Classic Poem

Far from those green retreats, that peaceful shade,
Those fields through which my early childhood strayed,
Far from the vale beneath whose poplars glide
The smooth meanders of still Wever's tide,
How pants my soul 'midst Revelry's rude noise,
Midst Dissipation's round, for gentler joys,
For holy calms that dwell in silent dales,
Nursed by soft sounds, and fed by murmuring gales!
And thou, Lorenzo, candid and sincere,
Thou whom of Heaven's dear boons I hold most dear,
From whose prized friendship and sweet converse flow
The purest joys my grateful heart can know,
Dost thou not ask, through what gay pleasures bend
The wandering footsteps of thy absent friend?
If still this heart, to Nature's impulse true,
Retains the taste of those soft joys it knew
When scenes of peace and gentleness impressed
A kindred feeling on my tranquil breast?

Ah me, my friend! how vain the wish to find
Joy in the painful study of mankind!
Once, lured by flattering hopes, I fondly deemed
The book of man with crowded beauties teemed;
Then too the wild enthusiast, Fancy, drew
Scenes bright and fair, too lovely to be true;
For Fraud, and Pride, and Avarice, and Rage,
And Lust, and Jealousy, defile the page;
Stretch their long trains, and scarce leave vacant space
For one short trait of Virtue or of Grace.
Already sickening o'er the loathsome scene
Where Vice and Folly all their powers convene,
I sigh for some retreat, some secret cell,
Whence I may bid the stormy world farewell,
Bless the kind heaven that bears me to the shore,
And swear to tempt the dangerous waves no more.
How sweet, my friend, how pleasant were those hours
We shared together in our native bowers,
When, wandering with light feet the woods among,
We first essayed our imitative song,
Formed plans of future happiness and joy,
And fondly deemed life's gold had no alloy.
Then all was fair; our inexperienced eyes
Knew not to pierce of craft the close disguise;
Bright shone the world with beauties not its own,
And man was fair, for man was then unknown.
Oh dear Experience, thou whom man can gain
Only by bosom-sorrow, tears, and pain,
Already, Power unerring, has thy sway
Shown to my early years how idly gay,
How empty the romantic dreams of youth,
And how they fade before the touch of Truth.

Oh ye mistaken! whose too partial sight
Views man encompassed but by virtue's light,
Who, nursed 'mid groves, and shades, and murmuring streams,
As yet have breathed where nought but beauty beams;
Who think, because his paths you never trod,
Man beauteous as the other works of God!
Like you I hoped, how vain that hope! to find
Goodness unmixed and virtue in mankind,
Nursed the good-natured folly in my breast,
Nor dreamed I nursed a foe to future rest.
Short was my sojourn in this busy world
Ere from these high-flown hopes my heart was hurled;
Truth rent the vail, dispelled the circling shade,
And man in all his horrors stood displayed.

Though Pride and Power, vain-glorious and elate,
With vaunting tongue their fancied joys relate,
Derive from wealth and show a gaudy blaze,
And dazzle foolish eyes with gold's false rays,
Yet deem those joys but feigned and insincere;
Where shall joy come, if virtue is not there?
The humble swain that from the stubborn soil
Earns his hard fare by sweat and ceaseless toil,
If Virtue's sacred fire within his breast
Burns clear and bright, lives then more fully blest
Than he whose heart, to Virtue's charms unknown,
Builds all its hopes of bliss on Power alone.
But now examine we with nearer eyes
Those joys that Pride and Power so highly prize;
Then let us ask how far their taste excels
The placid pleasure that with Virtue dwells.
Thee, C LODIUS , to the public bar I call,
By thee the cause I plead shall stand or fall:
Then come thou forth to public view displayed,
Come forth in colours all thine own arrayed;
Strip off thy gilded trappings for a while,
The wealth, the rank, the state that fools beguile;
Off with them all, stand forth without disguise,
That all may see thee with undazzled eyes!
Thee not by Truth or Virtue I adjure,
By Fame unsullied, Honour bright and pure,
By Candour, Charity, or honest pride,
By aught to nobleness of soul allied,
By aught that good and virtuous men adore;
Know'st thou the names of these? thou know'st no more.
Oh old in shame and baseness which in vain
Scoundrels in little labour to obtain!
Oh rich in infamy! oh meanly great,
And poor in all the pageantry of state!
Though wealth, that knows no limits, o'er thee flings
All the false glare and splendour wealth e'er brings,
Though rank its honours adds, though round thee shine
Titles and names ne'er infamous till thine,
Say, have thy wealth, thy titles, and thy power,
E'en in thy fortune's most propitious hour,
E'er bribed one tongue that yet could condescend
To hail thee by the sacred name of friend?
One cringing flatterer that would swell his lays
With the poor pomp of highly-purchased praise?
Where are the arts that bless thy fostering hand,
The sparks of genius that thy breath has fanned?
Say, has thy wealth e'er shed one cheering ray
O'er drooping Science, or the Muse's lay?
Say, has the power of Music's melting strain
Assailed thy heart, and not assailed in vain?
Yes, oft the public eye has seen thy face
Amid the gay frequenters of the place
Where all stern British feelings melt away
To the soft trilling of an Eunuch's lay.
There oft times thou art seen with lustful eye
To pry around, if haply thou may'st spy
Amid the throng some pure fresh blooming maid
In modesty and innocence arrayed;
Then, if no brother's watchful care defends
Her beauty, if no guardian sire attends,
Straight thy hot glance is bold, the wanton leer,
In which both impudence and lust appear,
Offends her eye; in vain aside she turns,
In vain with virtuous indignation burns;
Thou coward! canst enjoy a woman's pain,
Triumph on every blush, then leer again.
'Tis the same cause that leads thee to display
Thy loathsome person to the eye of day,
When to the public walks in motley throng
Gay nymphs and flaunting damsels troop along;
Chaired in thy balcony in goatish pride
(Some parasite or pimp fixed by thy side)
Still thou art found, still seen with wanton eye
To mark each female form that passes by;
Then, for the stern critique!.......Thy learned taste
Scans every feature, deems that eye ill placed,
This nose not finely turned, that lip too thin,
And with importance damns a faulty chin.
Nor stops thy judgment here; profane and bold,
Thy hot mind penetrates the muslin's fold!
The close-drawn vest, the robe's surrounding fence,
Oppose no barrier to thy impudence;
For vest, and robe alike, and sacred lawn,
By thy lascivious thoughts aside are drawn;
Then thy soul revels, filthy and unclean,
'Mid thousand charms, conjectured, though unseen:
And who shall dare to doubt thy judgment, graced
By all the elegance of purest taste,
Formed as it is on many a treasured rule
Drawn from the precepts of the painter's school;
Yes thou, e'en thou, amidst thy thirst of gold,
(Hear it, ye young! believe it all, ye old!)
E'en thou hast known to bid the pencil pour
For thee the treasures of the art's rich store;
Witness that chamber, on whose chosen walls
In showers of art thy partial favour falls;
There, mixed with satyrs wanton nymphs are seen,
In frolic dance, or sporting on the green;
There many a Venus on thy eager gaze
Pours the full flood of all her beauty's blaze,
Scorns the thin shelter of the veil's light shade,
And stands in purest nakedness displayed;
There a Bacchante blooms, with vine leaves crowned,
Her half-loose hair with twining tendrils bound,
Her zone is all unclasped, no envious vest
Hides the clear snow of her voluptuous breast,
Fondly she seems to breathe the ardent sigh,
And dart impassioned glances from her eye.
Such are the temples that thy riches build,
Temples to Lust, with wanton offerings filled....
Such is the place in which thy beastly fires
Rage and burn forth with impotent desires.
Methinks I see thee now in thy recess
By turns to every charm thy gaze address,
Dwell on each wanton form with lustful stare,
And snuff, with nostril high up-turned, the air;
Then pant for raptures thou canst never know,
And sigh for powers that left thee long ago.
Thus far, no farther, to the graphic art
Thy rank, thy power, thy wealth, their aid impart.
Thee no fond wishes to improve his breed
Prompt to protect the proud and generous steed;
Though first upon the turf-list stands thy name,
Though thee their chief and lord with loud acclaim
Jockies and swindlers call, though all the rout
Of black-legs round thy steps according shout,
'Tis not because thine eye delights to see
A noble brute, his limbs all symmetry,
His courage high,........because thou know'st the wind
Left by the swiftness of his speed behind;
No, 'tis thy poor ambition to be known
The richest Black-legs that the age has shown....
For Avarice sways thy heart, without controul
Rules in thy breast, and lords it o'er thy soul....
E'en in thy early years, e'en then, when strong
And powerful round the heart the passions throng,
E'en then, when least the specious snares of gold
The fiery soul in irksome bondage hold,
With eager eyes the goddess saw thee lay
A fit foundation for her future sway:
Exulting, then she marked thee for her own,
And deemed thy heart her surest, firmest throne;
And thou, to bless her hopes, while free, and gay,
And blithesome, others frolicked in life's May,
Still wast thou seen, e'en in thy joys, to bear
A thrifty spirit, and a sordid care,
To smother each chance spark of generous fire,
And bid it huddled up in damps expire.
Then in thy slumbers, while across thy brain
Visions of gold danced on in gorgeous train,
O'er thee the goddess her pale form inclined,
Round thee her limbs in many a clasp she twined
With snaky fold, and strained thee to her breast,
While to thy lips her livid lips she pressed,
Then through thy inmost heart's recesses stole,
And mixed her very essence with thy soul.
Since then thy every hour of life hath shown
That Avarice bears no rival near her throne;
And usurers at cent. per cent. may see
New arts, new tricks, new cozenage in thee;
Though much they know, from thee may know still more,
And learn extortion they ne'er saw before.
But if the Goddess for one little hour
Dismiss thy soul unwilling from her power,
Then to some vice that follows in her train
She still commits the momentary reign;
Delighted by the change, awhile thy mind
Riots and rages loose and unconfined,
And one short hour gives ample space to thee
To run through every change of infamy.
Oh! could some great forefather's sacred shade
Bend from his cloud of glory, where arrayed
In light, acquired by deeds how far from thine!
He sits among the heroes of his line,
How could'st thou stand erect? how not fall down
In fear before the terrors of his frown?
How the fierce lightning of his eye sustain,
Or hear his voice thy life's whole course arraign?

The founders of thy race at honour's call
Left the gay banquet and the festive hall,
Loosed the fond clasp of Beauty's twining arms,
And rushed with generous warmth 'mid war's alarms;
While round their banners, from their native plains
And shaggy mountains, thronged the hardy swains;
Strong were their arms, and powerful in the field
The ponderous mace or battle-axe to wield,
Foremost they moved in war, their country's pride,
And knew to rule of fight the bloody tide;
Then, when their banners o'er their castle walls
Aloft were hung, or decked their vaulted halls,
They knew the peace their swords had gained to prize,
And bade the arts in fair succession rise;
Cheered with their bounty's beams desponding woe,
Or taught encroaching power their might to know.

*****

Then what are riches, or a titled name?
Say, can they bring immunity from shame?
Can they for vice procure respect, efface
From villains' fronts the brandmarks of disgrace?
Give Wolcott (if he had them) decency,
Or lessen restless Wakefield's flippancy?
Give Snob to honesty the least pretence,
Or furnish Godwin's school with common sense;
Secure the honours of his Lordship's bed,
Or hide the antlers that adorn his head?
Clodius from scorn and infamy exempt,
Or make him less an object of contempt?
Dull though the age, it still has sense to see
Through rich brocades the shapes of infamy;
Though far advancing in the paths of vice,
Knows how to estimate pure honour's price,
Knows how to value the benignant hand
That scatters useful knowledge through the land.

Let those who win their fame in fields of blood
Go forth to havoc, stem the purple flood,
Spread woe and desolation with their breath,
And mark their pathways with despair and death,
Let them their thousands slaughter, that one name
May live upon the bloody lists of fame;
I covet not the savage pride that burns
In the stern conqueror's bosom, who returns
Still red with all the carnage of the war;
Such I ne'er envy, though the lofty car
Bears them with sounding wheels amid the throng
That hymns their massacres in choral song;
Such I ne'er envy, though their proud hearts gain
A quickening throb of transport from each strain,
Though Gods they seem to move, and high upborn
In glorious pomp, they view the world with scorn.
For me........If gracious Heaven would grant the fame
Myself could wish might decorate my name,
Rather than all the worship and renown
That court the sword of conquest, or the crown,
Than all the honours that from learning spring,
Than all that wit and brightest genius bring,
I'd prize the blest voice that should make me known
As one whose care had hushed pale Misery's groan,
As one who knew, though 'twere but once, to save
From anguish, prisons, or a self-sought grave.
Oh, in this frantic age, that I might find
The chosen few that dedicate the mind
To useful knowledge, wandering not astray
After wild theories, in Doubt's dark way,
Not lost in systems none yet understood,
But following plain and practicable good;
Then should my soul rejoice, and bless the power
That gave me in this age to live my hour.
How vain that wish! Sweeping with headlong sway
The floods of Vice and folly force their way;
While floating rarely on the gulfy tide,
The good are seen, and vanish when descried.
Yet if the preacher leaves the work of grace,
And seeks the dearer business of the chace;
For boots and buckskin quits the gown and band,
And for his Bible takes the whip in hand,
Then boasts his prowess forced the 'Squire to yield
To him the foremost honours of the field,
Or thinks it stupid with his flock to pray:
Admire we that his flock should go astray?
Yet such there are, and such my verse by name
Might well deliver up to public shame;
Yet such there are, and such as bend the knee
To what they love and worship ....... Gluttony:
These find a pregnant text in flesh, fowl, fish,
And deify the' inventor of a dish;
The cloth removed, they push the bottle round,
And beat the layman on his proper ground:
No frown from these shall check the wanton jest,
Though filth and lewdness are its only zest;
And though the cause they aid, or ought to aid,
Of sneers and scoffs profane the theme is made,
They join the loud laugh, or applauding grin,
While decency is thought a deadly sin.

And ye, above all other nations fair,
Daughters of Albion! lovely as ye are,
How must I grieve that all your power o'er man
Is exercised the flames of vice to fan.
Though Heaven your grace and gentleness designed
To soften man, and soothe his sterner mind,
Your converse to refine him, and your smile
His hours of pain and sorrow to beguile,
How is that purpose thwarted! when the hand
That best through scenes of vice might guide to land
Man's fragile bark, repels him from the shore,
Though whirlpools wait him, and though tempests lour.
What fiend, what fury, hostile to mankind,
Expelled all softness from the female mind?
What devil first bade woman burn to share
With man in wickedness an equal share?
To lay aside the gentleness that decks
With best and fairest ornament her sex,
To join in vices that man's grosser heart
Before monopolized, to bear a part
In all the wantonness of revelry,
To hate, as chains and trammels, modesty?
Is this too much? Has my unguarded tongue
Been shameless, bold, and insolent in wrong?
Say, have I with licentious insolence
Assailed defenceless blushing Innocence,
Loaded with lies and slander woman's name,
Confiding in the weakness of her frame?
Of me demand not whether this be so,
Of woman ask, for well does woman know;
Ask of yon females at the board who stand,
With dice-box high advanced in eager hand;
For them the night suffices not, the sun
Rising oft sees their vigils yet undone;
View them, and say, amongst them canst thou trace
One single vestige of a woman's grace?
View well the glance that marks with fixed desire
The stake, and gleams with avaricious fire;
View well those cheeks all pale and wan with care,
With thirst of gold; then say, is softness there?
Hie to yon bloated Dowager, whose board
Bears what all climes and seasons can afford,
For whom cold February's hands supply
The fruits that Nature offers in July;
Ask, what is social virtue? she will say
" 'Tis this, 'tis honourable debts to pay,
To satisfy the scoundrel whose vile skill
Can slip a card, or cog a die at will;
To let an honest tradesman pine in want,
To call his cravings impudence and cant;
To see your friends, that is, send cards about,
Appointing this or that day for your rout,
Your friends , or known or unknown , gladly come,
Crammed by some forty dozens in a room;
And mark, 'tis best of all, you squeeze them well,
As close as oysters in a scallop shell. "
Ask you lascivious Wanton, who has fled
Her husband's arms for an adult'rous bed,
Ask her what pleasures social converse brings,
And she shall answer thee such monstrous things,
Shall tell such acts of shameless lust, as seen
Would call a blush of shame from Aretin;
Such orgies that should Lewis hear them told,
Lewis would swear his " Monk " is chaste and cold,
Then hastening to his closet, should bestow
Fresh heightening tints, bid new descriptions glow,
And work, and toil, that none might say, and smile,
" Lewis is vanquished in his fav'rite style; "
Morris should swear that these are higher things
Then all the songs he writes, or, writing, sings.
Where shall these evils stop? what power shall bound
The vice that spreads its growing circle round,
Assumes each hour a wide and wider sway,
And sees its strength dilating every day?
While those whom Vice has taught its sway to feel,
With indefatigable popish zeal
Labour and toil, and try all craft to gain
Converts and subjects to their monarch's reign;
Unnumbered are the arts with which they ply
Their cursed trade, the blandisments they try;
And him whom all the cunning they employ
And soft seductions, skilful to destroy,
Assail in vain, they hamper with false shame,
And foolish dread, lest sneers attend his name.
Perverted shame! of Vice the surest friend,
On thee her best and dearest hopes depend:
Man, foolish man, to 'scape thy empty power,
Shall rush where fiends are ready to devour,
Shall quake if Ridicule shall smile or nod,
Yet walk a braggart in the sight of God.
Is this the world! must all my dreams of youth
Vanish before this mortifying truth!
Must I, whene'er I walk, be doomed to meet
Folly and Vice in triumph in each street,
Goodness and Virtue but in visions see,
Or see them made the jest of Villany?
Dear native Wever, by whose gentle stream
I gave my soul to many a blissful dream,
Though now in discontent and gloom I stray
Far from the vale that sees thy waters play,
Where'er I go, where'er my footsteps roam,
My fancy still returns to thee and home;
Bids thy known banks and loved recesses rise
To soothe my soul, and cheat my longing eyes,
Bids scenes endeared by past events employ
My thoughts, and charm with momentary joy.
But ah not long the smiling visions stay,
Vice comes . . . . . . . . in air they melt, they fade away.
The baleful power rears high in pride her face,
And shews a different form in every place,
Meets me at every turn where'er I go,
Nor suffers me one hour of peace to know;
In vain her presence I attempt to fly,
Turn where I will she meets my sickening eye.
Thus some poor Indian, on his unknown way,
Worn with fatigue, and trembling with dismay
Wanders 'till night has spread her shades around,
Then throws him in despair upon the ground;
Sleep seals his eyes; he finds a short repose,
A short and sweet oblivion of his woes;
Wrapt in a blissful dream he seems to rove
Through the sweet mazes of a spicy grove,
Where cool rills murmur though the tangled glade,
And tall bananas spread their graceful shade;
Or where through green savannahs, clear and strong,
The deep majestic waters sweep along.
And ever to his senses stands displayed
The beauteous image of his much-loved maid;
Near in the tamarind shade she seems to stand,
Arrayed in smiles, and beckoning waves her hand;
Glowing with love he gazes on her charms,
Then sighs, and wide extends his eager arms;
Already holds her in his strict embrace,
And hangs with maddening rapture o'er her face.
Ah, bliss how short! he wakes, and all aghast
Hears the fierce yell of tigers in the blast,
Hears the gaunt lion roaring for his prey,
And fears the fell hyaena in his way ....
Frantic along his dismal way he speeds,
And dreads, when murmuring in the giant reeds,
Strange whispers sound, as in the winds they shake,
Some unknown monster crouching in the brake.