Delphi Complete Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

  And the Muses all chirp to the Avadavat.

  VI

  Astonished they list to its musical throat

  And Euterpe in vain tries a sharp or a flat:

  In vain! for from HER the sweet bird caught its note

  Who excels every Muse, as her Avadavat.

  27. ON THE DEATH OF ELIZABETH SHERIDAN

  I

  NO more shall the spring my lost treasure restore,

  Uncheered, I shall wander alone,

  And, sunk in dejection, for ever deplore

  The sweets of the days that are gone.

  While the sun, as it rises, to others shines bright,

  I think how it formerly shone;

  While others cull blossoms, I find but a blight,

  The sweets of the days that are gone.

  II

  I stray where the dew falls, through moon-lighted groves,

  And lift to the nightingale’s song;

  Her plaints still remind me of long-vanished loves,

  And the sweets of the days that are gone.

  Each dew-drop that steals from the dark eye of night

  Is a tear for the bliss that is flown

  While others cull blossoms, I find but a blight

  And I sigh for the days that are gone.

  28. FROM EVERY LATENT FOE

  (A Verse for the National Anthem.)

  FROM ev’ry latent Foe,

  And the Assassin’s Blow

  God save the King.

  O’er him Thine Arm extend,

  For Britain’s sake defend,

  Our Father, Prince and Friend,

  God save the King.

  29. MELANCHOLY, FRIEND TO GRIEF

  MELANCHOLY, friend to Grief,

  Ever o’er my spirit reign,

  To my sorrows bring relief

  And thyself inspire my strain.

  When thy sadness can impart

  All its healing, soft’ning powers,

  Then thy tears are to the heart

  Like the falling dew to flowers.

  Happy he whose peaceful day

  In retirement gently flows

  From the busy world away

  All the balmy calm he knows.

  Then he hopes alone in thee

  Some relief from care to find,

  Seeking no society

  But his memory or mind.

  30. ON LADY ANNE HAMILTON’S DOG

  MY name is Albion — Lady dear,

  Accept my service tendered here,

  For know, I’ve laid my plan

  So gentle, kind and good to be,

  That in your favour soon you’ll see

  Your rival, Lady Anne.

  I’ll love your friend, I’ll bite your foe,

  I’ll guide your steps where’er you go;

  Where’er you choose your seat,

  There at your feet I’ll rest reclined,

  ‘Twill please the wise and good to find

  That Albion’s at your feet.

  31. ON LADY ANNE HAMILTON

  PRAY how did she look? Was she pale, was she wan?

  She was blooming and red as a cherry — poor Anne.

  Did she eat? Did she drink? Yes, she drank up a can,

  And ate very near a whole partridge — poor Anne.

  Pray what did she do? Why, she talked to each man

  And flirted with Morpeth and Breanebie — poor Anne.

  Pray how was she drest? With a turban and fan,

  With ear-rings, with chains, and with bracelets — poor Anne.

  And how went she home? In a good warm sedan

  With a muff and a cloak and a tippet — poor Anne!

  32. LINES BY A LADY ON THE LOSS OF HER TRUNK

  HAVE you heard, my dear Anne, how my spirits are sunk?

  Have you heard of the cause? Oh, the loss of my Trunk!

  From exertion or firmness I’ve never yet slunk;

  But my fortitude’s gone with the loss of my Trunk!

  Stout Lucy, my maid, is a damsel of spunk;

  Yet she weeps night and day for the loss of my Trunk!

  I’d better turn nun, and coquet with a monk;

  For with whom can I flirt without aid from my Trunk!

  Accurs’d be the thief, the old rascally hunks,

  Who rifles the fair, and lays hands on their Trunks!

  He, who robs the King’s stores of the least bit of junk,

  Is hang’d — while he’s safe, who has plunder’d my Trunk!

  There’s a phrase amongst lawyers, when nunc’s put for tunc;

  But, tunc and nunc both, must I grieve for my Trunk!

  Huge leaves of that great commentator, old Brunck,

  Perhaps was the paper that lin’d my poor Trunk!

  But my rhymes are all out; — for I dare not use st — k;

  ‘Twou’d shock Sheridan more than the loss of my Trunk.

  [From Moore’s Sheridan, from MSS.]

  33. I HAVE A SILENT SORROW HERE

  (From The Stranger.)

  I HAVE a Silent Sorrow here,

  A Grief I’ll ne’er impart;

  It breathes no Sigh, it sheds no Tear,

  But it consumes my heart!

  This cherish’d woe, this loved despair,

  My lot for ever be;

  So, my Soul’s Lord, the pangs I bear

  Be never known by thee!

  And when pale characters of Death

  Shall mark this alter’d Cheek;

  When my poor waited trembling breath

  My Life’s last hope would speak;

  I shall not raise my Eyes to Heav’n,

  Nor mercy ask for me;

  My Soul despairs to be forgiven,

  Unpardon’d, Love, by thee!

  34. YES, YES, BE MERCILESS, THOU TEMPEST DIRE!

  (From Pizarro.)

  I

  YES, yes, be merciless, thou Tempest dire!

  Unaw’d, unshelter’d, I thy fury brave,

  I’ll bare my bosom to thy forked fire,

  Let it but guide me to Alonzo’s grave!

  O’er his pale corse then, while thy lightnings glare,

  I’ll press his clay-cold lips, and perish there.

  But thou wilt wake again, my boy;

  Again thou’lt rise to life and joy —

  Thy father never! —

  Thy laughing eyes will meet the light,

  Unconscious that eternal night

  Veils his for ever!

  II

  On you green bed of moss there lies my child,

  Oh! safer lies from these chill’d arms apart;

  He sleeps, sweet lamb! nor heeds the tempest wild,

  Oh! sweeter sleeps than near this breaking heart.

  Alas! my babe, if thou would ‘ft peaceful rest,

  Thy cradle must not be thy mother’s breast.

  Yet thou wilt wake again, my boy;

  Again thou’lt rise to life and joy —

  Thy father never! —

  Thy laughing eyes will meet the light,

  Unconscious that eternal night

  Veils his for ever!

  35. THE WALSE

  WITH tranquil step, and timid, downcast glance,

  Behold the well-pair’d couple now advance.

  In such sweet posture our first Parents mov’d,

  While, hand in hand, through Eden’s bowers they rov’d;

  Ere yet the Devil, with promise foul and false,

  Turn’d their poor heads and taught them how to Walse.

  One hand grasps hers, the other holds her hip —

  For so the Law’s laid down by Baron Trip.

  36. THE WALTZ

  WHILE arts improve in this aspiring age,

  Peers mount the coach-box, horses mount the stage,

  And waltzing females with unblushing face

  Disdain to dance but in a man’s embrace,

  While arts improve and modesty is dead,

  Sound sense and taste are like our bullion,
fled.

  37. AN ADDRESS TO THE PRINCE REGENT

  IN all humility we crave

  Our Regent may become our slave,

  And being so, we trust that HE

  Will thank us for our loyalty.

  Then, if he’ll help us to pull down

  His Father’s dignity and Crown,

  We’ll make him, in some time to come,

  The greatest Prince in Christendom.

  POLITICAL PASQUINADES

  MOORE discovered among the papers of Sheridan a string of political pasquinades “written at various dates, chiefly by Sheridan,” but owing some of its numbers to Tickell and Lord John Townshend. They were little more than the Limericks of their era, written, it seems, to the air of a ballad beginning:

  Mistress Arne, Mistress Arne

  It gives me con carn —

  Already, when Moore wrote “Time,” as he said, had “removed their venom, and with it a great deal of their wit,” so that they were even then like “dried snakes, mere harmless objects of curiosity.” Even their authorship does not seem to be at all certain, since the one on Lord Mountmorres, which Moore gives definitely to Townshend, Mr. Sichel gives as definitely to Sheridan, for the curious reason that “there are numbers of similar ones among his own papers, and a few in the Holland House MSS.” Their annotation would be a curious exercise, and scarcely worth the labour it would demand:

  I

  Johnny W — Iks, Johnny W — Iks,

  Thou greatest of bilks,

  How chang’d are the notes you now sing!

  Your fam’d Forty-five

  Is Prerogative,

  And your blasphemy, “God save the King,”

  Johnny W — Iks,

  And your blasphemy, “God save the King.”

  II

  Jack Ch — ch —ll, Jack Ch — ch — ll,

  The town sure you search ill,

  Your mob has disgraced all your brags;

  When next you draw out

  Your hospital rout,

  Do, prithee, afford them clean rags,

  Jack Ch — ch — ll,

  Do, prithee, afford them clean rags.

  III

  Captain K — th, Captain K — th,

  Keep your tongue ‘twixt your teeth,

  Lest bed-chamber tricks you betray;

  And, if teeth you want more,

  Why, my bold Commodore, —

  You may borrow of Lord G — ll — y,

  Captain K — th,

  You may borrow of Lord G — ll — y.

  IV

  Joe M — wb — y, Joe M — wb — y,

  Your throat sure must raw be,

  In striving to make yourself heard;

  But it pleased not the pigs,

  Nor the Westminster whigs,

  That your knighthood should utter one word,

  Joe M — wb — y,

  That your knighthood should utter one word.

  V

  M — ntm — res, — M — ntm — res,

  Whom nobody for is,

  And for whom we none of us care;

  From Dublin you came —

  It had been much the same

  If your lordship had stayed where you were,

  M — ntm — res,

  If your lordship had stayed where you were.

  VI

  Lord O — gl — y, Lord O — gl — y,

  You spoke mighty strongly —

  Who you are, tho, all people admire!

  But I’ll let you depart,

  For I believe in my heart,

  You had rather they did not inquire,

  Lord O — gl — y,

  You had rather they did not inquire.

  VII

  Gl — nb — e, Gl — nb — e,

  What’s good for the scurvy?

  For ne’er be your old trade forgot —

  In your arms rather quarter

  A pestle and mortar,

  And your crest be a spruce gallipot,

  Gl — nb — e,

  And your crest be a spruce gallipot.

  VIII

  Gl — nb — e, Gl — nb — e,

  The world’s topsy-turvy,

  Of this truth you’re the fittest attester;

  For, who can deny

  That the low become high,

  When the king makes a lord of Silvester,

  Gl — nb — e,

  When the king makes a lord of Silvester?

  IX

  Mr. P — l, Mr. P — l,

  In return for your zeal,

  I am told they have dubb’d you Sir Bob

  Having got wealth enough

  By coarse Manchester stuff,

  For honours you’ll now drive a job,

  Mr. P — l,

  For honours you’ll now drive a job.

  X

  Oh poor B — ks, oh poor B — ks,

  Still condemn’d to the ranks,

  Not e’en yet from a private promoted;

  Pitt ne’er will relent,

  Though he knows you repent

  Having once or twice honestly voted,

  Poor B — ks,

  Having once or twice honestly voted.

  XI

  Dull H- l- y, dull H — l — y,

  Your auditors feel ye

  A speaker of very great weight,

  And they wish you were dumb,

  When, with ponderous hum,

  You lengthen the drowsy debate,

  Dull H — l — y,

  You lengthen the drowsy debate.

  Will C — rt — s —

  V — ns — t — t, V — ns — t — t, — for little thou fit art.

  Will D — nd — s, Will D — nd — s, — were you only an ass.

  L — ghb — h, — thorough.

  Sam H — rsl — y, Sam H — rsl — y,... coarsely.

  P — ttym — n, — speak truth if you can.”

  It would not be worth adding to this collection of “dried snakes” any specimens from The Rolliad, although it maybe denied that Sheridan’s disclaimer to any share in the authorship covered some of the later contributions. But this negative evidence scarcely warrants any new “attributions.”

  YE SONS OF FREEDOM, WAKE TO GLORY (MARSEILLAISE)

  Translated by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

  1.

  Ye sons of Freedom, wake to glory, Hark! hark! What

  myriads bid you rise! You children, wives and grandsires hoary,

  Behold their tears, and hear their cries! Behold their tears and

  hear their cries Shall hateful tyrannt mischief breeding,

  With hireling hosts a ruffian band, Affright and desolate the land,

  When peace and liberty lie bleeding? To arms, to arms, ye brave!

  Th'avening sword unsheath! March On march on all

  hearts resolved On liberty or death.

  2.

  With luxury and pride surrounded, The vile in

  satiate despots dare, Their thirst for gold and power unbounded,

  To mete and vend the light and air! To mete and vend the

  light and air! Like beasts of burden they load us

  Like god would bid their slaves adore; But man is man and who is more?

  Then shall they longer lash and goad us? To arms to arms ye brave

  Th'avening sword unsheath! March On march on all

  hearts resolved On liberty or death.

  3.

  O Liberty! can man resign thee? Once having

  felt thy generous flame, Can dungeon blots and bars confine thee,

  Or whips thy noble spirit tame? Or whips thy noble

  spirit tame? Too long the world has wept bewailing

  The blood stained sword our conquerors wield; But freedom is sword and shield.

  And all their arts are unavailing! To arms, to arms, ye brave!

  Th'avening sword unsheath! March On march on all

  hearts resolved On liberty or death.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY OF FUGITIVE
VERSE

  AS the source of each poem has been given in the notes, this bibliography excludes the various periodical publications, biographies, etc. Where the Songs are from plays, they are discussed bibliographically under their respective titles in the present edition.]

  The Life Of The Right Honourable Richard Brinsley Sheridan. Containing a Comprehensive Review of his Abilities, as a Poet, a Statesman, an Orator, and a Dramatist. With the Remarks of Pitt, Fox, and Burke, On his most Celebrated Speeches, and Many Curious Anecdotes on his Parliamentary, Literary and Private Career. Never Before Published; Including his Monody on Garrick, Verses to Miss Linley, and a Collection of his Fugitive Poetry. John Fairburn [1816]

  PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES

  NOTE

  SHERIDAN’S PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES have not been collected previously. Mr. Sichel’s bibliography (Sheridan, vol. II, p. 454) enumerated eleven, to which are now added the Epilogues to Edward and Eleanora and The Fair Circassian. This section does not include those for Sheridan’s own plays printed elsewhere with the texts. What is supposed by Mr. Sichel to be an Epilogue to The Tempest is shown here to be wrongly assigned, and a note is included upon some lost or incomplete pieces.

  R. C. R.

  EPILOGUE TO EDWARD AND ELEANORA

  Written by R. SHERIDAN, Esq.

  Spoken by MRS MATTOCKS

  YE wedded critics, who have mark’d our tale,

  How say you? Does our plot in nature fail?

  May we not boast that many a modern wife

  Would lose her own, to save a husband’s life?

  Would gladly die — O monstrous and ill-bred,

  There’s not a husband here but shakes his head!

  But you, my gall’ry friends — Come, what say you?

  Your wives are with you — shake their noddles too.

  Above there — hey, lads — You’ll not treat us so —

  You side with us? — They grin, and grumble No!

  Yet hold — tho’ these plain folks traduce their doxies,

  Sure we have Eleanoras in the boxes?

  Inhuman beaux! why that ill-natur’d sneer?

  What, then you think there’s no such idiot here?

  There are, no doubt, tho’ rare to find I know,

  Who could lose husbands, yet survive the blow;

  Two years a wife — view Lesbia sobbing, crying,