FUGITIVE PIECES.
—coacta prodire.
WRITTEN BY J. P. KEMBLE
YORK: PRINTED BY W. BLANCHARD AND CO. FOR THE AUTHOR, AND SOLD BY FIELDING AND WALKER, LONDON; AND T. WILSON AND SON, AND N. FROBISHER, YORK, MDCCLXXX.
PREFACE.
I Declare I hardly know how to say what justice to myself obliges me to say.—The public hears daily of so many unlucky Poets, who become publishers from the same fate that ranges me in their class, that I am apprehensive the truth, when told, will not serve me as an apology, but the effect of constraint be reputed the wish of presumption.
The course of my studies first gave me a taste for Poetry, and the sweetness of the art inspired me with an inclination to improve it.—The few who saw my verses said they liked them, and would sometimes ask for a copy of what they had seen.—The first pleasure I know is to please; and indeed I thought complying with their requests an easy return for the obligation of their praise.—They had copies, and in their high opinion of me gave copies to others, who soon circulated some of my pieces, as particular favours to particular friends, through half a dozen editions, of which three or four were generally very incorrect.
To prevent this evil from spreading, I have here collected in one small book those verses of which I have ever given copies, as far as remembrance and possession have permitted me.
All parents have a partiality to their own child—so every Writer has a partiality to the productions of his own brain, that would rather they were seen in a perfect than an imperfect situation— and when a man's writings must unavoidably be delivered into the hands of the public, a decent respect for his own character, and good manners to his fellowcreatures will oblige him to endeavour, as much as possiible, that they may not excite a contempt for himself, nor be entirely useless and disgusting to his readers.
YORK,
1780.
FUGITIVE PIECES.
HEBE's BIRTH-DAY.
ADDRESSED TO Miss—
THE Queen of Paphos' flow'ry groves
Ascends her dove-borne car;
Cupid,
the
Graces,
and the
Loves
Shed odours thro' the air.
Soon
Cytherea
reach'd the skies;
Each God that day was there—
She rais'd to
Jove
her wat'ry eyes,
And thus prefer'd her pray'r:
"No more mankind invokes my pow'r,
"Nor ardent vows arise
"From doting bosoms, love's no more,
"My
Cupid's
influence dies.
"His bow, his arrows he has thrown
"Quite useless from his arms—
"See, where the Sister
Graces
moan
"In negligence of charms.
"To-day springs forth to life below
"A Babe of honour'd line;
"There let each God some boon bestow,
"And stamp the Nymph divine."
She spoke—
Jove
gave th'assenting nod,
His thunders took their way;
He then commanded that each God
The Queen of Love obey.
First came the
Graces
hand in hand
And gave her all their ease,
O'er ev'ry heart supreme command
And elegance to please.
Apollo
and the
Muses
Nine
Their heav'nly gifts impart,
Wit, music, poesy divine
And sense to form the heart,
Jove
gave his light'ning to her eyes,
Gav
Bacchus
lasting youth,
Momus
with laughter shook the skies
And added smiling truth.
Cupid
heard all—but knew not how
The sky's applause to gain,
Till in her smiles he spy'd his bow,
And bad it there remain.
Venus
transported saw the Maid,
And, her delight to prove,
Cupid, attend on her, she said,
For Hebe's Queen of Love.
MAY.
HOW joyful the golden-tress'd God thro' the sky
Diffuses his all-forming ray!—
See, the temperate hours, as round him they fly,
Drop roses to crown the new May.
Each many-plum'd songster that lives in yon grove
Gives voice to his green-kirtled spray,
And when he pours forth, the soft tale of his love,
Concludes with a sonnet to May.
The brooks that sweet vi'lets and thyme flow among
Their babbling course wantonly stay,
Till hearing the chorus of Nature's glad song
They purl on in honour of May.
Nor let me forget while enraptur'd I sing
The honour that's due to this day—
To heighten the transports I taste in the Spring,
I'll make Hebe Queen of the May.
THE WISH.
ARchly-smiling, dimpled Boy,
Son of
Venus,
God of Love,
Grant my heart, the seat of joy,
May thy temple ever prove!
Let me sing and laugh all day,
Sweetly pass my nights away,
Then arising taste with you
Blessings lasting, Raptures new!
HEBE.
LOOK to my lambkins—once again
Daphnis shall try the Sylvan strain—
And fetch me, boy, the fav'rite pipe I hung
Love-lorn on yonder elm; it oft has rung
In happier days
With Hebe's praise,
Till vallies, and hills, and the woods all around
To yon river in concert re-echo'd the sound,
Which love-freighted bore the name
Far adown his winding stream,
Repeating it with fond delay,
While from bank to bank the joy
Spread till—Where's my pipe, my boy—
Till like my hopes, alas! it dy'd away.
Why do I sigh?
Dost know, my pipe?—Nowspeak—I've caught the sound
That lifts me high,
That bids me run my wonted careless round
Bids me again to kinder fair one's rove,
And
Hebe
leave who slights my proffer'd love
THE INCONSTANT.
ARound the plain secure I rov'd,
With ev'ry nymph wou'd toy,
Wou'd laugh and kiss—but never lov'd
Beyond the moment's joy.
Cupid resolv'd to snare my heart
Each blooming Beauty tries,
But sent the love-inspiring dart
From Hebe's sparkling eyes.
Since then I've lov'd—but lov'd in vain,
Gay grandeur charms my fair—
She scorns my sighs—Ah! Iucklessswain,
Thy portion is despair.
SALLY OF THE MEAD.
ONE morn when nymphs and swains were gay
And danc'd upon the green,
From mirth poor
Jemmy
fled away
To mourn his lot unseen—
In tears the am'rous Boy complains
Close by the murm'ring Tweed,
The sad, sad burthen of his strains
Was
Sally
of the Mead.
My
Sally
did each nymph surpass
Who trips the flow'ry plain,
Once she was thought the loveliest lass,
And I the happiest swain—
To please her was my sole employ,
To her I tun'd my reed,
And, morn and eve, my only joy
Was
Sally
of the Mead.
While yet the morn was clad in grey
I rose to court her love,
Thro' flow'ry fields I took my way
And then her garland wove—
Tho' Rose and Lily both were there
To deck her charming head,
That was less sweet, and this less fair
Than
Sally
of the Mead.
Now she no more shall glad my eyes,
No more my song inspire,
From me the faithless fair one flies
To bless the richer 'Squire—
Yet may her heart know nought but joy,
Nor e'er repent this deed—
Jemmy
can lay him down—and die
For
Sally
of the Mead.
ODE AD SOMNUM.
QUEM mihi semper reperi vocanti,
Somne,
praesentem, posito sub umbra
Posco nunc adsis, gravium laborum,
Dulce lenimen.
Tu mari mersus Lybico notâsti
Dum polos magni,
Palinure,
vires
Morpheos
nôsti
properantis in te
Tristia fata.
An prius dicam rabidae
Junonis
Furias victas, vigilemque monte
Somniis
Iûs
Dominum solutum
Lumina centum?
Quin
Jovem
magnum, Superûm Parentem
Vincit en
Morpheus
— et aguntur omni
Troës
e campo, superante
Somno
Fulmina coeli.
En Deus, voto toties vocatus
Supplici, segnis comitatus astat
Somniis vanis, oculos cruentos
Vertice mersus!
Fert manu virgam, tacitaeque Lethes
Poculo facto Stygiâ cupressu
Rora; circumdat gravidum papaver
Tempora rugis
Indecora—illum comitatur ales
Noctis—in Vatem leviore tractu
Serpit, et vincit lyricas amantem
Tangere chordas.
OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE TO A PLAY ACTED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE INFIRMARY IN LEEDS.
SOON as
Compassion
—Glory of our Isle—
With modest elegance had rais'd yon pile,
Where kindly Science to each aching grief,
Each sad mischance administers relief,
Commerce
beheld it—and her looks confest
The sprightly joy that danc'd within her breast—
Thus
Commerce
sung—"To you, my children, peace!"—
She sung—and smiling wav'd her GOLDEN FLEECE—
"'Tis youre, my sons, with tend'rest care to heal
"The varied mis'ries Poverty may feel;
"'Tis yours the sinking srame of Age to rear,
"'Tis yours to shed the sympathetic Tear,
"'Tis yours Misfortune's keenest pangs to ease—
"And yours shall be the meed of acts like these.
"While this bright sun illumes the face of day,
"While yonder moon reflects one silver ray,
"So long Abundance shall your guest remain
"To deck the board, and whistle o'er the plain.
"Quickly with her, of ev'ry good the Queen,
"White Peace her gentle sister shall be seen.
"I see her now descending from the sky
"To banish War and bid Rebellion fly.
"Industry now has all my sails unfurl'd,
"Now sends my honest treasures o'er the world;
"Now pleas'd the minds of either Inde I view
"Resign, my sons, their many stores to you—
"For you are bounteous as the Hand of Heav'n,
"And feel why riches were to mortals giv'n."
Thus
Commerce
sung—and here in furtive verse
Have I presum'd the carol to rehearse—.
Where praise is merited, let praise be giv'n—
To honour virtue is to act like Heav'n.
And sure your gen'rous deeds may well demand
That Angels sing them to the list'ning land;
For mindful ever of wealth's first, best end,
You bid the Poor in you behold a FRIEND.
OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE TO THE FOUNDLING, ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL in YORK, FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE LUNATIC ASYLUM.
FROM the mild regions of her native sky,
O'er BRITAIN'S Isle sweet
Pity
cast her eye—
She cast—and Sorrow heav'd her melting breast,
As to her view pale
Sickness
stood confest.
Here treach'rous
Waste
attains her end by stealth,
And, flatt'ring, slowly saps the base of health.
There
Fevers
shoot through ev'ry swelling vein,
Now fire the lawless blood, now rack the brain.—
Daughter of Hell, a direr fiend than War,
With hasty stride
Plague
rushes from afar!—
Her savage pleasure grows on spreading death,
And Parent Nations orphan'd by her breath.
Who sits on yonder stone with hollow eye
And hand out-stretch'd, imploring charity?
'Tis hungry
Famine
—"Thou shalt ask no more,"
Cry'd one—"but die, and shame that rich man's door."—
Who was't so cry'd?—The Monarch of the Dead,
As from yon grave he rear'd his meagre head.
Pity
with smiles beheld his friendly blow,
And hail'd him—Curer of a cureless woe.—
She spoke, and foaming
Phrenzy
darted by,
Strength in his hand, and murder in his eye—
Sadly she sigh'd, and as she turn'd away
Heard calmer
Melancholy's
pensive lay—
The love-lorn Virgin, wand'ring thro' the gloom
Of yew-bound church-yards and the mould'ring tomb,
Sung to the Moon of "
Marg'ret's
grimly ghost,"
Of
Henry's
broken vows, and
Emma
lost.
Here
Pity
wept—and from her tears arose
A kind ASYLUM for the mad-one's woes.
Hail to the wond'rous art that can dispense
The genial floods of renovated sense!
And blessings crown your breasts who feel these woes,
As far the heaviest human nature knows!
EPILOGUE TO BELISARIUS.
THey're busy yonder—so I've slip'd away
To give you my opinion of the Play.
'Tis very, very low—and on my life
Bayes
makes sad blunders with his injur'd Wife:
There's not a spark of breeding in her nature,
A doting, doleful, humdrum, pretty creature!—
He and our ill-bred Manager 'tis clear
Want to invade the charters of the fair;
Wou'd have us silent—bid us keep our houses—
Instruct our families—and love our spouses—
But we know better—thanks to education,
Example, foreign manners, and the fashion.
Stay—I'll recount my suff'rings one by one,
Then be you judges what I should have done.
Three years from bed and board did
Marcus
stay—
I'd serv'd him rightly had I gone astray.
A fool!—To foreign climes for battles roam?—
Faith, the best battles may be fought at home.
Well—he returns—gives credit to a lie,
Becomes a bubble—and his wife must die.
Thank Fate, our Lords ask gentler expiation,
They wou'd n't wish to murder half the nation—
Madam's divorc'd, lives with her country friends,
He finds a Mistress, and the squabble ends.—
Next
Belisarius
in a frantic mood
Resolves to wash my guilt out with my blood—
A pretty life between them both I lead
And the plague is, I never did the deed.
"Think of my same"—"My fondness,"—says the other,
And adds, "Ah! how unlike thy virtuous Mother!"
Unlike indeed!—What Belle can bear the road
In which her prim Progenetrix has trod?—
Next—But I'll not repeat such odious stuff—
I'm sure you've heard absurdity enough.
These my objections to the Bard I made
Before his
Be—li—sa—ri—us
was play'd—
Wou'd you believe it?—Says the tasteless creature,
"Madam, I always strive to copy Nature."
ECLOGUE.
This is the last of four Eclogues—MORNING—NOON— EVENING—NIGHT—It is the only one of them published at present because no friend of
mine
has yet distributed to
his
friend any copies of the others.
NIGHT. DESPAIR.
ADDRESSED TO MRS.—.
HIS sportive lambs repos'd in gentle rest,
Thus
Daphnis
sung the sorrows of his breast—
"Ah me! the day—when o'er the jocund green
"
Daphnis
the first to lead the dance was seen.....
"On blythesome reed the frolic round I play'd,
"Envy'd by swains, admir'd by ev'ry maid;
"To list my strains my lambs have left their food,
"And fondly seem'd to say my strains were good—
"Oh! they were sweet—my pipe was tun'd to love,
"And
Hebe's
name made vocal ev'ry grove.
"Those joys are past—no more the tinkling stream
"Shall stay its course to dwell on that lov'd name;
"No more the vale my merry notes shall hear......
"Far other feelings wait upon despair.
"
Hebe,
how oft I've brush'd the glist'ring dew,
"And pluck'd the pride of vernal morns for you!—
"The virgin Lily, with the blushing Rose,
"And blue-ey'd Vi'let for your wreath I chose,
"And, while I bound it on your temples, stole
"Kisses that thrill'd with rapture to my soul!—
"Am I not now as fair as when you said
"A lovelier youth ne'er bless'd a happy maid?
"Alas! some other swain has caught your eye—
"He cannot be so true, so fond as I.
"Unmov'd cou'd
Daphnis
hear his
Hebe
moan!
"No—He'd bewail her sorrows as his own;
"On the green turf he'd seat him by his dear,
"Give for each look, a sigh—each sigh, a tear;
"The lovely mourner to his bosom press,
"Partake the cause, and lessen her distress......
"But wherefore witless do I thus complain?
"Relentless
Hebe
laughs at all my pain—
"Why wake my lambkins?—Sure they cannot know,
"They heed not, feel not for their master's woe.
"Some happier youth at dawn with careful crook
"Shall guide you bleeting to the limpid brook;
"Shall tend a-field the fleecy flocks I bred,
"Pride of the vale, and riches of the mead—
"My Friends, my Father, and my native Home,
"This tear is yours—to distant plains I roam—
"A dieu the well-known rill, the field, the grove!—
"Absence perhaps may soothe the pangs of Love."
Night
check'd her yoke to hear the artless swain,
And wept that faithful Love should love in vain.
A PICTURE OF HELEN.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY—
REpentant
Helen
sought the silent shade,
And wept to think what ruin she had made.
Reflection shews a Husband's injur'd peace,
Hears the deep carses of unpeopled
Greece,
Points to the story of her ruin'd fame,
And future ages shudd'ring at her name.
Lovely in guilt the great Adult'ress stood,
Saw
Phrygia's
plains imbru'd with
Hector's
blood,
Saw the slain Partner of her lawless joy,
A murder'd
Priam,
and a slaming
Troy.
She heav'd a groan, and clos'd her tear-stain'd eye
Lest she might see the
Grecian
Heroes die—
In vain—
Patroclus
rises to her fight,
Dress'd in the reddest horrors of the fight:
Link'd with his friend the great
Achilles
rose,
The tow'r of
Greece,
and terror of her foes:
Stern
Ajax
frown'd upon the gory field,
Longing in death to grasp
Pelides
' shield—
Vainly she strives to put them from her mind,
Her guilt hears groans in ev'ry whisp'ring wind;
See plated
Mars,
high on his crimson car
Laugh 'midst the spreading tumult of the war;
Now sees the
Greeks
and now the
Trojans
fly,
And hears one death-fraught thunder rend the sky.—
She heard—and struck with horror at the scene.
On earth's cold bosom sunk the hapless Queen.
In duteous haste her virgin's round her press,
Heave sigh for sigh, and grieve for her distress;
Anxious each balm to sooth her woes they seek,
And bid its native roses tinge her cheek.
Fruitless their care—In tears they raise her head,
Where Lilies wept their sister Roses dead.
Hark!—the kind streamlet from the neighb'ring trees
In gentle murmurs chides the noisy breeze—
The noisy breeze the sweet reproof obey'd,
Beheld the Fair, and dy'd along the glade.
Behold her, thou, whose passions long to rove
Careless of honour and connubial love,
And learn that, though enamour'd of her charms
Her doating Lord had ta'en her to his arms
Again, restor'd her to his bed and throne,
And to the world acknowledg'd her his own—
Yet not his pardon, nor his throne combin'd
Cou'd ease the pangs that agoniz'd her mind.
EPITAPHIUM.
SISTE viator!
Hic sepulta jacent ossa
JOSEPHI INCHBALD, HISTRIONIS
Qui aequalium suorum
In Fictis Scaenarum facile Princeps evasit,
Virtutisque in Veris Vitae claruit exemplar.
Procul este, invida Superstitio,
Et mala suadens religionis turbidus Amor!—
Vestris enim ingratiis, hic lapis omnibus praedicabit,
Quòd in his humi sacrae carceribus
Vir recti semper tenax,
Sociis charus, in pauperes benignus,
Pater optimus, Maritus fidelis,
Societatis jurum in cunctis observantissimus
Otii guadium, necnon seriorum ornamentum,
Expectans
De clementiâ Numinis immortalis
Aeternâ frui felicitate
Requiescit.
JOSEPHUS INCHBALD
Annum agens quadragesimum quartum
Octavo iduum Junii
Mortem obiit
Anno MDCCLXXIX.
ODE TO THE MEMORY OF MR. INCHBALD.
WHAT time the weak-ey'd Owl, on twilight wing
Slow borne, her vesper scream'd to Eve; and rouz'd
The lazy wing of Bat
With Beetle's sullen hum,
Friendship, and she, the maid of pensive mien,
Pale Melancholy point my sorrowing steps
To meditate the dead
And give my Friend a tear.
Here let me panse—and pay that tear I owe:
Silent it trickles down my cheek, and drops
Upon the recent sod
That lightly clasps his heart.
But ah! how vain—Nor flatt'ry's pow'r, nor wealth's,
Nor friendship's tear, nor widow'd ANNA'S VOICE,
Sweet as the harps of Heav'n,
Can move the tyrant Death.
Hence ye impure!—for hark—around his grave
The Sisters chaste, the Sisters whom he lov'd,
In nine-fold cadence
Chaunt immortal harmony.
'Tis done—'tis done —The well-earn'd laurel spreads
Its verdant foliage o'er his honour'd clay:
Again the Muses sing—
Thalia's
was the deed.
Thou honest man, farewell!—I wou'd not stain
Thy worth with praise—yet not the bright-hair'd King'
Who wooes the rosy morn,
And west'ring skirts the sky
With ruddy gold and purple, e'er shall see
Thy likeness—nor yon paly Crescent call
Her weeping dews to kiss
A turf more lov'd than thine.
THE CIRCASSIAN.
To Miss—.
JOVE
lately took it in his head
To give the Gods a masquerade,
And sent his footman
Hermes
out
With Cards to ask them to the rout.
Iris,
a milliner of taste,
Hand-bills sent forth thro' Heav'n in haste,
To tell the Goddesses she'd laid in
Fresh goods against the masquerading.
The Ladies all were in a pother,
And hoping each to outvie t'other
Bade her make up their silks and laces—
Venus
employ'd the Sister Graces:
Who all agreed Love's Queen should dress
As a CIRCASSIAN Shepherdess—
The Graces always fancy well—
Quick to their work the Sisters fell,
Finish'd it in a day or two,
Try'd it on
Venus,
and withdrew......
Who beg'd them first with earnest pray'r
To come next day and dress her hair:
Then in her kirtle tripp'd about,
And soon with this or that fell out;
Till, vex'd to death, young
Cupid
cries
"You Ladies are such oddities!—
"I'm sure, Mama, you quite mistake it,
"It fits as neat as hands can make it,
"There's not a single thread amiss"—
She smil'd—and gave the Boy a kiss;
When bolder grown, by
Slyx
he swore
"She ne'er look'd half so well before."—
To bed she went—thought all was right—
But cou'd n't sleep a wink that night.
Next ev'ning came the Graces three,
And
Venus
had 'em in to tea,
(In great-ones nothing shews so well
As 'haviour kind and affable.)
Well—after pitying the Moon
For tripping with
Endymion;
And calling royal
Juno
scold,
And twenty harmless tales o'ertold—
Says
Venus
looking at her watch,
"Ladies, egad we must dispatch,
"For see—it's almost nine o'clock—
"Euphrosyne,
come smooth this lock
—
"Pasithea
reach my dressing gown,
"
Thalia
take my toupée down,
"And let its ringlets kiss my head
"Loose, as when on wat'ry bed
"In smiles I woke to life divine—
"And here and there a rose entwine
"Adown that braid"—Says Miss," I doubt it
"Won't look so well as 'twould without it,
"These threads of gold"—"I will have one,
"Miss Grace, you know it's quite the Ton."
(So it is possible we see
That Ton and Grace may disagree)
Her locks ethereal now were drest......
"Come, bring me my Circassian vest."
"Where is it, Ma'am?—"I'th' middle drawer"—
Pusithea went—her Sisters saw her
Turn pale—she cries, "we're all undone"—
"How so?"—"Lord, Ma'am, the dress is gone."—
The Graces sobbings can't be painted......
Poor
Venus
only sigh'd—and fainted.
"Here, reach the Hartshorn Drops," says one—
"Fresh water," t'other—t'other "run
"For
Esculapius"
—"Greater need
"Of Doctor
Phaebus"
—"He dont bleed,
"Alas!" cries one—"and in this case
"She should be bled"—Ay"—"Cut her lace."—
Nothing was done of all they said,
For each commanded, none obey'd.—
Here
Cupid
with his play-mate came.
Soft
Ganymede,
to see the Dame.
For
Venus,
knowing not a chair
That night in Heav'n wou'd be to spare,
Nor coach for love or coin be had,
Very politely told the Lad
That he should be her 'Squire, and ride
That night with
Cupid
at her side
In her own chariot, drawn by Doves,
And lackied by a thousand Loves—
Ent'ring her room, the Fair they found
Rising recover'd from the ground.
Arch
Cupid,
looking earnest at her,
Climb'd on her knee, and "what's the matter,
"Mama?" says he—"My pretty Boy,
"My dress, my pride, my only joy
"Is gone, is gone."—"Mama, what dress?"—
"Why, my new PERSIAN Shepherdess!......
"The best CIRCASSIAN prankt with pink
"Was it?—"Ay, ay"—The Graces wink—
Gan
shook his head, and
Venus
sigh'd
And roguish
Cupid
laughing cry'd,
"That habit, Ma'am, I gave away
"To lively
Sappho"
—"When?—"To-day—
"The truth-bearing Graces there
"(The Graces nurs'd my blooming Fair)
"But yester ev'ning said they knew
"She wou'd look lovelier in't than you.
Venus
and
Cupid
'gan to scold,
While
Gany
flew to Heav'n and told
The Gods the tale—"And see," he said,
Pointing to earth,"see there's the Maid,
"The sweet CIRCASSIAN, my sworn Brother
"Thinks so much lovelier than his Mother."—
"Is that the Maid?" says
Jove
—"I find
"Our cousin
Cupid
is n't blind......
"For tho' the Rogue forgot his duty,
"Yet he's a perfect judge of Beauty."
FINIS.