Composed of whim and mirth and satire,
Without one drop of true good nature.
But trust me; 't is corrupted taste
To make so merry with the last,
When in that fatal word we find
Each foe to gayety combined.
Since parting then - on Arno's shore
We part – perhaps to meet no more,
Let these last lines some truths contain,
More clear than bright, less sweet than plain.
Thou first, to soothe whose feeling heart
The Muse bestowed her lenient art,
Accept her counsel, quit this coast
With only one short lustrum lost,
Nor longer let the tuneful strain
On foreign ears be poured in vain ;
The wreath which on thy brow should live,
Britannia's hand alone can give.
Meanwhile for Bertie * Fate prepares
A mingled wreath of joys and cares,
When politics and party-rage
Shall strive such talents to engage,
And call him to control the great,
And fix the nicely balanced state;
Till charming Anna's gentler mind,
For storms of faction ne'er designed,
Shall think with pleasure on the times
When Arno listened to his rhymes,
And reckon among Heaven's best mercies
Our Piozzi's voice, and Parson's verses.
Thou, too, who oft has strung the lyre
To liveliest notes of gay desire,
No longer seek these scorching flames,
And trifle with Italian dames,
But haste to Britain's chaster isle,
Receive some fair one's virgin smile,
Accept her vows, reward her truth,
And guard from ills her artless youth.
Keep her from knowledge of the crimes
That taint the sweets of warmer climes,
But let her weaker bloom disclose
The beauties of a hothouse rose,
Whose leaves no insects ever haunted,
Whose perfume but to one is granted;
Pleased with her partner to retire,
And cheer the safe domestic fire.
While I — who, half-amphibious grown,
Now scarce call any place my own —
Will learn to view with eye serene
Life's empty plot and shifting scene,
And trusting still to Heaven's high care,
Fix my firm habitation there;
'T was thus the Grecian sage of old,
As by Herodotus we're told,
Accused by them who sat above,
As wanting in his country's love -
“ 'Tis that,” cried he," which most I prize,”
And, pointing upwards, shewed the skies.
III.
Or if to wiser Britain led,
Your vagrant feet desire to tread
* See ante, p. 137. Moore has substituted Posterity for Society. His reports of
conversations are both meagre and inaccurate. Thus (Vol. III. p. 196) he says :
“ In talking of letters being charged by weight, he (Canning) said the post-office
once refused to carry a letter of Sir J. Cox Hippesley's, it was so dull.” Can-
ning said “so heavy”; the letter being the worthy baronet's printed letter against
Catholic Emancipation.
With measured step and anxious care,
The precincts pure of Portman Square ;*
While wit with elegance combined,
And polished manners there you 'll find;
The taste correct — and fertile mind :
Remember vigilance lurks near,
And silence with unnoticed sneer,
Who watches but to tell again
Your foibles with to-morrow's pen;
Till tittering malice smiles to see
Your wonder — grave Society.
iv.
Far from your busy crowded court,
Tranquillity makes her resort;
Where ʼmid cold Staffa's columns rude,
Resides majestic solitude;
Or where in some sad Brachman's cell,
Meek innocence delights to dwell,
Weeping with unexperienced eye,
The death of a departed fly:
Or in Hetruria's heights sublime,
Where science self might fear to climb,
But that she seeks a smile from thee,
And woos thy praise, Society.
Thence let me view the plains below,
From rough St. Julian's rugged brow;
Hear the loud torrents swift descending,
Or mark the beauteous rainbow bending,
Till Heaven regains its favorite hue,
Æther divine! celestial blue!
Then bosomed high in myrtle bower,
Viewed lettered Pisa's pendent tower;
The sea’s wide scene, the port's loud throng,
Of rude and gentle, right and wrong;
A motley group which yet agree
To call themselves Society.
VI.
Oh! thou still sought by wealth and fame,
Dispenser of applause and blame:
While flatt'ry ever at thy side,
With slander can thy smiles divide;
Far from thy haunts, O let me stray,
But grant one friend to cheer my way,
Whose converse bland, whose music's art,
May cheer my soul, and heal my heart;
Let soft content our steps pursue,
And bliss eternal bound our view :
Power I'll resign, and pomp, and glee,
Thy best-loved sweets, — Society.
DIDO EPIGRAMS. We were speaking the other day of the famous epigram in Ausonius : —
“Infelix Dido, nulli bene nupta marito,
Hoc moriente fugis, hoc fugiente peris.”
Two lords, in vain, unlucky Dido tries,
One dead, she flies the land ; one fled, she dies. *
“ Pauvre Didon! on t'a réduite
De tes maris le triste sort ;
L'un en mourant cause ta fuite,
L'autre en fuyant cause ta mort,” is reckoned a beautiful version of this epigram.
There is, however, a very old passage in Davison, alluding to the same story :
* To the same class of jeux d'esprit as this epitaph on Dido, belongs one made on Thynne, “ Tom of Ten Thousand," after his assassination by Konigsmark, who wished to marry the widow, the heiress of the Percys. Thynne's marriage had not been consummated, and he was said to have promised marriage to a maid of honor whom he had seduced.
“ Here lies Tom Thynne of Longleat Hall,
Who never would so have miscarried,
Had he married the woman he lay withal,
Or lay with the woman he married.”
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