thing! That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's The poor little Jackdaw, when the monks Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; Slower and slower, he limped on before, 100 Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw! Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, And off that terrible curse he took; The mute expression, served in lieu of confession, And, being thus coupled with full restitution, The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really He grew sleek and fat; in addition to A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; SAMUEL JOHNSON (1709-1784) LONDON IN IMITATION OF THE THIRD SATIRE OF JUVENAL, 1738 Quis ineptae Tam patiens urbis, tam ferreus, ut teneat se?'-Juv. THOUGH grief and fondness in my breast rebel When injured Thales bids the town farewell, Yet still my calmer thoughts his choice commend; I praise the hermit, but regret the friend; Who now resolves, from vice and London far, To breathe in distant fields a purer air; And fixed on Cambria's solitary shore, Or change the rocks of Scotland for the There, none are swept by sudden fate away, 10 20 30 40 50 60 Their ambush here relentless ruffians lay, A transient calm the happy scenes bestow, Where honesty and sense are no disgrace; Some pleasing bank where verdant osiers play, The cheated nation's happy favourites see! Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me! London, the needy villain's general home, All that at home no more can beg or steal, court, Their air, their dress, their politics import; All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows, Studious to please, and ready to submit, For arts like these preferred, admired, caressed, They first invade your table, then your breast; By numbers here from shame and censure free, Has Heaven reserved, in pity to the poor, No pathless waste or undiscovered shore? No secret island in the boundless main? No peaceful desert yet unclaimed by Spain? Quick let us rise, the happy seats explore, And bear oppression's insolence no more. This mournful truth is everywhere confessed, Slow rises worth, by poverty depressed. [Couldst thou resign the Park and play, content, For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent; There mightst thou find some elegant retreat, Some hireling senator's deserted seat; And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land, For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand; There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flowers, Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers; There every bush with nature's music rings, There every breeze bears health upon its wings; On all thy hours security shall smile, And bless thine evening walk and morning toil.] Scarce can our fields-such crowds at No spies were paid, no special juries known, Blest age! but ah! how different from our own! Much could I add-but see, the boat at hand, The tide retiring, calls me from the land: Farewell!-When youth, and health, and fortune spent, Thou fliest for refuge to the wilds of Kent; And tired like me with follies and with crimes, In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times; Then shall thy friend-nor thou refuse his aidStill foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade; In virtue's cause once more exert his rage, Thy satire point, and animate thy page. I I THE VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES IN IMITATION OF THE TENTH SATIRE OF JUVENAL, 1749 LET Observation, with extensive view, Survey mankind from China to Peru; To tread the dreary paths without a guide) How rarely reason guides the stubborn choice, Rules the bold hand, or prompts the suppliant voice! How nations sink, by darling schemes oppressed! And restless fire precipitates on death. But, scarce observed, the knowing and the bold Fall in the general massacre of gold; Wide-wasting pest! that rages unconfined, And crowds with crimes the records of mankind; For gold his sword the hireling ruffian draws, For gold the hireling judge distorts the laws; Wealth heaped on wealth nor truth nor safety buys, The dangers gather as the treasures rise. Unnumbered suppliants crowd Preferment's Athirst for wealth, and burning to be great; Love ends with hope, the sinking statesman's door Pours in the morning worshipper no more; From every room descends the painted face, But will not Britain hear the last appeal, Sign her foes' doom, or guard her favourites' zeal? In full-blown dignity see Wolsey stand, Law in his voice, and fortune in his hand: To him the church, the realm, their powers consign; Through him the rays of regal bounty shine; Turned by his nod the stream of honour flows, His smile alone security bestows: Still to new heights his restless wishes tower; Claim leads to claim, and power advances power: Till conquest unresisted ceased to please, state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate: Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye, His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; Now drops at once the pride of awful state, [What gave great Villiers to the assassin's knife? And fixed disease on Harley's closing life? By kings protected, and to kings allied? On what foundations stands the warrior's pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide; No dangers fright him, and no labours tire; 50 60 70 80 90 Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; 'Think nothing gained,' he cries, 'till nought remain, On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, And all be mine beneath the polar sky!' The march begins in military state, And nations on his eye suspended wait; Stern Famine guards the solitary coast, 100 And Winter barricades the realms of frost; He comes! nor want, nor cold, his course delay; Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa's day! The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, But did not Chance at length her error mend? A petty fortress, and a dubious hand; He left the name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale. IO 20 BEN JONSON TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MASTER, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, AND WHAT HE HATH LEFT US To draw no envy, Shakespeare, on thy name, ways Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise; For silliest ignorance on these would light, Which, when it sounds at best, but echoes right; Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance My Shakespeare, rise! I will not lodge thee by 30 From thence to honour thee I will not seek Triumph, my Britain! thou hast one to show, 40 50 I And such wert thou! Look how the father's face Lives in his issue, even so the race Of Shakespeare's mind and manners brightly shines In his well turnèd and true filèd lines; In each of which he seems to shake a lance, As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were 70 To see thee in our water yet appear, And make those flights upon the banks of Thames That so did take Eliza and our James! But stay, I see thee in the hemisphere Advanced, and made a constellation there! Shine forth, thou Star of Poets, and with rage, Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage, Which since thy flight from hence hath mourned like night, And despairs day, but for thy volume's light! JOHN KEATS ROBIN HOOD No! those days are gone away And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden pall Of the leaves of many years: Many times have Winter's shears, Frozen North, and chilling East, Sounded tempests to the feast Of the forest's whispering fleeces, Since men knew nor rent nor leases. No, the bugle sounds no more, Past the heath and up the hill; On the fairest time of June Gone, the merry morris' din; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the 'grené shawe'; All are gone away and past! And if Robin should be cast Sudden from his tufted grave, And if Marian should have Once again her forest days, She would weep, and he would craze: He would swear, for all his oaks, Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, Have rotted on the briny seas; She would weep that her wild bees Sang not to her-strange! that honey Can't be got without hard money! So it is; yet let us sing Honour to the old bow-string! Honour to the bugle-horn! Honour to the woods unshorn! Honour to the Lincoln green! Honour to the archer keen! Honour to tight Little John, And the horse he rode upon! Honour to bold Robin Hood, Sleeping in the underwood! Honour to Maid Marian, And to all the Sherwood clan! Though their days have hurried by Let us two a burden try. RUDYARD KIPLING, see pages 390-391. 40 50 60 |