Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock
Page 133
“Here, to psalm tunes thy C — l — r — dge sets
His serio-comic lay:
Here his gray Pegasus curvets,
Where none can hear him bray.
“Here dreaming W — rds — th wanders lost,
Since Jove hath cleft his deck:
Lo! on these rocks his tub is tost,
A shattered, shapeless wreck.
“Here shall Corruption’s laureate wreath,
By ancient Dulness twined
With flowers that courtly influence breathe,
Thy votive temples bind.
“Amid the thick Lethean fen
The dull dwarf-laurel springs,
To bind the brows of venal men,
The tuneful slaves of kings.
“Come, then, and join the apostate train
Of thy poetic stamp,
That vent for gain the loyal strain,
‘Mid Stygian vapours damp,
While far below, where Lethe creeps,
The ghost of Freedom sits, and weeps
O’er Truth’s extinguished lamp.”
L’ENVOY.
GOOD reader! who have lost your time
In listening to a noisy rhyme!
If catgut’s din, and tramping pad,
Have not yet made completely mad
The little brains you ever had, —
Hear me, in friendly lay expressing
A better than the “Bellman’s” blessing:
That Nature may to you dispense
Just so much share of common sense,
As may distinguish smoke from fire,
A shrieking fiddle from a lyre,
And Phoebus, with his steed of air,
From poor old Poulter and his Mare.
THE END OF PROTEUS.
THE DEATH OF ŒDIPUS.
SPEECH OF THE MESSENGER TO THE CHORUS IN THE ŒDIPUS
AT COLONUS OF SOPHOCLES.
[Written in 1815.]
Ye men of Athens, wondrous is the tale
I bear: the fate of Œdipus: no more
In the lone darkness of his days he roams,
Snatched in strange manner from the paths of men.
You witnessed his departure: no kind hand
Guiding his blindness, but with steadfast tread,
Alone and unsupported, through the woods
And winding rocks he led our wond’ring course.
Till by that broken way, which brazen steps
Uphold, beside the hollow ground he stood,
Where Theseus and Pirithous held erewhile
The compact of inviolable Jove:
There, in the midst, from the Thorician rock
And the Acherdian cave alike remote,
He sate himself upon the marble tomb,
And loosed his melancholy garb, and called
His daughters, from the living spring to bear
His last ablution. They, to the near hill
Of Ceres hastening, brought the fountain-flood,
And wrapped him in the garments that beseem
Funereal rites. Then subterranean Jove
Thundered: the maidens trembled as they heard,
And beat their breasts, and uttered loud laments.
Touched at the bitter sound, he wrapped his arms
Around them: “Oh, my children!” he exclaimed,
“The hour and place of my appointed rest
Are found: your father from this breathing world
Departs: a weary lot was yours, my children,
Wide o’er the inhospitable earth to lead
A blind, forlorn, old, persecuted man.
These toils are yours no more: yet well I deem
Affection overweighed them, and the love,
The soul-felt love, which he who caused them bore you,
Where shall you find again?” Then on their necks
He wept, and they on his, in speechless woe,
And all was silence round. A thrilling voice
Called “Œdipus!” the blood of all who heard
Congealed with fear, and every hair grew stiff.
“Oh, Œdipus!” it cried, “oh, Œdipus!
Why tarry we? for thee alone we wait!”
He recognized the summons of the god,
And calling Theseus to him, said: “Oh, friend!
Now take my children by the hand, and pledge
Thy faith inviolate, to afford them ever
Protection and support” The generous king
Fulfilled his wish, and bade high Jove record
The irrevocable vow. Then Œdipus
Folded his daughters in his last embrace,
And said: “Farewell, my children! from this spot
Depart with fortitude: the will of fate
From all but Theseus veils the coming scene.”
These words we heard: with the receding maids
We turned away awhile: reverting then
Our looks, the spot where Œdipus had been
Was vacant, and King Theseus stood alone.
His hand before his eyes, his head bowed clown,
As one oppressed with supernatural light,
Or sight of some intolerable thing.
Then falling prostrate, on the goddess Earth
He called, and Jove, and the Olympian gods.
How perished Œdipus, to none beside
Is known: for not the thunder bolts of Jove
Consumed him nor the whirlwinds of the deep
Pushed o’er his head and swept him from the world,
But with some silent messenger of fate
He passed away in peace, or that dark chasm
By which he stood, disclosed beneath his feet
A tranquil passage to the Stygian flood.
POLYXENA TO ULYSSES.
FROM THE HECUBA OF EURIPIDES.
[Written in 1815.]
YOU fold your hand, Ulysses, in your robe,
And turn your head aside as if to shun
My abject suppliance. Fear not, Ithacan!
With willing steps I follow thee, where thou
And strong Necessity, thy queen and mine,
Conduct me to my death. Base were my soul
To beg a milder fate. Why should I live?
My father was a king: my youthful hopes
Were bright: contending monarchs sought my hand:
I moved illustrious ‘raid the Idæan nymphs,
More like a goddess than an earthly maid,
Save in the sure necessity of death.
But now I am a slave: that single word
Makes death my sanctuary: never be it said,
A tyrant’s gold could purchase Hector’s sister,
To be the vilest handmaid of his house,
To drag long days of ignominious toil,
And waste her nights in solitary tears.
Or should I live to call some slave my lord,
Whom fortune reared to he the bride of kings?
No! let me rather close my eyes at once
On the pure light of heaven, to me no more
The light of liberty. Hope has no voice
For Priam’s fallen race. I yield myself
A willing victim to the Stygian gods.
Nor thou, my mother, or with deed or word
Impede my course, but smile upon thy child,
Who finds in death a refuge from disgrace.
Hard is the task to bear the unwonted yoke,
And taste the cup of unaccustomed tears.
More blest are they, whom sudden fate absolves
From the long labour of inglorious life.
PROLOGUE TO ‘GUARDIANS’
TO MR. TOBIN’S COMEDY OF THE “GUARDIANS,” PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL DRURY LANE, NOVEMBER, 1816.
[Published in 1816.]
Spoken by MR. ——
BEYOND the hopes and fears of earlier days,
The frowns of censure and the smiles of praise,
Is he, the bard, on whos
e untimely tomb,
Your favour bade the Thespian laurel bloom;
Though late the meed that crowned his minstrel strain,
It has not died, and was not given in vain.
If now our hopes one more memorial rear,
To blend with those that live unwithering here;
If on that tomb where genius sleeps in night,
One flower expands to bloom in lingering light,
Flower of a stem which no returning spring —
Shall clothe anew with buds and blossoming;
Oh! yet again the votive wreath allow
To grace his name which cannot bind his brow;
And, while our tale the scenic maze pursues,
Still prove kind Guardians to his orphan muse.
EPILOGUE TO ‘GUARDIANS’
[Published in 1816.]
SPOKEN BY MR. HARLEY in the character of HINT.
AT home, abroad, in gossip, or in print,
Who has not felt the magic power of Hint?
Say, lovely maid, what earthly power can move
That gentle bosom like a hint of love?
Say, thou spruce beau, oppressed with loads of raiment,
What half so shocking as a hint for payment?
A hint of need, drawn forth with sad concessions,
Stops the full flow of friendship’s loud professions:
A hint of Hyde Park Ring from testy humours,
Stops Hint itself, when most agog for rumours.
Where’er I go, beaux, belles of all degrees,
Come buzzing round me like a swarm of bees:
My crafty hook of sly insinuation
I bait with hints, and fish for information.
“What news, dear Hint? it does us good to see
Your pleasant face: we’re dying with ennui.”
“Me! bless you! I know nothing.”
“You’re so sly;
You’ve something in your head “Indeed not I.
’Tis true, at Lady Rook’s, just now I heard
A whisper pass.... I don’t believe a word
A certain lady is not over blameless,
Touching a certain lord that shall be nameless.”
“Who? who? pray tell.”
“Excuse me.”
“Nay, you shall.”
(In different voices)
“You mean my Lady Plume and Lord Fal-lal,”
“Lord Smirk and Mrs. Sparkle,”
“Lady Simple,
And young Lord Froth,”
“Lord Whip and Mrs. Dimple.”
(In an Irish accent) “D’ye mean my wife, sir? give me leave to mention
There’s no ill meaning in Lord Sly’s attention:
Sir, there’s my card: command me: I’ll attend,
And talk the matter over with a friend.”
“Dear Major! no such thing: you’re right in scorning
Such idle tales: I wish you a good-morning.”
Away I speed: from lounge to lounge I run,
With five tales loaded where I fished for one;
And, entre nous, take care the town shall know,
The Major’s wife is not quite comme il faut.
But Hyde Park Ring my cunning shuns in vain,
If by your frowns I die in Drury Lane.
If die I must, think not I’ll tamely fall:
Pit, boxes, gallery, thus I challenge all.
Ye critics near me, and ye gods afar!
Fair maid, spruce beau, plump cit, and jovial tar!
Come one and all, roused by my valorous greeting,
To-morrow night to give bold Hint the meeting:
Bring all your friends — a host — I’ll fit them nicely,
Place — Drury Lane — time, half-past-six precisely.
SIR HORNBOOK.
OR, CHILDE LAUNCELOT’S EXPEDITION. A GRAMMATICO ALLEGORICAL BALLAD.
[Published in 1818.]
[Reprinted in Summerly’s Home Treasury, 1846.]
I.
O’ER bush and brier Childe Launcelot sprung
With ardent hopes elate,
And loudly blew the horn that hung
Before Sir Hornbook’s gate.
The inner portals opened wide,
And forward strode the chief,
Arrayed in paper helmet’s pride,
And arms of golden leaf.
“What means,” he cried, “this daring noise,
That wakes the summer day?
I hate all idle truant boys:
Away, Sir Childe, away!”
“No idle truant boy am I,”
Childe Launcelot answered straight;
“Resolved to climb this hill so high,
I seek thy castle gate.
“Behold the talisman I bear,
And aid my bold design
Sir Hornbook gazed, and written there,
Knew Emulation’s sign.
“If Emulation sent thee here,”
Sir Hornbook quick replied,
“My merrymen all shall soon appear,
To aid thy cause with shield and spear,
And I will head thy bold career,
And prove thy faithful guide.”
Loud rung the chains; the drawbridge fell;
The gates asunder flew;
The knight thrice beat the portal bell,
And thrice he called “Halloo.”
And out, and out, in hasty rout,
By ones, twos, threes, and fours;
His merrymen rushed the walls without,
And stood before the doors.
II.
FULL six-and-twenty men were they,
In line of battle spread:
The first that came was mighty A,
The last was little Z.
Six vocal men Sir Hornbook had,
Four double men to boot,
And four were liquids soft and sad,
And all the rest were mute.
He called his Corporal Syllable,
To range the scattered throng;
And Captain Word disposed them well
In bands compact and strong.
“How, mark, Sir Childe,” Sir Hornbook said,
“These well compacted powers
Shall lead thy vent’rous steps to tread
Through all the Muses’ bowers.
“If rightly thou thyself address,
To use their proffer’d aid:
Still unallured by idleness,
By labour undismayed;
“For many troubles intervene,
And perils widely spread,
Around the groves of evergreen,
That crown this mountain’s head:
But rich reward he finds, I ween,
Who through them all has sped.”
Childe Launcelot felt his bosom glow
At thought of noble deed;
Resolved through every path to go,
Where that hold knight should lead.
Sir Hornbook wound his bugle horn,.
Full long, and loud, and shrill;
His merrymen all, for conquest born,
With armour glittering to the mom,
Went marching up the hill.
III.
“WHAT men are you beside the way?”
The hold Sir Hornbook cried:
“My name is The, my brother’s A,”
Sir Article replied.
“My brother’s home is anywhere,
At large and undefined;
But I a preference ever bear
For one fixed spot, and settle there:
Which speaks my constant mind.”
“What ho! Childe Launcelot! seize them there,
And look you have them sure!”
Sir Hornbook cried, “my men shall hear
Your captives off secure.”
The twain were seized: Sir Hornbook blew
His bugle loud and shrill:
His merrymen all, so stout and true,
Went marching up
the hill.
IV.
AND now a wider space they gained,
A steeper, harder ground,
Where by one ample wall contained,
All earthly things they found:
All beings, rich, poor, weak, or wise,
Were there, full strange to see,
And attributes and qualities
Of high and low degree.
Before the circle stood a knight,
Sir Substantive his name,
With Adjective, his lady bright,
Who seemed a portly dame;
Yet only seemed; for whensoe’er
She strove to stand alone,
She proved no more than smoke and air,
Who looked like flesh and bone.
And therefore to her husband’s arm
She clung for evermore,
And lent him many a grace and charm
He had not known before;
Yet these the knight felt well advised,
He might have done without;
For lightly foreign help he prized,
He was so staunch and stout.
Five sons had they, their dear delight,
Of different forms and faces;
And two of them were numbers bright,
And three they christened cases.
Now loudly rung Sir Hornbook’s born;
Childe Launcelot poised his spear;
And on they rushed, to conquest home,
In swift and full career.
Sir Substantive kicked down the wall:
It fell with furious rattle:
And earthly things and beings all,
Rushed forth to join the battle.
But earthly things and beings all,
Though mixed in boundless plenty,
Must one by one dissolving fall
To Hornbook’s six-and-twenty.
Childe Launcelot won the arduous fray,
And, when they ceased from strife,
Led stout Sir Substantive away,
His children, and his wife.
Sir Hornbook wound his horn again,
Full long, and loud, and shrill:
His merrymen all, a warlike train,
Went marching up the hill.
V.
Now when Sir Pronoun looked abroad,
And spied the coming train,
He left his fort beside the road,
And ran with might and main.
Two cloth-yard shafts from I and U,
Went forth with whizzing sound:
Like lightning sped the arrows true,
Sir Pronoun pressed the ground:
But darts of science ever flew
To conquer, not to wound.
His fear was great: his hurt was small:
Childe Launcelot took his hand: —
“Sir Knight,” said he, “though doomed to fall