Complete Works of Thomas Love Peacock

by Thomas Love Peacock

  III.

  The confidence, no heart has felt

  But when with first illusions warm,

  The hope, on one alone that dwelt,

  The thought, that knew no second form, —

  IV.

  AH. these were ours: and can it be

  That their return may charm us yet?

  Can aught remain to thee and me,

  Beyond remembrance and regret?

  V.

  For now thy sweetest smiles appear

  Like shades of joys for ever flown,

  As music in an exile’s ear

  Recalls the strains his home has known.

  VI.

  No more can bloom the faded flower:

  No more the extinguished fire can burn:

  Nor hope nor fancy’s mightiest power

  Can burst young love’s sepulchral urn.

  LINES TO A FAVOURITE LAUREL IN THE GARDEN AT ANKERWYKE COTTAGE.

  [Written in 1814.]

  HOW changed this lonely scene! the rank weed chokes

  The garden flowers: the thistle’s towering growth

  Waves o’er the untrodden paths: the rose that breathed

  Diffusive fragrance from its christening bed,

  Scarce by a single bud denotes the spot

  Where glowed its countless bloom: the woodbine droops

  And trails along the ground, and wreathes no more

  Around the light verandah’s pillared shade

  The tendrils of its sweetness: the green shrubs,

  That made even winter gay, have felt themselves

  The power of change, and mournful is the sound

  Of evening’s twilight gale, that shrilly sweeps

  Their brown and sapless leaves.

  But thou remain’st

  Unaltered save in beauty: thou alone,

  Amid neglect and desolation, spread’st

  The rich luxuriance of thy foliage still,

  More rich and more luxuriant now, than when,

  ‘Mid all the gay parterre, I called thee first

  My favourite laurel: and ’tis something yet,

  Even in this world where Ahrimanes reigns

  To think that thou, my favourite, hast been left

  Unharmed amid the inclemency of time,

  While all around thee withered.

  Lovely tree!

  There is a solemn aspect in thy shade,

  A mystic whisper in the evening gale,

  That murmurs through thy boughs; it breathes of peace,

  Of rest, to one, who, having trodden long

  The thorny paths of this malignant world,

  Full fain would make the moss that tufts thy root

  The pillow of his slumber.

  Many a bard,

  Beneath some favourite tree, oak, beech, or pine,

  Has by the pensive music of the breeze,

  Been soothed to transient rest: but thou canst shed

  A mightier spell: the murmur of thy leaves

  Is full of meaning; and their influence,

  Accessible to resolution, yields

  No evanescent balm, but pours at once

  Through all the sufferer’s frame, the sweetest sleep

  The weary pilgrim of the earth can know:

  The long, oblivious, everlasting sleep

  Of that last night on which no mom shall rise.

  SIR PROTEUS.

  A SATIRICAL BALLAD.

  BY P. M. O’DONOVAN, ESQ.

  THIS BALLAD IS INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD BYRON,

  With that deep conviction of the high value of his praise, and of the fatal import of his censure, which must necessarily be impressed by the profound judgment with which his opinions are conceived, the calm deliberation with which they are promulgated, the Protean consistency with which they are maintained, and the total absence of all undue bias on their formation, from private partiality or personal resentment: with that admiration of his poetical talents which must be universally and inevitably felt for versification undecorated with the meretricious fascinations of harmony, for sentiments unsophisticated by the delusive ardour of philanthropy, for narrative enveloped in all the Cimmerian sublimity of the impenetrable obscure.

  IV. CHEVV CHASE.

  V. THE BATHOS.

  VI. THE WORLD’S END.

  I. JOHNNY ON THE SEA.

  II. JOHNNY IN THE SEA.

  III. JOHNNY UNDER THE SEA.

  I.

  Ille Ego

  Oh! list to me: for I’m about

  To catch the fire of Chaucer,

  And spin in doleful measure out

  The tale of Johnny Raw, sir;

  Who, bent upon a desperate plan

  To make the people stare,

  Set off full speed for Hindoostan

  Upon Old Poulter’s mare.

  Tramp! tramp! across the land he went;

  Splash! splash! across the sea;

  And then he gave his bragging vent —

  “Pray who can ride like me?

  “For I’m the man, who sallied forth

  To rout the classic forces,

  And swore this mare was far more worth

  Than both fierce Hector’s horses.

  “Old Homer from his throne I struck,

  To Virgil gave a punch,

  And in the place of both I stuck

  The doughty Mother Bunch,

  “To France I galloped on my roan,

  Whose mettle nought can quail;

  There squatted on the tomb of Joan,

  And piped a dismal tale.

  “A wild and wondrous stave I sung,

  To make my hearers weep:

  But when I looked, and held my tongue,

  I found them fast asleep!

  “Oh! then, a furious oath I swore,

  Some dire revenge to seek;

  And conjured up, to make them roar,

  Stout Taffy and his leek.

  “To Heaven and Hell I rode away,

  In spite of wind and weather:

  Trumped up a diabolic lay;

  And cursed them all together.

  “Now, Proteus! rise, thou changeful seer!

  To spirit up my mare:

  In every shape but those appear,

  Which Taste and Nature wear.”

  II.

  DIVERSE LINGUE, ORRIBILI FAVELLE.

  EVEN while he sung Sir Proteus rose,

  That wight of ancient fun,

  With salmon-scales instead of clothes,

  And fifty shapes in one.

  He first appeared a folio thick,

  A glossary so stout,

  Of modern language politic,

  Where conscience was left out.

  He next appeared in civic guise,

  Which C — s could not flout,

  With forced-meat balls instead of eyes,

  And, for a nose, a snout.

  And then he seemed a patriot braw,

  Who, o’er a pot of froth,

  Was very busy, stewing straw,

  To make the people broth.

  In robes collegiate, loosely spread,

  His form he seemed to wrap:

  Much Johnny mused to see no head

  Between the gown and cap t

  Like grave logician, next he drew

  A tube from garment mystic;

  And bubbles blew, which Johnny knew

  Were anti-hyloistic.

  Like doughty critic next he sped,

  Of fragrant Edinbroo’:

  A yellow cap was on his head;

  His jacket was sky-blue:

  He wore a cauliflower wig,

  With bubble filled, and squeak;

  Where hung behind, like tail of pig,

  Small lollypop of Greek.

  With rusty knife, he seemed prepared

  Poor poets’ blood to fetch:

  In speechless horror Johnny stared

  Upon the ruthless wretch.

  Like washing-tub he next appeared
>
  O’er W— ‘s sea that scuds

  Where poor John Bull stood all besmeared,

  Up to the neck in suds.

  Then three wise men he seemed to he,

  Still sailing in the tub;

  Whose white wigs looked upon the sea,

  Like bowl of syllabub.

  The first he chattered, chattered still,

  With meaning none at all,

  Of Jack and Jill, and Harry Gill,

  And Alice Fell so small,

  The second of three graves did sing,

  And in such doggrel strains,

  You might have deemed the Elfin King

  Had charmed away his brains.

  Loud sang the third, of Palmy Isle,

  ‘Mid oceans vast and wild,

  Where he had won a mermaid’s smile,

  And got a fairy child.

  Like rueful wanderer next he showed,

  Much posed with pious qualm;

  And first he roared a frantic ode,

  And then he sung a psalm.

  Like farmer’s man, he seemed to rear

  His form in smock-frock dight;

  And screeched in poor Apollo’s ear,

  Who ran with all his might.

  And, even while Apollo ran,

  Arose the Bellman there,

  And clapped the crack-voiced farmer’s man

  Into his vacant chair.

  Next, like Tom Thumb, he skipped along

  In merry Irish jig:

  Amd now he whined an amorous song,

  And now he pulled a wig.

  Whose frizzles, firing at his rage,

  Like Indian crackers flew,

  Each wrapped in party-coloured page

  Of some profound Review.

  In jaunting-car, like tourist brave,

  Full speed he seemed to rush;

  And chaunted many a clumsy stave,

  Might make the Bellman blush.

  Like grizzly monk, on spectral harp

  Deep dole he did betoken;

  And strummed one strain, ‘twixt flat and sharp,

  Till all the strings were broken.

  Like modish bard, intent to please

  The sentimental fair,

  He strung conceits and similes,

  Where feeling had no share.

  At last, in cap with border red,

  A Minstrel seemed to stand,

  With heather Bell upon his head,

  And fiddle in his hand;

  And such a shrill and piercing scrape

  Of hideous discord gave,

  That none but Johnny’s ear could scape

  Unfractured by the stave.

  Old Poulter’s mare, in sudden fright,

  Forgot all John had taught her;

  And up she reared, a furious height,

  And soused him in the water.

  III.

  OR CHI SEI TU?

  TEN thousand thousand fathoms down

  Beneath the sea he popped:

  At last a coral cracked his crown,

  And Johnny Raw was stopped.

  Sir Proteus came and picked him up,

  With grim and ghastly smile;

  And asked him to walk in and sup,

  And fiddled all the while.

  So up he got, and felt his head,

  And feared his brain was diddled;

  While still the ocean o’er him spread,

  And still Sir Proteus fiddled.

  And much surprised he was to he

  Beneath the ocean’s root;

  Which then he found was one great tree,

  Where grew odd fish for fruit.

  And there were fish both young and old,

  And fish both great and small;

  And some of them had heads of gold,

  And some no heads at all.

  And now they came where Neptune sate,

  With beard like any Jew,

  With all his Tritons round in state,

  And all his Nereids too:

  And when poor Johnny’s bleeding sconce

  The moody king did view,

  He stoutly bellowed, all at once:

  “Pray who the deuce are you?

  “That thus dare stalk, and walk, and talk,

  Beneath my tree, the sea, sir,

  And break your head, on coral bed,

  Without the leave of me, sir?”

  IV.

  POOR Johnny looked exceeding blue,

  As blue as Neptune’s self;

  And cursed the jade, his skull that threw

  Upon the coral shelf;

  And thrice he cursed the jarring strain

  That scraping Proteus sung,

  Which forced his mare to rear amain,

  And got her rider flung.

  His clashing thoughts, that flocked so quick,

  He strove in vain to clear;

  For still the ruthless fiddlestick

  Was shrieking at his ear,

  A piercing modulated shriek,

  So comically sad,

  That oft he strove in vain to speak,

  He felt so wondrous mad.

  But seeing well, by Neptune’s phiz,

  He deemed the case no joke,

  In spite of all the diz and whiz,

  like parish-clerk he spoke

  A wondrous speech, and all in rhyme,

  As long as “Chevy Chase,”

  Which made Sir Proteus raise his chime,

  While Glaucus fled the place.

  He sung of men who nature’s law

  So little did redoubt,

  They flourished when the life was raw,

  And when the brain was out;

  Whose arms were iron spinning-wheels,

  That twirled when winds did puff,

  And forced Old Scratch to ply his heels,

  By dint of usage rough.

  Grim Neptune bade him stop the peals

  Of such infernal stuff.

  But when once in, no art could win

  To silence Johnny Raw:

  For Nereids grin, or Triton’s fin,

  He did not care a straw:

  So still did spin his rhyming din,

  Without one hum or haw,

  Though still the crazy violin

  Kept screaming: “Hoot, awa’!”

  Till all the Tritons gave a yell,

  And fled, in rout inglorious,

  With all the Nereids, from the spell

  Of Johnny’s stave laborious,

  And Neptune scouted in his shell,

  And left stout Raw victorious.

  V.

  ASPRO CONCENTO, ORRIBILE ARMONIA.

  BUT Proteus feared not Johnny’s tongue,

  And vowed to be the master;

  And still the louder Johnny sung,

  Bold Proteus scraped the faster;

  And raised a rhyme of feudal time,

  A song of moonlight foray,

  Of bandits bold, in days of old,

  The Scott, the Kerr, the Murray.

  Who, by their good King James desired

  To keep up rule and order,

  Like trusty guardians, robbed, and fired,

  And ravaged all the border.

  Then sung he of an English peer,

  A champion bold and brawny,

  Who loved good cheer, and killed his dear,

  And thrashed presumptuous Sawney.

  Then Roderick, starch in battle’s brunt,

  The changing theme supplied;

  And Maid, that paddled in a punt

  Across Loch Katrine’s tide:

  And horse, and hound, and bugle’s sound,

  Inspired the lively lay,

  With ho! ieroe! and tally ho!

  And yoicks! and harkaway!

  Then much he raved of lunar light,

  Like human conscience changing;

  And damsel bright, at dead of night,

  With bold Hibernian ranging;

  And buccaneer so stern and staunch,

 
Who, though historians vary,

  Did wondrous feats on tough buck’s haunch,

  And butt of old Canary.

  The fiddle, with a gong-like power,

  Still louder, louder swelling,

  Resounded till it shook the bower,

  Grim Neptune’s coral dwelling:

  And still Sir Proteus held his course,

  To prove his muse no craven,

  Until he grew completely hoarse,

  And croaked like any raven.

  They might have thought, who heard the strum

  Of such unusual strain,

  That Discord’s very self was come,

  With all her minstrel train,

  Headlong by vengeful Phoebus thrown,

  Through ocean’s breast to sweep,

  To where Sir Bathos sits alone,

  Majestic on his wire-wove throne,

  Below the lowest deep.

  VI.

  COL DOVE È IL FINIMONDO.

  THOUGH Johnny prized the Jew’s-harp twang

  Beyond old Homer’s harp,

  He little loved the barbarous clang

  Of fiddle cracked and sharp:

  And when the names Sir Proteus said

  Of Murray, Kerr, and Scott;

  The sound went crashing through his head,

  Like Van Tromp’s famous shot,

  Which, like some adamantine rock,

  By Hector thrown in sport,

  Plumped headlong into Sheerness dock,

  And battered down a fort.

  Like one astound, John stared around,

  And watched his time to fly;

  And quickly spied, amid the tide,

  A dolphin sailing by; —

  And jumped upon him in a crack,

  And touched him in the fin,

  And rose triumphant, on his back,

  Through ocean’s roaring din:

  While Proteus, on his fiddle bent

  Still scraped his feudal jig;

  Nor marked, as on his ballad went,

  His bird had hopped the twig.

  So Johnny rose ‘mid ocean’s roar,

  And landed was full soon,

  Upon a wild and lonely shore,

  Beneath the waning moon.

  He sate him down, beside a cave

  As black as bell itself,

  And beard the breakers roar and rave,

  A melancholy elf:

  But when he wanted to proceed,

  And advertise his mare,

  In vain he struggled to be freed,

  Such magic fixed him there.

  Then came a voice of thrilling force:

  “In vain my power you brave,

  For here must end your earthly course,

  And here’s Oblivion’s cave.

  “Far, far within its deep recess,

  Descends the winding road,

  By which forgotten minstrels press

  To Pluto’s drear abode.

  “Here Cr — k — r fights his battles o’er,

  And doubly kills the slain,

  Where Y — no more can nod or snore

  In concert to the strain.