Classic Poem

Florio, a youth of gay renown,
Who figur'd much about the town,
Had pass'd, with general approbation,
The modish forms of education;
Knew what was proper to be known,
Th' establish'd jargon of bon-ton;
Had learnt, with very moderate reading,
The whole new system of good breeding.
He studied to be cold and rude,
Though native feeling would intrude:
Unlucky sense and sympathy,
Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be.
For Florio was not meant by nature,
A silly or a worthless creature:
He had a heart disposed to feel,
Had life and spirit, taste and zeal;
Was handsome, generous; but, by fate
Predestin'd to a large estate!
Hence, all that grac'd his op'ning days,
Was marr'd by pleasure, spoilt by praise.
The Destiny, who wove the thread
Of Florio's being, sigh'd and said,
" Poor youth! this cumbrous twist of gold
More than my shuttle well can hold,
For which thy anxious fathers toil'd,
Thy white and even thread has spoil'd
'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth
From sense, simplicity, and truth;
Thy erring fire, by wealth misled,
Shall scatter pleasures round thy head,
When wholesome discipline's control,
Should brace the sinews of thy soul;
Coldly thou'lt toil for learning's prize,
For why should he that's rich he wise? "
The gracious Master of mankind,
Who knew us vain, corrupt, and blind.
In mercy, though in anger said,
That man should earn his daily bread:
His lot inaction readers worse,
While labour mitigates the curse.
The idle, life's worst burdens hear,
And meet, what toil escapes, despair!
Forgive, nor lay the fault on me,
This mixture of mythology;
The muse of Paradise has deign'd
With truth to mingle fables feign'd;
And though the bard who would attain
The glories, Milton, of thy strain,
Will never reach thy style or thoughts,
He may be like thee — in thy faults.
Exhausted Florio, at the age
When youth should rush on glory's stage;
When life should open fresh and new,
And ardent hope her schemes pursue;
Of youthful gaiety bereft,
Had scarce an unbroached pleasure left;
He found already to his cost,
The shining gloss of life was lost;
And pleasure was so coy a prude,
She fled the more, the more pursued;
Or if, o'ertaken and caress'd,
He loath'd and left her when possess'd.
But Florio knew the world; that science
Sets sense and learning at defiance;
He thought the world to him was known,
Whereas he only knew the Town:
In men this blunder still you find,
All think their little set — Mankind.
Though high renown the youth had gained,
No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd;
No tool of falsehood, slave of passion,
But spoilt by Custom , and the F ASHION .
Though known among a certain set ,
He did not like to be in debt;
He shudder'd at the dicer's box,
Nor thought it very heterodox
That tradesmen should be sometimes paid,
And bargains kept as well as made.
His growing credit, as a sinner,
Was that he lik'd to spoil a dinner;
Made pleasure and made business wait,
And still, by system, came too late;
Yet 'twas a hopeful indication,
On which to found a reputation:
Small habits, well pursued betimes,
May reach the dignity of crimes;
And who a juster claim preferr'd,
Than one who always broke his word?
His mornings were not spent in vice,
'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice;
Walk up and down St James's street,
Full fifty times the youth you'd meet;
He hated cards, detested drinking,
But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking
'Twas doing nothing was his curse,
Is there a vice can plague us worse?
The wretch who digs the mine for bread,
Or ploughs that others may be fed,
Feels less fatigue than that decreed,
To him who cannot think, or read.
Not all the peril of temptations,
Not all the conflict of the passions,
Can quench the spark of glory's flame,
Or quite extinguish Virtue's name,
Like the true taste for genuine saunter,
Like sloth, the soul's most dire enchanter,
The active fires that stir the breast,
Her poppies charm to fatal rest;
They rule in short and quick succession,
But Sloth keeps one long, fast possession:
Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd,
Th' usurper's rage is soon depos'd;
Intemperance, where there's no temptation,
Makes voluntary abdication:
Of other tyrants short the strife,
But I NDOLENCE is king for life.
The despot twists with soft control,
Eternal fetters round the soul.
Yet though so polish'd Florio's breeding,
Think him not ignorant of reading;
For he to keep him from the vapours,
Subscrib'd at Hookham's, saw the papers;
Was deep in poet's-corner wit:
Knew what was in Italics writ;
Explain'd fictitious names at will,
Each gutted syllable could fill:
There oft, in paragraphs, his name
Gave symptom sweet of growing fame;
Though yet they only served to hint
That Floria lov'd to see in print
His ample buckles' altered shape,
His huttons chang'd, his varying cape.
And many a standard phrase was his,
Might rival bore , or banish quiz ;
The man who grasps this young renown,
And early starts for fashion's crown;
In time that glorious prize may wield,
Which clubs, and e'en Newmarket, yield.
He studied while he dress'd, for true 'tis,
He read Compendiums, Extracts, Beauties ,
Abreges, Dictionnaires, Recueils,
Mercures, Journoux, Extraits , and Feuillex :
No work in substance, now in follow'd,
The Chamle Extract only's swallow'd.
He liked those literary cooks
Who skim the cream of others' books;
And ruin half an author's graces,
By placking boas-mots from their places.
He wonders any writing sells,
But these spiced mushrooms and morels;
His palate these alone can touch,
Where every mouthful is bonne bouche .
Some phrase that with the public took,
Was all he read of any book;
For plan, detail, arrangement, system,
He let them go, and never miss'd 'em.
Of each new play he saw a part,
And all the Anas had by heart;
He found whatever they produce
Is fit for conversation's use;
Learning so ready for display,
A page would prime him for a day:
They crain not with a mass of knowledge,
Which smacks of toil, and smells of college,
Which in the memory useless lies,
Or only makes men — good and wise.
This might have merit once, indeed,
But now for other ends we read.
A friend he had, Bellarin hight,
A reasoning, reading, learned wight;
At least, with men of Florio's breeding,
He was a prodigy of reading.
He knew each stale and vapid lie
In tomes of French philosophy;
And then, we fairly may presume,
From Pyrrho down to David Hume,
'Twere difficult to single out
A man more full of shallow doubt;
He knew the little sceptic prattle,
The sophist's paltry arts of battle;
Talk'd gravely of the atomic dance,
Of moral fitness, fate, and chance;
Admired the system of Lucretius,
Whose matchless verse makes nonsense specious!
To this his doctrine owes its merits,
Like poisonous reptiles kept in spirits,
Though sceptics dull his scheme rehearse,
Who have not souls to taste his verse.
Bellario founds his reputation
On dry, stale jokes, about creation;
Would prove, by argument circuitous,
The combination was fortuitous.
Swore priests' whole trade was to deceive
And prey on bigots who believe!
With bitter ridicule could jeer,
And had the true free-thinking sneer.
Grave arguments he had in store,
Which have been answer'd o'er and o'er;
And used, with wondrous penetration,
The trite old trick of false citation;
From ancient authors fond to quote
A phrase or thought they never wrote.
Upon his highest shelf there stood
The classics, neatly cut in wood;
And in a more commodious station,
You found them in a French translation:
He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes,
But keeps the French — just for the notes.
He worshipp'd certain modern names,
Who history write in epigrams,
In pointed periods, shining phrases,
And all the small poetic daisies,
Which crowd the pert and florid style,
Where fact is dropt to raise a smile;
Where notes indecent or profane,
Serve to raise doubts, but not explain:
Where all is spangle, glitter, show,
And truth is overlaid below:
Arts scorn'd by history's sober muse,
Arts Clarendon disdain'd to use.
Whate'er the subject of debate,
'Twas larded still with sceptic prate;
Begin whatever theme you will,
In unbelief he lands you still;
The good, with shame I speak it, feel
Not half this proselyting zeal;
While cold their Master's cause to own,
Content to go to heaven alone;
The infidel in liberal trim,
Would carry all the world with him;
Would treat his wife, friend, kindred, nation,
Mankind — with what? — Annihilation.
Though Floria did not quite believe him,
He thought, why should a friend deceive him?
Much as he priz'd Bellario's wit,
He liked not all his notions yet;
He thought him charming, pleasant, odd,
But hoped one might believe in God;
Yet such the charms that graced his tongue,
He knew not how to think him wrong.
Though Florio tried a thousand ways,
Truth's insuppressive torch would blaze:
Where once her flame has burnt, I doubt
If ever it go fairly out.
Yet, under great Bellario's care,
He gain'd each day a better air;
Which many a leader of renown,
Deep in the learning of the town,
Who never other science knew,
But what from that prime source they drew:
Pleased, to tho Opera they repair,
To get recruits of knowledge there;
Mythology gain at a glance,
And learn the classics from a dance:
In Ovid they ne'er cared a grot,
How fared the vent'rous Argonnut;
Yet charm'd they see Meden rise
On flery dragons to the skies.
For Dido, though they never knew her
As Maro's magic pencil drew her,
Faithful and fond, and broken-hearted,
Her pious vagabond departed;
Yet for Didone, how they roar!
And Cara! Cara! loud encore.
One taste Bellario's soul possess'd,
The master passion of his breast;
It was not one of those frail joys,
Which, by possession, quickly cloys;
This bliss was solid, constant, true,
'Twas action, and 'twas passion too;
For though the business might be finish'd,
The pleasure scarcely was diminish'd;
Did he ride out, or sit, or walk,
He liv'd it o'er again in talk;
Prolonged the fugitive delight,
In words by day, in dreams by night.
'Twas eating did his soul allure,
A deep, keen, modish epicure;
Though once this name, as I opine,
Meant not such men as live to dine;
Yet all our modern wits assure us,
That's all they know of Epicurus:
They fondly fancy that repletion
Was the chief good of that fam'd Grecian.
To live in gardens full of flowers,
And talk philosophy in bowers,
Or, in the covert of a wood,
To descant on the sovereign good ,
Might be the notion of their founder,
But they have notions vastly sounder;
Their holder standards they creet,
To form a more substantial sect;
Old Epicurus would not own 'em,
A dinner is their summum bonum .
Morn like you'll find such sparks as these
To Epicuras' deities;
Like them they mix not with affairs,
But loll and laugh at human cares.
To beaux this difference is allow'd
They choose a sofa for a cloud;
Bellario had embraced with glee,
This practical philosophy.
Young Florio's father had a friend,
And ne'er did Heaven a worthier send;
A cheerful knight of good estate,
Whose heart was warm, whose bounty great.
Where'er his wide protection spread,
The sick were cheer'd, the hungry fed;
Resentment vanish'd where he came,
And lawsuits fled before his name;
The old esteem'd, the young caress'd him,
And all the smiling village bless'd him.
Within his castle's Gothic gate,
Sate Plenty, and old-fashion'd State:
Scarce Prudence could his bounties stint;
Such characters are out of print:
O! would kind Heaven, the age to mend,
A new edition of them send,
Before our tottering castles fall,
And swarming nabobs seize on all!
Some little whims he had, 'tis true,
But they were harmless, and were few:
He dreaded nought like alteration,
Improvement still was innovation;
He said, when any change was brewing,
Reform was a fine name for ruin;
This maxim surely he would hold,
" That always must be good that's old. "
The acts which dignify the day
He thought portended its decay:
And fear'd 'twould show a falling state,
In Sternhold should give way to Tate:
The Church's downfall he predicted,
Were modern tunes not interdicted;
He scorn'd them all, but crown'd with palm
The man who set the hundredth Psalm.
Of moderate parts, of moderate wit,
But parts for life and business fit.
Whate'er the theme, he did not fail
At Popery and the French to rail;
And started wide, with fond digression
To praise the Protestant succession.
Of Blackstone he had read a part,
And all Burn's Justice knew by heart.
He thought man's life too short to waste
On idle things call'd wit and taste.
In books, that he might lose no minute,
His very verse had business in it.
He ne'er had heard of hards of Greece,
But had read half of Dyer's Fleece.
His sphere of knowledge still was wider,
His Georgics, " Philips upon Cider; "
He could produce in proper place,
Three apt quotations from the " Chase, "
And in the hall, from day to day,
Old Isaac Walton's Angler lay.
This good and venerable knight
One daughter had, his soul's delight:
For face, no mortal could resist her,
She smiled like Hebe's youngest sister;
Her life as lovely as her face,
Each duty mark'd with every grace;
Her native sense improv'd by reading,
Her native sweetness by good breeding:
She had perus'd each choicer sage
Of ancient date, or later age;
But her best knowledge still she found
On sacred, not on classic ground;
'Twas thence her noblest stores she drew,
And well she practis'd what she knew.
Led by simplicity divine,
She pleas'd, and never tried to shine;
She gave to chance each unschool'd feature,
And left her cause to sense and nature.
The sire of Florio, ere he died,
Decreed fair Celia Florio's bride;
Bade him his latest wish attend,
And win the daughter of his friend;
When the last rites to him were paid,
He charg'd him to address the maid:
Sir Gilbert's heart the wish approv'd,
For much his ancient friend he lov'd.
Six rapid months like lightning fly,
And the last grey was now thrown by;
Florio, reluctant, calls to mind
The orders of a sire too kind:
Yet go he must; he must fulfil
The hard conditions of the will:
Go, at that precious hour of prime,
Go, at that swarming, bustling time,
When the full town to joy invites,
Distracted with its own delights;
When Pleasure pours from her full urn
Each tiresome transport in its turn;
When dissipation's altars blaze,
And men run mad a thousand ways;
When, on his tablets, there were found
Engagements for full six weeks round;
Must leave, with grief and desperation,
Three packs of cards of invitation,
And all the ravishing delights
Of slavish days and sleepless nights.
Ye nymphs, whom tyrant power drags down.
With hand despotic, from the town,
When Almack's doors wide open stand,
And the gay partner's offer'd hand
Courts to the dance; when steaming rooms,
Fetid with unguents and perfumes,
Invite you to the mobs polite
Of three sure balls in one short night;
You may conceive what Florio felt,
And sympathetically melt;
You may conceive the hardship dire,
To lawns and woodlands to retire,
When, freed from winter's icy chain,
Glad nature revels on the plain;
When blushing spring leads on the hours,
And May is prodigal of flowers;
When passion warbles through the grove,
And all is song, and all is love;
When new-born breezes sweep the vale,
And health adds fragrance to the gale.