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Alas! the hopes of man are often vain ! A poison'd cup-and innocence may The sweetest tie that can on earth be
And learn-but all too late to fear and Heart with heart-is broken like the
think. chain That doth the vessel in her haven bind
“ Most women have no characters at all," The unguided vessel leaves the stormy
Says Alex. Pope-but that's a shame
less lie ; Ne'er to return-like her whom thou
And that had not been writ, had he been hast lost.
Had he been pleasant in a woman's Ah, thou may'st seek her all the world
eye ; around !
But could a thing be pleasant in her sight, Thou see'st a human face-'tis not the That, without corsets, could not stand same;
upright? Thou hear’st a human voice'tis not the And hence the little man, so wond'rous
sound That o'er the spirit in its sadness came,
vain, Like soothing calmness o'er the troubled
So very, very anxious for applause, wave;
Attacked, in his artificial strain,
The fair creation all without a causeNo! thou shalt only find her in the grave.
Save Martha Blount, so tender and so
chastePerhaps her lineaments thou still may'st Lord, Martha ! thou hast had a singular
taste ! A semblance of her voice may meet thine ears,
But, like a pointless arrow, Alex.' satire, In one-to thee the flower of human
At random shot, took very small effect, race
Or, like a water-gun, of harmless nature, Whom she has left you in the vale of Which foolish children at the sun eject;
Yet bardlings scarce durst Mount PegaLove's early pledge-to cherish for her sus' back more, sake,
Like Colley Cibber, and Sir Richard And all the endearments of the past to
But in comparison with Swift the Dean, O cherish him ! and may the grace of God Even Alex. seemeth as an angel blameAssist thy pious labours may he be
less, Thy consolation through the thorny road Whose gall’d ambition made him very of this dark world—and oh may thou
mean, and he,
And made him lunatic, and made him And she, by whom he to thy heart was
shameless ; given,
The prince of beastly writers, beastly Al meet at last-three happy souls in
But he, indeed, was nurtur'd by the tinkers.
His unpoetic rhymes for they are such, Chapter XIII.
Display imagination so polluted,
A heart so rotten, that I wonder much WITHOUT the radiance of a woman's eye, His claim for glory was not quite nonTo light his steps each gloomy season suited ; thorough ;
Even old Bocaccio, in his strange disclo. Without a woman's lips that can apply The words of comfort to his heart of of lawless love, ne'er made such vile exsorrow ;
posures. Without a woman's love, which proves a spring
Yet silly women-women sometimes are of endless bliss man were a joyless
Lov'd this foul monster with a true thing.
affection, Yet man, the cruel and unjust receiver And, faith, I wonder how a priest could Of all these gifts, will oftentimes abuse
dare so her
To break the hearts that call'd for his Will oftentimes, though drest in smiles, protection ; deceive her
Alas, poor souls! they suffer'd for their Will oftentimes, with fiend-like hand, follyinfuse her
But these are stories far too melancholy. VOL. 11.
“Peace to the dead !" the voice of Nature But when 'tis mingled well and mixed up cries,
With honey, 'tis not easy to discover, (See Wilson's verses on Miss Smith's Amid its sweetness, that destruction pours decease,)
Its venom there like serpent among “ Even o'er the grave where guilt and
flowers. frailty lies” No! such a monster should not rest in Fear will attempt to ford a swollen stream, peace,
When it is chaff'd and darken'd by When Scott his actions now attempts to
the blast; hallow,
But when the waters clear and placid And fools may imitate, and idiots swallow.
They may adventure, and repent at last, Curs'd be the man that can to love awake
When they into the boiling eddy sink, A woman's heart-and leave that heart
And look in vain, and struggle for the to woe!
brink. That tender friend, who, for his worthless sake,
And few, oh! few have impudence (I mean Would sacrifice each joy she can be. The loveliest works of Heaven—the stow ;
fair and young) Who clings to him, as to the hopes of To ponder on those songs, though all un. heaven
seen, The pious soul-and yet away is driven. That shameless Rochester and Ovid 'Tis better far, though it be little wiser,
sung; To worship woman, as in days of yore They are too naked—but the Moores and The Knights of Chivalry—indeed to prize Sing them to ruin like sweet singing sy
Oh! woman was the latest gift of Heaven,
To cheer of man the solitary lot ! Even mellow Petrarch was a worshipper, If Him we love by whom the gift was But not of brazen things, nor stony given, neither,
"Tis meet that we protect her who Although he paid devotions unto her
doth not, Who was more beautiful, but cold as
Is all unwd
thy of man's noble station, either ;
Deserves oppiobrium-and perhaps damAnd this was silly—though I still must
nation. own it Has given the birth to many a touching
Chapter XIV. sonnel.
Yes, some deserve damnation ! I shall Even he who sung“ Jerusalem Deliver.
The strong assertion by a simple tale, The epicTasso-worshipp'd in affection; A tale of agony, a tale of love, His mind was darken'd, and his heart That, long ago, I heard in Tiviot's vaie, was shiver'd ;
Related by a matron gray and old, That turn'd a bedlam-house of wild Who now is mouldering in her grave-bed distraction,
cold. And this as furious as a burning crater That pours destruction o'er the charms of A widow'd farmer had an only child, nature.
A daughter fair, the treasure of his soul ;
She had the looks that once his cares beThis is too much--to worship things of
She had the voice that could his woes is really wrong, and cannot be ap
condole, plauded ; Although the worshipper, I boldly say,
The looks, the voice of that sweet friend
that lay Deserves a thousand times more to be
Within his bosom-now a clod of clay. lauded Than authors of “ Tom Little," and “ Don Juan,"
Of all the interesting objects seen, Who even the creatures that they love
Or rather felt, in this dark world of ours,
It is a female child-that embryo green would ruin.
Of woman--fairest far of all the flowers Few are dispos'd to drink a poison'd cup, Of vegetable or of mortal birth, Except, perhaps, some disappointed That Heaven hath sent to blossom upon lover,
As in the breast of the half-open'd leaf, He had the form, the speech, and every art,
The early bud eludes the chilling air- That finds acceptance with the female The happy infant feels no human grief,
heart. Beneath the shelter of a parent's care,
No wonder that the farmer's daughter That guardian friend that o'er her com.
own'd fort keeps
The influence of his person and his A match-like Heaven, that slumbers not
speech; nor sleeps.
No wonder that she felt a joy beyond But when the human rose at length dis
The joy that she had ever hoped to plays
reach ; Its summer's blossom exquisitely fair,
Yet he was rich and she had sometimes Ah! who may tell, amid this world's
fear dark ways,
His love for her could scarcely be sincere. What sillain's hand the tender bloom
Such were her thoughts when he was may tear?
absent-butAh! who can tell what poison-pointed
When he was present, in her charmed tongue May blight the flower so innocent and
The words of warm affection easily shut young ?
Her heart against suspicion, and the Oh God! the pulses of a parent's heart
fears With deep anxiety must wildly beat,
That others rais'd-for how could she When he beholds his lovely child impart
believe Those peerless beauties that are doom.
That lips so pleasant spoke but to deceive? ed to meet
Thus in the luxury of love's fair dreams, The public gaze, and to inflame the breast
She walk'd on earth, as she had been of human fiends, in smiles of friendship
in heaven ; drest.
The world a land of cloudless pleasure I know not what the widow'd farmer felt,
seems; When he beheld bis dear and only
And all the scenes where she to him child,
had given A girl of eighteen years—but hearts would The secret hours, were sanctified to her, melt
As holy temples to the worshipper. With pleasure, when the lovely damsel Alas! a woman's heart is ever prone
smiled, And when she spoke, and sung the poet's Is ever apt to disbelieve each one
To trust the being that is fondly dear lay,
That pours the words of caution in her Oh ! many a youthful heart was charm'd
ear ; away.
Alas! but woman to her heart may take, But he the affections of her heart that won,
In her simplicity, a poisonous snake. A boon for which the village young. At length they disappear'dmand none
sters sigh'd, Was Allan Graeme, their landlord's only
What road the loving fugitives pursued; son, Whom in a sportsman's dress she first
The aged father, in his wild dismay, espied,
Like wanderer petrified by lightning,
stood As she sat pondering on a favourite book, Beneath the palms that overhang the
A monument of grief- for she, till now, brook.
Had never brought a cloud upon his brow. He was a stranger in the neighbourhood, They disappear’d,—and why ? Alas! the And little known in any cottage round,
tale, Although his father's splendid mansion With all its fearful truth, must be disstood
clos'd ;Beside the hamlet on a rising ground Why? they had sinn'd-her lovely cheek Eren as a titled mortal, proud and high,
grew pale, O'erlooks the peasants with a scornful eye.
Her spirits droop'd, although they still
repos'd He left the valley in his boyish years ;
Upon young Allan's faith-and thus they But now from schools and colleges re.
To be united by the sacred tie. The rose of youth upon his cheek appears, The fires of youth within his bosom On their arrival at the destin'd spot,
Fatigued and weary at the fall of night,
He gave to her a stupifying draught- Some very clever books are very dullAnd when she wakend with the morn- Is any thing more dull than “ Grandi.
ing's lightAlas! she found not Allan by her side- Even Milton's “ Paradise," though alAnd a bribed villain claim'd her for his bride!
Of noble thoughts--1, after all, must
She rush'd away ; and, in her anguish I'd journey fifty miles, from eve till mor
wild, Procur'd her poison-then return'd to Before I sat me down to read it thorough.
write Her aged father that she was beguild Even William Wordsworth-although That she no more could bear his tender sight
(But Hazlitt is an imp of pigmy race), That she her ruin had not power to stand “ Compar'd with his, that Byron's fiery And that the cup was ready at her hand.
Are but exaggerated common-place ; She drank the cup and died-her father And Walter Scott's are only old wives' laid
fables," Her dear cold relics by her mother's Though ten times better than his own side,
* Round Tables." And quickly follow'd her to that dark shade
Even William Wordsworth, in his long That all our sorrows and our faults can
" Excursion," hide;
Is rather tedious ;-once I read it And Allan still is living-but the hell
through, That burns within him, he alone can tell. And though 'twas rather labour than di.
version, Oh Thou from whom each mortal creature I found sublimity and pathos too ; draws
Yet his simplicity, so simplified, The breath of life, and dies by thy de- Rousd me to laughter when I should cree;
have cried. Thou know'st of every human deed the
Some books upheld as very clever books, cause; And Thou shalt judge each human
Before the “Great Unknown" appear'd soul-with Thee
among us, The injur'd and the injurer I leave
Have gone to snuff-shops and to pastryWho shall their proper destinies receive.
cooks, And now can neither pleasure us nor,
wrong us; Chapter XV.
Even godless Godwin was a novelist, Now, gentle reader, I am somewhat
But now, thank Heaven ! he's gone and
never miss'd. weary ; And this shall be, at present, the last
And yet if William Cowper's words be chapter ;
true, But if it be delightful to the ear, ye
And William Cowper is not prone to Shall soon have more of nonsense, fun,
lying, and rapture ;-
The “Great Unknown" with little joy Yea, I'm resolv'd to write a charming book,
His idle labours all when he is dying ; On which all people may with pleasure For mark-" The law that bids the look.
Is far too just to pass the trifler by.” “ Books are but formal dulness," Thom. son says,
Now he has taught the youth of either And by his “ Liberty” has proved it clearly ;
To trifle time—and this is very wrong; But hold-to pluck one leaflet from his
Go-let them read an author that protects bays,
Their purity, and makes their virtue I would not if I could - I love him
strong ; dearly ;
Then why inwrap them in a world unreal, And he shall live, when I and those I
That makes existence seem itself ideal ?
Are gone, the Lord knows where the
Lord knows wherefore,
I grant that he can very well pourtray
A rock, a wood, a stream, a hill, a dale,
A feast, a fight-and of the olden day, And they my wisdom that have sense to Each strange accoutrement and coat of
reckon, mail ;
May take me for their pilot or their beacon. Bat this indeed's a very useless matter, Though he had powers even to describe
A pilot !-faith, I have not power to them better.
The unsteady rudder of my own small He seldom takes the trouble to infuse
sloop; A moral sentiment into his story ; For passions rouse the billows of the tide, We roam, indeed, through very pleasant And Reason leaves me helpless on the views,
poop, A land that seems of beauty, love, and And hair-brain'd Fancy says the ship's glory;
her own But when we finish, and begin to deem
I fear some London Smack will run me Where we have been— 'tis vanish'd like a
A beacon I am like enough to be; Yet worse-why should he hoot the Co
The crazy vessel soon will sink, I fear ; venanters,
And mortals, toss'd on life's tempestuous The holy visions of each pious soul,
sea, And give to priests, or churchmen, or
Passing the spot where I have foun. dissenters, Sach names as “ Bide-the-Bent" and
Will shout unto their fellows-“ Lads, Blattergowl ?"
bewareHe is not half so wise, (though he be
Poor Caleb Cornhill, luckless soul, lies stronger,)
there !” As the good worthy family of Ongar.
Yes, fears are dark before me, and behind Ob! those that labour for the good of man,
Are blasted hopes, and wither'd fields And woman too, of course, are heirs of
of bliss ; praise !
And I'll express a wish- although my And they shall have it when this little
Has some aversion soon to come to Of life is spent-when many a glaring
Oh what a loss shall humankind sustain, Of human idols are extinguish'd quite
If Fate shall quickly listen to my strain ! Amid the gloom of everlasting night.
“ Oh for the dreamless rest of those Once I had dreams that fame would make
That in the dust serenely sleep me blest,
That feel no more their own wild woes, But wiser Beattie made my dreaming That hear no more their kindred weep!
cease ; Of pomp and power, of wealth and “ How blest are those that in the clay fame possest,
Forget the pangs this being gave ! Who ever felt his weight of woe de- No fears appal, no hopes betray, crease?"
The peaceful inmates of the grave. Alas! for Beattie's dark and dismal days, The peerless Bard that sung the “ Min- “Though near the house of prayer they lie, tú strel lays."
They never hear the Sabbath bell;
Nor when the funeral passes by, It makes me laugh, and sometimes
Start at the dead man's passing knell. makes me weep, To see a mortal that his kind surpasses, “ Though whirlwinds wild o'er nature Serambling, like goat-herd, up ambition's
Though battles fill the world with woes, And all for what ? to gain the praise Though orphans wail, and widows weep, of asses
It ne'er disturbs their calm repose. Of senseless idiots, who the watch-word catch,
** Though there no coral lip be prest, In blind conviction, like the nightly watch Though there shall heave no mutual
sighs ; I now abjure all thoughts of earthly glory; No cheek repose on beauty's breastMy labours, hence, shall be a public
Yet oh how still the sleeper lies ! blessing ; For I am telling my unvarnish'd story, “ Though there no friendly hand shall My thoughts and feelings, virtue and
The hand of friendship any more.