Classic Poem

Long hast thou, friend, been absent from thy soil,
Like patient Ithacus at siege of Troy;
I have been witness of thy six years' toil,
Thy daily labours and thy night's annoy,
Lost to thy native land with great turmoil,
On the wide sea, oft threat'ning to destroy:
Methinks with thee I've trod Sigaean ground,
And heard the shores of Hellespont resound.

Did I not see thee when thou first sett'st sail
To seek adventures fair in Homer's land?
Did I not see thy sinking spirits fail
And wish thy bark had never left the strand?
Ev'n in mid ocean didst thou quail
And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand,
Praying the Virgin dear and saintly choir,
Back to the port to bring thy bark entire.

Cheer up, my friend, thy dangers now are o'er;
Methinks--nay, sure the rising coasts appear;
Hark how the guns salute from either shore
As thy trim vessel cuts the Thames so fair:
Shouts answ'ring shouts from Kent and Essex roar,
And bells break loud from ev'ry gust of air:
Bonfires do blaze, and bones and cleavers ring,
As at the coming of some mighty king.

Now pass we Gravesend with a friendy wind,
And Tilbury's white fort, and long Blackwall;
Greenwich where dwells the friend of humankind,
More visited than either park or hall.
Withers the good, and (with him ever join'd)
Facetious Disney greet thee first of all:
I see his chimney smoke, and hear him say:
"Duke! that's the room for Pope, and that for Gay.

"Come in, my friends, here shall ye dine and lie,
And here shall breakfast and here dine again,
And sup and breakfast on (if ye comply),
For I have still some dozens of champagne."
His voices still lessens as the ship sails by;
He waves his hand to bring us back in vain;
For now I see, I see proud London's spires;
Greenwich is lost, and Deptford Dock retires.

Oh, what a concourse swarms on yonder quay!
The sky re-echoes with new shouts of joy:
By all this show, I ween, 'tis Lord Mayor's Day;
I hear the voice of trumpet and hautboy.
No, now I see them near--oh, these are they
Who come in crowds to welcome thee from Troy.
Hail to the bard whom long as lost we mourn'd,
From siege, from battle, and from storm return'd.

Of goodly dames and courteous knights I view
The silken petticoat and broider'd vest;
Yea, peers and mighty dukes, with ribbons blue
(True blue, fair emblem of unstained breast).
Others I see as noble and more true,
By no court badge distinguish'd from the rest:
First see I Methuen of sincerest mind,
As Arthur grave, as soft as womankind.

What lady's that to whom he gently bends?
Who knows not her? Ah, those are Wortley's eyes.
How art thou honour'd, number'd with her friends;
For she distinguishes the good and wise.
The sweet-tongu'd Murray near her side attends:
Now to my heart the glance of Howard flies;
Now Hervey, fair of face, I mark full well
With thee, youth's youngest daughter, sweet Lepell.

I see two lovely sisters hand in hand,
The fair-hair'd Martha and Teresa brown;
Madge Bellenden, the tallest of the land;
And smiling Mary soft and fair as down.
Yonder I see the cheerful Duchess stand,
For friendship, zeal, and blithesome humours known:
Whence that loud shout in such a hearty strain?
Why, all the Hamiltons are in her train.

See next the decent Scudamore advance
With Winchilsea, still meditating song,
With her perhaps Miss Howe came there by chance,
Nor knows with whom, nor why she comes along.
Far off from these see Santlow fam'd for dance,
And frolic Bicknell, and her sister young,
With other names by me not to be nam'd,
Much lov'd in private, not in public fam'd.

But now behold the female band retire,
And the shrill music of their voice is still'd!
Methinks I see fam'd Buckingham admire,
That in Troy's ruins thou hast not been kill'd.
Sheffield who knows to strike the living lyre
With hand judicious like thy Homer skill'd:
Bathurst impetuous, hastens to the coast,
Whom you and I strive who shall love the most.

See gen'rous Burlington with goodly Bruce
(But Bruce comes wafted in a soft sedan),
Dan Prior next, belov'd by every Muse,
And friendly Congreve, unreproachful man!
(Oxford by Cunningham hath sent excuse),
See hearty Watkins come with cup and can;
And Lewis who has never friend forsaken
And Laughton whispering asks--"Is Troy Town taken?"

Earl Warwick comes, of free and honest mind,
Bold, gen'rous Craggs whose heart was ne'er disguis'd,
Ah, why, sweet St. John cannot I thee find?
St. John for ev'ry social virtue priz'd--
Alas! to foreign climates he's confin'd, Or else to see thee here I well surmis'd;
Thou too, my Swift, dost breathe Boeotian air,
When wilt thou bring back wit and humour here?

Harcourt I see for eloquence renown'd,
The mouth of justice, oracle of law!
Another Simon is beside him found,
Another Simon like as straw to straw.
How Lansdown smiles with lasting laurel crown'd!
What mitred prelate there commands our awe?
See Rochester approving nods the head,
And ranks one modern with the mighty dead.

Carlton and Chandos thy arrival grace;
Hanmer, whose eloquence the unbiass'd sways;
Harley, whose goodness opens in his face
And shows his heart the seat where virtue stays.
Ned Blount advances next with hasty pace,
In haste, yet saunt'ring, hearty in his ways.
I see the friendly Carylls come by dozens,
Their wives, their uncles, daughters, sons, and cousins.

Arbuthnot there I see, in physic's art,
As Galen learned or fam'd Hippocrate;
Whose company drives sorrow from the heart
As all disease his med'cines dissipate:
Kneller amid the triumph bears his part
Who could (were mankind lost) anew create;
What can th' extent of his vast soul confine?
A painter, critic, engineer, divine!

Thee Jervas hails, robust and debonair,
"Now have we conquer'd Homer, friends!" he cries;
Dartneuf, gay joker, joyous Ford is there,
And wond'ring Maine so fat, with laughing eyes,
(Gay, Maine, and Cheney, boon companions dear,
Gay fat, Maine fatter, Cheney huge of size),
Yea, Dennis, Gildon (hearing thou hast riches),
And honest hatless Cromwell with red breeches.

O Wanley, whence com'st thou with shorten'd hair,
And visage from thy shelves with dust besprent?
"Forsooth," quoth he, "from placing Homer there,
As ancients to compyle is mine intent;
Of ancients only hath Lord Harley care,
But hither me hath my meeke lady sent:--
In manuscript of Greek rede we thilke same,
But book reprint best plesyth my gude dame."

Yonder I see among th' expecting crowd
Evans with laugh jocose and tragic Young;
High buskin'd Booth, grave Mawbert, wand'ring Frowde
And Titcombe's belly waddles slow along.
See Digby faints at Southerne talking loud,
Yea, Steele and Tickell mingle in the throng,
Tickell, whose skiff (in partnership they say)
Set forth for Greece, but founder'd on the way.

Lo, the two Doncastles in Berkshire known!
Lo, Bickford, Fortescue of Devon land!
Lo, Tooker, Eckershall, Sykes, Rawlinson!
See hearty Morley take thee by the hand!
Ayrs, Graham, Buckridge, joy thy voyage done;
But who can count the leaves, the stars, the sand?
Lo, Stonor, Fenton, Caldwell, Ward, and Broome;
Lo, thousands more, but I want rhyme and room!

How lov'd, how honour'd thou! yet be not vain!
And sure thou art not, for I hear thee say--
"All this, my friends, I owe to Homer's strain,
On whose strong pinions I exalt my lay.
What from contending cities did he gain?
And what rewards his grateful country pay?
None, none were paid--why then all this for me?
These honours, Homer, had been just to thee."