Classic Poem

CANTO THE FOURTH .

At length are seen the beauties long deferr'd,
And lips of melting snow have kiss'd the Bird.
Nor Fiction's herald was the gossip Fame,
But modest when the living meteor came;
His brilliant eye no painter's hue could reach,
No voice could emulate his gifted speech;
Nor less approv'd credentials to the Fair,
A look of spirit and a martial air.
Alas, that Beauty's provident Creator
Should in these charms have dress'd a shameless traitor!
Why cannot we distinguish in the face
A Bird of Sotan from a Bird of Grace?
With lavish praise on such a host of charms,
The tongues of zeal impassion'd are in arms.
And such the chorus of applauding wonder,
That none could listen to a peal of thunder.
But, though his vocal air no secrets told,
Like a young Carmelite his eyes he roll'd;
Eyes un-equivocal — that, understood,
Inflam'd the wicked, and alarm'd the good.
Of Indiscretions, this was lot the first,
I wish it could have also been the worst.
For lot the second — Oh, could I impress it!
No Libertine alive could ever guess it.
When the fond Prioress, with holy zeal,
Impatient grew her visions to reveal,
In lips entranc'd and mystic hope convey'd,
— With fashion'd air he first explor'd the Maid;
Then, with a toss genteel and cavalier,
Without reflecting who the words could hear,
As if instructed in the Paphian school,
Mark'd all the Nuns for Hypocrites or Fools.
At this debut the Sister Augustaine ,
With melting grace, adjur'd him to abstain;
And said fi-donc to this unhallow'd Brother;
With simpering leer he gave her — such another,
And chim'd in words of such infernal sound,
That horror shook the consecrated ground.
" Vive Jesu! — 'tis a Fiend, " — the Abbess cried,
" 'Tis hell and sorcery, " the Nuns replied.
Was ever so inveterate a Rake?
What — this — it cannot be — 'tis pure mistake,
The Parrot, by Religion's breath inspir'd,
By Saints adopted, and by Nuns desir'd.
Next the bold Chief, to shew that he was game ,
Began to fulminate his oaths of shame.
The Vestal, blushing, and with tortur'd ear,
Flew to arrest the little pioneer;
Each found a packet ready for her use,
Wrapt in voluptuous hints, or droll abuse;
With younger Saints he disciplined the jest,
His mimping tone their faint alarm express'd;
Yet without mercy at the Hags he rose,
And peckt at their apostrophizing nose;
But these were preludes only: — the Corsair,
Foe to the chaunt, and sick of cloyster'd air,
With rage half-bursting, and with fumes of spite,
He gave at once, to make his burden light,
The words of joy deprav'd, and love impure,
That none but savage Libertines endure.
Around his beak, with many a " sacre-Dieu! "
The ribbald notes in giddy circle flew;
Neat as imported from the river brought,
Rich drafts of eloquence in brothels taught.
The junior sisters fancy'd it was Greek ,
But were so petrify'd — they could not speak;
Pale at the sound, and struck, they knew not why,
From this dread Libertine the cowards fly.
Full speed they gallop'd, and their Saints address'd,
With crosses huddled in the panting breast;
Each to her cell with ghastly omens hurl'd,
As at the wreck of Nature and the world.
Old Mother Cunegonde upon her nose
Fell with a single tooth — with none she rose;
Her mouth unlocking, that sepulchral cave,
The ancient Beliane began to rave:
" Eternal Father! ah, misericorde!
What Antichrist is here with fire and sword!
What Fiend commission'd! Save us, blessed Heaven,
And cleanse thy altar from Pollution's leaven!
How has that wretch the conscience, like the damn'd,
Here — in thy vineyards pure — to curse the land!
Are these of cloyster'd grain the bitter fruits,
The talent, this , which love monastic suits?
Is he the Bird that Vestals can revere?
Dispatch him to his friends — who sent him here! "
" Oh, Saints and Martyrs! oh, sublime Nevers , "
Econte exclaim'd — " was he instructed there;
Could Heaven's elect such elocution teach,
Are these, alas! their elements of speech?
Is youth so form'd by Nuns? or can the veil
Admit such Hereticks within its pale;
Oh, let not such a pest be harbour'd here,
With him the garrisons of Hell appear. "
Decreed — that, in the durance of a cage,
First he should bridle his demoniac rage;
And then remanded, like a vagrant lost,
Should learn the task of penance to his cost.
No better sport the fickle Bird requir'd,
For of his last adventure he was tir'd!
Condemn'd — and by a solemn verdict found,
The rash profaner of religious ground;
In hallow'd realms of sacrilege attaint,
And leagues with Hell against the Vestal Saint,
His doom in tears the Novices had sign'd,
Though to the lovely Sinner much inclin'd;
" Pity, " they said, " that he was thus deprav'd,
But could he not be reconcil'd, and sav'd? "
It melted their philanthropies to know
So wild a Ruffian mask'd in such a Beau;
Though he was prov'd a Libertine at heart,
They sigh'd, and look'd , at seeing him depart.
Away decamping in the Sister's hand,
Who first receiv'd him when he touch'd the land,
He bit her not — as to the Port he went:
A cabin took him, with his free consent.
As from the shore with careless joy he fled,
No plea was interpos'd — no tears were shed.
Alas! what Muse can tell — what Fancy guess —
(Oh, tragic theme! dread Iliad of distress!)
The goading shame that, when he reach'd Nevers ,
Stung all the Sisters who caress'd him there,
When Love's refin'd endearments he repaid
With his un-edifying serenade;
Their flushing cheek redoubled veils conceal,
But still the heart can melt — and Saints can feel .
Nine venerable Matrons, cold and sage,
With nine descents accomplish'd in their age;
Assemble in the descretoire , and there
No partial bosoms the convicted spare.
No champions for the dear perfidious plead,
No hearts enamour'd for their passion bleed;
In fetters bound, and stript of all his fame,
The sullen Victim of Despair and Shame,
Stands at the bar, to hear his final doom.
In colours black two Sibyls vote — the tomb;
But other two, in vengeance more discreet,
Consign the Indian to his native seat,
In climes profane, to Superstition dear,
(The Fiend whom dark Idolaters revere;)
The five remaining have the sentence past,
" For two whole months of penance he shall fast ;
Three shall he mope in solitude; and four
Shall in mute grief his eloquence deplore. "
The garden, toilette, comfits, and alcove,
Are all withheld from his polluting love;
But, Misery's dread heap imperfect yet,
A guard and jailor at the door they set;
Alecto of the Nuns, all crape and fur,
But old enough to be a dowager;
A beldam she, of eighty at the least,
And stern as Alva's Duke, or Spanish Priest.
Yet this keen Argus could not quite prevent
The intercourse of hearts that anguish rent.
At leisure from the vespers and the matins,
The Novice came, and strok'd his feather'd satins;
Alleviated the rigour of his fate,
And gave him comfits at his prison gate;
When sleep had clos'd the jealous turnkey's eye,
Or gold, the net for age, could mercy buy.
The Petimmur'd, though blest with conscience free,
With such a penance never could agree;
By Shame corrected, by Misfortune taught,
Or sickening of the gaoler, as 'tis thought,
He reconnoiter'd all the sins he own'd,
And with contrition for the past aton'd;
The Monk, Dragoons, and kisses he forgot —
Then for a milder prison chang'd his lot,
With holy Sisters he convers'd again,
His forfeit health and spirits to regain,
Canonically edified became,
And cheer'd his appetites with temper'd flame.
Intelligence of this conversion flew,
And soon disarm'd the Tisiphonian crew;
The time of exile was abridg'd; the day
Of his recall prepar'd its genial ray;
The taste of mirth and festival at hand
For these co-parceners in Holy Land;
The busy interval their plans approv'd,
As Fancy whisper'd, or as Art improv'd.
Oh, syren pleasures and allurements vain.
That Hope's gay dream with perfidy can stain!
The dormitories trick'd in gay festoon,
The tea, the lively dance, and frolie tune,
The tumult sweet, the liberty entire,
Breath'd passions unreprov'd, and vestal fire:
No Bird of omen sung the warning note,
For who can discipline as well as doat?
Inordinate compassion for the past
Chang'd into surfeit the atoning fast;
In sweets of honey, and of rich liqueurs ,
Inflam'd and bursting, he no more endures
The vital air — on sugar-plumbs he fell;
The Loves grew pale, and Beauty rung his knell.
In vain the orisons invoke his breath,
And call his fleeting spirit back from Death:
With soft excess they only urge his fate —
He dies of transport, and of pleasure's weight;
His parting voice the junior Saints admir'd,
His parting kiss their nectar'd lips requir'd. —
Then Venus to Elysium in her arms
Propitious bore his consecrated charms;
There plac'd him by the heroes of his kind,
And close to him upon whose urn reclin'd
Corinna's deathless Bard enamour'd hung,
And with impassion'd stains the Naenia sung.
But who can tell how Death's illustrious prize
With tears of anguish fill'd the Vestal eyes!
A meeting held, la Saeur depositaire
Of circular dispatches took the care;
From that record the piteous tale withdrew,
My Hero's deathless honours to renew:
From Nature drawn, the portrait's living traits
Can still assert and vindicate his praise.
Led by the hand of Love, the needle's power
Has cherish'd and preserv'd the vital flower;
Grief, whose memorials bid the past return,
With tears that speak bedew'd the sacred urn;
Funereal honours crown the hallow'd shade,
Such as the Muse to Birds of note has paid.
The mausoleum that enshrin'd his tomb
Was overshadow'd by a myrtle's gloom;
There, by the tender Artemisias grac'd,
In characters of gold these rhymes were plac'd.

EPITAPH .

Ye Novice-juniors, who for chat retire,
Suspend that innocent and calm desire;
Unfetter'd here by elder Nuns demure,
With no averted eye the tear abjure.
You read in silence: but no more be mute;
A single word shall recommend the suit;
Speak! — and your eloquence to Death impart!
Here lies the Bird that won a Convent's heart.

'Tis rumour'd, and 'tis there my tale is clos'd,
That in this tomb the dead is not enclos'd;
That his gay spirit in the Convent glides,
And still in all the Sisterhood resides:
From Nun to Nun transmigrating the Bird,
Their spirits cheering, in their prattle heard!