It stops; it hardens in a trice!
Lo all converts to solid ice!
To prove thy power as much as needs,
Enough to freeze the wretch who reads.
[Born in 1715, died in 1785. Succeeded Cibber as Poet Laureate in 1757not without exciting many satirical protests from Churchill and others].
A TALE FOR MARRIED PEOPLE.
A GENTLE maid, of rural breeding,
By Nature first, and then by reading,
Was filled with all those soft sensations
Which we restrain in near relations,
Lest future husbands should be jealous,
And think their wives too fond of fellows.
The morning sun beheld her rove,
A nymph, or goddess of the grove;
At eve she paced the dewy lawn,
And called each clown she saw a faun;
Then, scudding homeward, locked her door,
And turned some copious volume o'er.
For much she read; and chiefly those
Great authors who in verse or prose,
Or something betwixt both, unwind
The secret springs which move the mind.
These much she read; and thought she knew
The human heart's minutest clue;
Yet shrewd observers still declare
(To show how shrewd observers are),
Though plays which breathed heroic flame,
And novels in profusion, came,
Imported fresh-and-fresh from France,
She only read the heart's romance.
The world, no doubt, was well enough
To smooth the manners of the rough;
Might please the giddy and the vain,
Those tinselled slaves of folly's train:
But, for her part, the truest taste
She found was in retirement placed,
Where, as in verse it sweetly flows,
"On every thorn instruction grows."
Not that she wished to "be alone,"
As some affected prudes have done;
She knew it was decreed on high
We should "increase and multiply;"
And therefore, if kind Fate would grant
Her fondest wish, her only want,
A cottage with the man she loved
Was what her gentle heart approved;
In some delightful solitude
Where step profane might ne'er intrude,
But Hymen guard the sacred ground,
And virtuous Cupids hover round.
Not such as flutter on a fan
Round Crete's vile bull, or Leda's swan
(Who scatter myrtles, scatter roses,
And hold their fingers to their noses),
But simpering, mild, and innocent,
As angels on a monument.
Fate heard her prayer: a lover came,
Who felt, like her, the innoxious flame;
One who had trod, as well as she,
The flowery paths of poesy;
Had warmed himself with Milton's heat,
Could every line of Pope repeat,
Or chant, in Shenstone's tender strains,
"The lover's hopes," "the lover's pains."
Attentive to the charmer's tongue,
With him she thought no evening long;
With him she sauntered half the day;
And sometimes, in a laughing way,
Ran o'er the catalogue by rote
Of who might marry, and who not;
"Consider, sir, we're near relations".
"I hope so, in our inclinations."
In short, she looked, she blushed consent;
He grasped her hand, to church they went ;
And every matron that was there,
With tongue so voluble and supple,
Said for her part, she must declare,
She never saw a finer couple.
Oh halcyon days! 'Twas Nature's reign,
'Twas Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain ;
The fields assumed unusual bloom,
And every zephyr breathed perfume;
The laughing sun with genial beams
Danced lightly on the exulting streams;
And the pale regent of the night
In dewy softness shed delight.
'Twas transport not to be expressed;
'Twas Paradise!-But mark the rest.
Two smiling springs had waked the flowers That paint the meads, or fringe the bowers
(Ye lovers, lend your wondering ears,
Who count by months, and not by years):
Two smiling springs had chaplets wove
To crown their solitude and love :
When lo, they find, they can't tell how,
Their walks are not so pleasant now.
The seasons sure were changed; the place
Had, somehow, got a different face.
Some blast had struck the cheerful scene ;
The lawns, the woods, were not so green.
The purling rill which murmured by,
And once was liquid harmony,
Became a sluggish reedy pool:
The days grew hot, the evenings cool.
The moon, with all the starry reign,
Were melancholy's silent train.
And then the tedious winter night-
They could not read by candle-light.
Full oft, unknowing why they did,
They called in adventitious aid.
A faithful, favourite dog ('twas thus
With Tobit and Telemachus)
Amused their steps; and for a while
They viewed his gambols with a smile.
The kitten too was comical,-
She played so oddly with her tail,
Or in the glass was pleased to find
Another cat, and peeped behind.
A courteous neighbour at the door
Was deemed intrusive noise no more:
For rural visits, now and then,
Are right, as men must live with men.
Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town,
A new recruit, a dear delight,
Made many a heavy hour go down,
At morn, at noon, at eve, at night:
Sure they could hear her jokes for ever,
She was so sprightly and so clever!
Yet neighbours were not quite the thing; What joy, alas! could converse bring With awkward creatures bred at home ?-The dog grew dull, or troublesome; The cat had spoiled the kitten's merit, And, with her youth, had lost her spirit; And jokes repeated o'er and o'er Had quite exhausted Jenny's store. "And then, my dear, I can't abide This always sauntering side by side."
Enough!" he cries, "the reason's plain :
For causes never rack your brain.
Our neighbours are like other folks.
Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes,
Are still delightful, still would please,
Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease.
Look round, with an impartial eye,
On yonder fields, on yonder sky;
The azure cope, the flowers below,
With all their wonted colours glow.
The rill still murmurs; and the moon
Shines, as she did, a softer sun.
No change has made the seasons fail,
No comet brushed us with his tail.
The scene's the same, the same the weather-
We live, my dear, too much together."
Agreed. A rich old uncle dies,
And added wealth the means supplies.
With eager haste to town they flew,
Where all must please, for all was new.
But here, by strict poetic laws,
Description claims its proper pause.
The rosy morn had raised her head From old Tithonus' saffron bed;
And embryo sunbeams from the east,
Half-choked, were struggling through the mist,
When forth advanced the gilded chaise ;
The village crowded round to gaze.
The pert postilion, now promoted
From driving plough, and neatly booted,
His jacket, cap, and baldric on,
(As greater folks than he have done)
Looked round; and, with a coxcomb air,
Smacked loud his lash. The happy pair
Bowed graceful, from a separate door,
And Jenny, from the stool before.
Roll swift, ye wheels! To willing eyes
New objects every moment rise.
Each carriage passing on the road,
From the broad waggon's ponderous load
To the light car where mounted high
The giddy driver seems to fly,
Were themes for harmless satire fit,
And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit.
Whate'er occurred, 'twas all delightful,
No noise was harsh, no danger frightful.
The dash and splash through thick and thin,
The hairbreadth 'scapes, the bustling inn
(Where well-bred landlords were so ready
To welcome in the squire and lady),
Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease,
Determined to be pleased, and please.
Now nearer town, and all agog,
They know dear London by its fog.
Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind,
Leave Hounslow's dangerous heath behind,
Through Brentford win a passage free
By roaring "Wilkes and Liberty!"
At Knightsbridge bless the shortening way,
Where Bays's troops in ambush lay,
O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide,
With palaces to grace its side,
Till Bond Street with its lamps ablaze
Concludes the journey of three days.
Why should we paint, in tedious song,
How every day, and all day long,
They drove at first with curious haste
Through Lud's vast town; or, as they passed
'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs,
Of streets on streets and squares on squares,
Describe how strong their wonder grew
At buildings-and at builders too?
Scarce less astonishment arose
At architects more fair than those-
Who built as high, as widely spread,
The enormous loads that clothed their head.
For British dames new follies love,
And, if they can't invent, improve.
Some with erect pagodas vie,
Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry.
Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest,
Convolved, contorted, and compressed,
With intermingling trees and flowers,
And corn and grass and shepherds' bowers, Stage above stage the turrets run,
Like pendent groves of Babylon,
Till nodding from the topmost wall
Otranto's plumes envelop all :
Whilst the black ewes who owned the hair
Feed harmless on, in pastures fair,
Unconscious that their tails perfume,
In scented curls, the drawing-room.
When Night her murky pinions spread,
And sober folks retire to bed,
To every public place they flew,
Where Jenny told them who was who.
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