought to thought with double haste he rov'd,
As fancy led or judgment disapproved ;
I could not bear to see him thus perplex'd,
So cried, "I'll take your title for my text."
At home, or not at home-Oh! tis a theme
As vast as Folly's never-failing stream.
Why, Not at home's the vice of modern days,
Which every age, and sex, and rank displays;
And Coxcombs, from the 'Prentice to the Peer,
Disdain the limits of their proper sphere.-
Observe my Lord-the copy of his groom-
In all the scenes of vulgar life at home;
At home to all the Puligistic train,
Lord of the ring and hero of the rein:
But not at home when tradesmen would be paid,
Or worth and genius supplicate his aid;
And least at home, Oh! mean and groveling mind!
In that high station which his birth assigned.
*Author of the Poem entitled HORA IONICE.
In those dull moments when ennui prevails,
And beaux forget to call, and scandal fails,
What dame of fashion e'er can condescend
At home the solitary hours to spend ?
At home! Oh monstrous! is there then no way
To kill the languor of the irksome day?
Call my barouche! I'll drive to Lady Bloom:
Our mutual watchword still is-Not at home:"
And Mrs. Shuttle, odious, rustic creature!
Whose suppers we endure from mere good nature.
Brisk at his post, and practised in reply,
The powdered footman tells the ready lie;
Not so the simple lad just come to town,
Scarce half a coxcomb, more than half a clown,
With awkward shame he turns his head away,
And blushing stammers-Not at home to-day.
To Bond Street next to cheapen fans and laces,
Or buy at Overton's the Loves and Graces.
These follies drive away the morning spleen;
Rout, Opera, Concert close the evening scene.
Thus having trod the giddy circle o'er,
Till fashion palls, and folly charms no more,
Listless and tir'd, at length she condescends
To pass one night at home-but sees her friends.
Forth fly a thousand cards, and each conveys
Her summons, couch'd in true laconic phrase;
Her Ladyship at home.-Well! view her there:
Order your coach at ten to Berkeley square;
Along the crowded staircase force your way,
Where costly flowers their mingled sweets display:
Approach the long saloon where, blazing bright,
Rich chandeliers refract the varied light.
Her sofa deck'd with oriental pride,
All Egypt's monsters grinning at her side,
Midst shapeless mockeries of Greece and Rome,
In tawdry pomp-my lady is at home.
While these gay scenes her restless thoughts employ,
She scarcely feels a transient gleam of joy;
With vacant eye reviews the splendid dome,
And sighs that Happiness is not at home.
Not such their HOME whom Love has taught to know From that blest source what real transports flow. HOME! 'tis the name of all that sweetens life;
It speaks the warm affection of a wife,
The lisping babe that prattles on the knee
In all the playful grace of infancy,
The spot where fond parental love may trace
The growing virtues of a blooming race:
Oh! 'tis a word of more than magic spell,
Whose sacred power the wanderer best can tell ;
He who, long distant from his native land,
Feels at her name his eager soul expand:
Whether as Patriot, Husband, Father, Friend,
To that dear point his thoughts, his wishes bend;
And still he owns, where'er his footsteps roam,
Life's choicest blessings center all-at home.
EPIGRAM 78, B. VIII.
"THE simple truth I wish to hear,
Nothing so grateful to my ear!"
This, when your speeches you rehearse,
Or long essays in prose and verse,
Is still to me your constant cry,
And 'twere unfriendly to deny.
Come then-But simple truth, I fear,
Will not be grateful to your ear,
THE deep'ning shades o'erspread the golden west,
The mottled clouds sweep on before the breeze,
Rude Labour leaves his weary sons to rest,
And sea-like murmurs sound among the trees.
The muffled owl sails by on silent wing,
The downy moth pursues his dusky way,
Light-crested gnats their busy carols sing,
And closing flow'rets mourn departing day.
Soft dews descending bathe the thirsty ground,
A mingled fragrance cheers the pensive night,
Dim rising vapours slowly roll around,
And wand'ring glow-worms shed their emerald light,
Now breathe the high romantic love-lorn tale,
And mix ideal scenes of fairy bliss;
Let airy harps from every passing gale
Steal heav'nly notes with soft enchanting kiss.
The mingled charm shall cheat my ardent soul;
And, gleaming through the dim fantastic light,
Bright shadowy forms around my head shall roll,
And golden visions bless my ravish'd sight,
PARODY UPON GRAY'S CELEBRATED ODE
BY THE HON. THOMAS ERSKINE.
A Fragment of a Pindaric Ode, from an old Manuscript in the Museum, which Mr. GRAY certainly had in his Eye when he wrote his "BARD."
RUIN seize thee, scoundrel Coe!
Confusion on thy frizzing wait;
Hadst thou the only comb below,
Thou never more shouldst touch my pate.
Club nor queue, nor twisted tail,
Nor c'en thy chatt'ring, barber! shall avail
To save thy horse-whipp'd back from daily fears;
From Cantab's curse, from Cantab's tears!'
Such were the sounds that o'er the powder'd pride
Of Coe the Barber scatter'd wild dismay,
As down the steep of Jackson's slippery lane
He wound with puffing march his toilsome tardy, way.
This Parody was written at Trinity College, Cambridge, near two and forty years ago; and arose from the circumstance of the Author's Barber coming too late to dress him at his lodgings, at the shop of Mr. Jackson, an apothecary at Cambridge, where he lodged, till a vacancy in the College, by which he lost his dinner in the Hall: when, in imitation of the despairing Bard, who prophecied the destruction of King Edward's race, he poured forth his curses upon the whole race of Barbers, predicting their ruin in the simplicity of a future generation,
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