Classic Poem

The rising morn, serenely still,
Had brightening spread o'er vale and hill,
Not those loose beams that wanton play
To light the mirth of giddy May,
Nor such red heats as burn the plain
In ardent Summer's feverish reign,
But rays all equal, soft, and sober,
To suit the second of October,
To suit the pair whose Wedding-day
This sun now gilds with annual ray.
Just then where our good-natur'd Thames is
Some four short miles above St. James's,
And deigns with silver-streaming wave
The' abodes of earth-born Pride to lave,
Aloft in air two gods were soaring,
While Putney cits beneath lay snoring,
Plung'd deep in dreams of ten per cent
On sums to their dear country lent;
Two gods of no inferior fame,
Whom ancient wits with reverence name,
Though wiser moderns much disparage — —
I mean the gods of Love and Marriage.
But Cupid first, his wit to show,
Assuming a mere modern beau,
Whose utmost ann is idle mirth,
Look'd — just as coxcombs look on earth,
Then rais'd his chin, then cock'd his hat,
To grace this common-place chit-chat.
" How! on the wing by break of dawn,
Dear brother!" — there he forc'd a yawn —
" To tell men, sunk in sleep profound,
They must ere night be gagg'd and bound!
Who having once put on thy chain,
'Tis odds may ne'er sleep sound again.
So say the wits; but wiser folks
Still marry, and contemn their jokes:
They know each better bliss is thine,
Pure nectar, genuine from the vine!
And Love's own hand that nectar pours,
Which never fails nor ever sours!
Well, be it so: yet there are fools
Who dare demur to formal rules;
Who laugh profanely at their betters,
And find no freedom plac'd in fetters;
But, well or ill, jog on through life
Without that sovereign bliss a wife.
Leave these at least, these sad dogs, free
To stroll with Bacchus and with me,
And sup in Middlesex or Surrey
On coarse cold beef and Fanny Murray.
Thus Cupid — and with such a leer,
You would have sworn 'twas Ligonier;
While Hymen soberly replied,
Yet with an air of conscious pride:
" Just come from yonder wretched scene,
Where all is venal, false, and mean,
(Looking on London as he spoke)
I marvel not at thy dull joke;
Nor in such cant to hear thee vapour,
Thy quiver lin'd with South-sea paper,
Thine arrows feather'd at the tail
With India bonds for hearts on sale;
Their other ends too, as is meet,
Tipp'd with gold points from Lombard-street:
But couldst thou for a moment quit
These airs of fashionable wit,
And reassume thy nobler name —
Look that way, where I turn my flame — "
He said, and held his torch inclin'd,
Which, pointed so, still brighter shin'd —
" Behold yon couple, arm in arm,
Whom I, eight years, have known to charm,
And while they wear my willing chains,
A god dares swear that neither feigns.
This morn, that bound their mutual vow,
That bless'd them first, and blesses now,
They grateful hail; and from the soul
Wish thousands o'er both heads may roll,
Till from life's banquet either guest
Embracing, may retire to rest.
Come then, all raillery laid aside,
Let this their day serenely glide;
With mine thy serious aim unite,
And both some proper guests invite,
That not one minute's running sand
May find their pleasures at a stand."
At this severe and sad rebuke,
Enough to make a coxcomb puke,
Poor Cupid, blushing, shrugg'd and winc'd,
Not yet consenting, though convinc'd;
For 'tis your witling's greatest terror,
Ev'n when he feels, to own his error
Yet with a look of arch grimace
He took his penitential face;
Said, " 'Twas perhaps the surer play
To give your grave good souls their way;
That as true humour was grown scarce,
He chose to see a sober farce,
For of all cattle and all fowl
Your solemn-looking ass and owl
Rais'd much more mirth, he durst aver it,
Than those jack-puddings, pug and parrot."
He said, and eastward spread his wing,
From London some few friends to bring.
His brother too, with sober cheer,
For the same end did westward steer;
But first a pensive love forlorn,
Who three long weeping years has borne
His torch revers'd, and all around,
Where once it flam'd, with cypress bound,
Sent off to call a neighbouring friend,
On whom the mournful train attend;
And bid him, this one day, at least,
For such a pair, at such a feast,
Strip off the sable veil, and wear
His once-gay look and happier air.
But Hymen, speeding forward still,
Observ'd a man on Richmond hill,
Who now first tries a country life,
Perhaps to fit him for a wife:
But though not much on this he reckon'd,
The passing god look'd in and beckon'd;
He knows him rich in social merit,
With independent taste and spirit,
Though he will laugh with men of whim,
For fear such men should laugh at him.
But, lo! already on his way,
In due observance of the day,
A friend and favourite of the Nine,
Who can, but seldom cares to shine,
And one sole virtue would arrive at —
To keep his many virtues private;
Who tends, well pleas'd, yet as by stealth,
His lov'd companions, Ease and Health;
Or in his garden, barring out
The noise of every neighbouring rout,
At pensive hour of eve and prime
Marks how the various hand of Time
Now feeds and rears, now starves and slaughters,
His vegetable sons and daughters.
While these are on their way, behold!
Dan Cupid, from his London-fold
First seeks and sends his new Lord Warden
Of all the nymphs in Covent-Garden;
Brave as the sword he wears in fight,
Sincere, and briefly in the right,
Whom never minister or king
Saw meanly cringing in their ring.
A second see! of special note,
Plump Comus in a col'nel's coat,
Whom we this day expect from far,
A jolly first-rate man of war,
On whom we boldly dare repose,
To meet our friends or meet our foes.
Or comes a brother in his stead?
Strong-bodied too, and strong of head;
Who, in whatever path he goes,
Still looks right on before his nose,
And holds it little less than treason
To balk his stomach or his reason:
True to his mistress and his meat,
He eats to love, and loves to eat.
Last comes a virgin — pray admire her!
Cupid himself attends to squire her:
A welcome guest! we much had miss'd her,
For 'tis our Kitty or his sister.
But, Cupid, let no knave or fool
Snap up this lamb to shear her wool;
No Teague of that unblushing band
Just landed, or about to land;
Thieves from the womb, and train'd at nurse
To steal an heiress or a purse:
No scraping, saving, saucy cit,
Sworn foe of breeding, worth, and wit;
No half-form'd insect of a peer,
With neither land nor conscience clear,
Who if he can, 'tis all he can do,
Just spell the motto on his landau:
From all, from each of these, defend her,
But thou and Hymen both befriend her
With truth, taste, honour, in a mate,
And much good sense, and some estate.
But now, suppose the' assembly met,
And round the table cordial set,
While in fair order, to their wish,
Plain Neatness sends up every dish,
And Pleasure at the sideboard stands,
A nectar'd goblet in his hands,
To pour libations, in due measure,
As Reason wills when join'd with Pleasure —
Let these white moments all be gay,
Without one cloud of dim allay,
In every face let joy be seen,
As Truth sincere, as Hope serene;
Let Friendship, Love, and Wit, combine
To flavour both the meat and wine
With that rich relish to each sense
Which they, and they alone, dispense;
Let Music, too, their mirth prolong,
With warbled air and festive song;
Then when at eve the Star of Love
Glows with soft radiance from above,
And each companionable guest
Withdraws replenish'd, not opprest,
Let each, well-pleas'd, at parting say —
" My life be such a Wedding-day!"