The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Let the robust, and the gygantick carve,

  Life is not worth so much, she’d rather starve;

  But chew she must herself, ah cruel fate!

  That Rosalinda can’t by proxy eat.

  HENRY CAREY from Namby-Pamby. A Panegyric on the New Versification, Address’d to A— P—, Esq.

  Naughty Paughty Jack-a-Dandy,

  Stole a Piece of Sugar Candy

  From the Grocer’s Shoppy-Shop,

  And away did hoppy-hop.

  All ye poets of the age,

  All ye witlings of the stage,

  Learn your jingles to reform,

  Crop your numbers and conform.

  Let your little verses flow

  Gently, sweetly, row by row;

  Let the verse the subject fit,

  Little subject, little wit.

  Namby-Pamby is your guide,

  Albion’s joy, Hibernia’s pride.

  Namby-Pamby, pilly-piss,

  Rhimy-pim’d on Missy Miss

  Tartaretta Tartaree,

  From the navel to the knee;

  That her father’s gracy grace

  Might give him a placy place.

  He no longer writes of Mammy

  Andromache and her lammy,

  Hanging-panging at the breast

  Of a matron most distress’d.

  Now the venal poet sings

  Baby clouts and baby things,

  Baby dolls and baby houses,

  Little misses, little spouses,

  Little playthings, little toys,

  Little girls and little boys.

  As an actor does his part,

  So the nurses get by heart

  Namby-Pamby’s little rhimes,

  Little jingle, little chimes,

  To repeat to missy-miss,

  Piddling ponds of pissy-piss;

  Cacking-packing like a lady,

  Or bye-bying in the crady.

  Namby-Pamby ne’er will die

  While the nurse sings lullaby.

  Namby-Pamby’s doubly mild,

  Once a man, and twice a child;

  To his hanging sleeves restor’d,

  Now he foots it like a lord;

  Now he pumps his little wits,

  Sh… ing writes, and writing sh… ts,

  All by little tiny bits.

  Now methinks I hear him say,

  Boys and girls, come out to play!

  Moon do’s shine as bright as day.

  1726

  ABEL EVANS On Sir John Vanbrugh (The Architect). An Epigrammatical Epitaph

  Under this stone, Reader, survey

  Dead Sir John Vanbrugh’s House of Clay.

  Lie heavy on him, Earth! for he

  Laid many Heavy Loads on thee!

  JOHN DYER from Grongar Hill

  Now, I gain the Mountain’s Brow,

  What a Landskip lies below!

  No Clouds, no Vapours intervene,

  But the gay, the open Scene

  Does the Face of Nature show,

  In all the Hues of Heaven’s Bow!

  And, swelling to embrace the Light,

  Spreads around beyond the Sight.

  Old Castles on the Cliffs arise,

  Proudly tow’ring in the Skies!

  Rushing from the Woods, the Spires

  Seem from hence ascending Fires!

  Half his Beams Apollo sheds,

  On the yellow Mountain-Heads!

  Gilds the Fleeces of the Flocks;

  And glitters on the broken Rocks!

  Below me Trees unnumber’d rise,

  Beautiful in various Dies:

  The gloomy Pine, the Poplar blue,

  The yellow Beech, the sable Yew,

  The slender Firr, that taper grows,

  The sturdy Oak with broad-spread Boughs.

  And beyond the purple Grove,

  Haunt of Phillis, Queen of Love!

  Gawdy as the op’ning Dawn,

  Lies a long and level Lawn,

  On which a dark Hill, steep and high,

  Holds and charms the wand’ring Eye!

  Deep are his Feet in Towy’s Flood,

  His Sides are cloath’d with waving Wood,

  And antient Towers crown his Brow,

  That cast an awful Look below;

  Whose ragged Walls the Ivy creeps,

  And with her Arms from falling keeps.

  So both a Safety from the Wind

  On mutual Dependance find.

  ’Tis now the Raven’s bleak Abode;

  ’Tis now th’ Apartment of the Toad;

  And there the Fox securely feeds;

  And there the pois’nous Adder breeds,

  Conceal’d in Ruins, Moss and Weeds:

  While, ever and anon, there falls,

  Huge heaps of hoary moulder’d Walls.

  Yet Time has seen, that lifts the low,

  And level lays the lofty Brow,

  Has seen this broken Pile compleat,

  Big with the Vanity of State;

  But transient is the Smile of Fate!

  A little Rule, a little Sway,

  A Sun-beam in a Winter’s Day

  Is all the Proud and Mighty have,

  Between the Cradle and the Grave.

  ALLAN RAMSAY from the Latin of Horace

  What young Raw Muisted Beau Bred at his Glass

  now wilt thou on a Rose’s Bed Carress

  wha niest to thy white Breasts wilt thow intice

  with hair unsnooded and without thy Stays

  5

  O Bonny Lass wi’ thy Sweet Landart Air

  how will thy fikle humour gie him care

  when e’er thou takes the fling strings, like the wind

  that Jaws the Ocean – thou’lt disturb his Mind

  when thou looks smirky kind and claps his cheek

  10

  to poor friends then he’l hardly look or speak

  the Coof belivest-na but Right soon he’ll find

  thee Light as Cork and wavring as the Wind

  on that slid place where I ’maist brake my Bains

  to be a warning I Set up twa Stains

  15

  that nane may venture there as I hae done

  unless wi’ frosted Nails he Clink his Shoon.

  (1961)

  JAMES THOMSON from Summer

  [‘Forenoon. Summer Insects Described’]

  The daw,

  The rook, and magpie, to the grey-grown oaks

  (That the calm village in their verdant arms,

  Sheltering, embrace) direct their lazy flight;

  Where on the mingling boughs they sit embowered

  All the hot noon, till cooler hours arise.

  Faint underneath the household fowls convene;

  And, in a corner of the buzzing shade,

  The house-dog with the vacant greyhound lies

  Out-stretched and sleepy. In his slumbers one

  Attacks the nightly thief, and one exults

  O’er hill and dale; till, wakened by the wasp,

  They starting snap. Nor shall the muse disdain

  To let the little noisy summer-race

  Live in her lay and flutter through her song:

  Not mean though simple – to the sun allied,

  From him they draw their animating fire.

  Waked by his warmer ray, the reptile young

  Come winged abroad, by the light air upborne,

  Lighter, and full of soul. From every chink

  And secret corner, where they slept away

  The wintry storms, or rising from their tombs

  To higher life, by myriads forth at once

  Swarming they pour, of all the varied hues

  Their beauty-beaming parent can disclose.

  Ten thousand forms, ten thousand different tribes

  People the blaze. To sunny waters some

  By fatal instinct fly; where on the pool

  They sportive wheel, or, sailing down the stream,
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  Are snatched immediate by the quick-eyed trout

  Or darting salmon. Through the green-wood glade

  Some love to stray; there lodged, amused, and fed

  In the fresh leaf. Luxurious, others make

  The meads their choice, and visit every flower

  And every latent herb: for the sweet task

  To propagate their kinds, and where to wrap

  In what soft beds their young, yet undisclosed,

  Employs their tender care. Some to the house,

  The fold, and dairy hungry bend their flight;

  Sip round the pail, or taste the curdling cheese:

  Oft, inadvertent, from the milky stream

  They meet their fate; or, weltering in the bowl,

  With powerless wings around them wrapt, expire.

  (… )

  Resounds the living surface of the ground:

  Nor undelightful is the ceaseless hum

  To him who muses through the woods at noon,

  Or drowsy shepherd as he lies reclined,

  With half-shut eyes, beneath the floating shade

  Of willows grey, close-crowding o’er the brook,

  Gradual from these what numerous kinds descend,

  Evading even the microscopic eye!

  Full Nature swarms with life; one wondrous mass

  Of animals, or atoms organized

  Waiting the vital breath when Parent-Heaven

  Shall bid his spirit blow. The hoary fen

  In putrid streams emits the living cloud

  Of pestilence. Through subterranean cells,

  Where searching sunbeams scarce can find a way,

  Earth animated heaves. The flowery leaf

  Wants not its soft inhabitants. Secure

  Within its winding citadel the stone

  Holds multitudes. But chief the forest boughs,

  That dance unnumbered to the playful breeze,

  The downy orchard, and the melting pulp

  Of mellow fruit the nameless nations feed

  Of evanescent insects. Where the pool

  Stands mantled o’er with green, invisible

  Amid the floating verdure millions stray.

  Each liquid too, whether it pierces, soothes,

  Inflames, refreshes, or exalts the taste,

  With various forms abounds. Nor is the stream

  Of purest crystal, nor the lucid air,

  Though one transparent vacancy it seems,

  Void of their unseen people. These, concealed

  By the kind art of forming Heaven, escape

  The grosser eye of man: for, if the worlds

  In worlds inclosed should on his senses burst,

  From cates ambrosial and the nectared bowl

  He would abhorrent turn; and in dead night,

  When Silence sleeps o’er all, be stunned with noise.

  [‘Night. Summer Meteors. A Comet’]

  Among the crooked lanes, on every hedge,

  The glow-worm lights his gem; and, through the dark,

  A moving radiance twinkles. Evening yields

  The world to Night; not in her winter robe

  Of massy Stygian woof, but loose arrayed

  In mantle dun. A faint erroneous ray,

  Glanced from the imperfect surfaces of things,

  Flings half an image on the straining eye;

  While wavering woods, and villages, and streams,

  And rocks, and mountain-tops that long retained

  The ascending gleam are all one swimming scene,

  Uncertain if beheld. Sudden to heaven

  Thence weary vision turns; where, leading soft

  The silent hours of love, with purest ray

  Sweet Venus shines; and, from her genial rise,

  When daylight sickens, till it springs afresh,

  Unrivalled reigns, the fairest lamp of night.

  As thus the effulgence tremulous I drink,

  With cherished gaze, the lambent lightnings shoot

  Across the sky, or horizontal dart

  In wondrous shapes – by fearful murmuring crowds

  Portentous deemed. Amid the radiant orbs

  That more than deck, that animate the sky,

  The life-infusing suns of other worlds,

  Lo! from the dread immensity of space

  Returning with accelerated course,

  The rushing comet to the sun descends;

  And, as he sinks below the shading earth,

  With awful train projected o’er the heavens,

  The guilty nations tremble. But, above

  Those superstitious horrors that enslave

  The fond sequacious herd, to mystic faith

  And blind amazement prone, the enlightened few,

  Whose godlike minds philosophy exalts,

  The glorious stranger hail. They feel a joy

  Divinely great; they in their powers exult,

  That wondrous force of thought, which mounting spurns

  This dusky spot, and measures all the sky;

  While, from his far excursion through the wilds

  Of barren ether, faithful to his time,

  They see the blazing wonder rise anew,

  In seeming terror clad, but kindly bent,

  To work the will of all-sustaining love –

  From his huge vapoury train perhaps to shake

  Reviving moisture on the numerous orbs

  Through which his long ellipsis winds, perhaps

  To lend new fuel to declining suns,

  To light up worlds, and feed the eternal fire.

  1727

  JOHN GAY from Fables

  The Wild Boar and the Ram

  Against an elm a sheep was ty’d,

  The butcher’s knife in blood was dy’d;

  The patient flock, in silent fright,

  From far beheld the horrid sight;

  A savage Boar, who near them stood,

  Thus mock’d to scorn the fleecy brood.

  All cowards should be serv’d like you.

  See, see, your murd’rer is in view;

  With purple hands and reeking knife

  He strips the skin yet warm with life:

  Your quarter’d sires, your bleeding dams,

  The dying bleat of harmless lambs

  Call for revenge. O stupid race!

  The heart that wants revenge is base.

  I grant, an ancient Ram replys,

  We bear no terror in our eyes,

  Yet think us not of soul so tame,