Classic Poem

Six bays, unconscious of their weight,
Soon lodg'd him at Sir Gilbert's gate;
His trusty Swiss, who flew still faster,
Announc'd th' arrival of his master:
So loud the rap which shook the door,
The hall re-echoed to the roar;
Since first the castle walls were rear'd,
So dread a sound had ne'er been heard:
The din alarm'd the frighten'd deer,
Who in a corner slunk for fear;
The butler thought 'twas bent of drum,
The steward swore the French were come;
It tinged with red poor Florio's face,
He thought himself in Portland Place.
Short joy! he enter'd, and the gate
Clos'd on him with its ponderous weight.
Who like Sir Gilbert now was blest?
With rapture he embrac'd his guest.
Fair Cella blush'd, and Florio utter'd
Half sentences, or rather mutter'd
Disjointed words — as, " honour! pleasure!
" Kind — vastly good, Ma'am! — beyond measure: "
Tame expletives, with which dull fashion
Fills vacancies of sense and passion.
Yet, though disciple of cold art,
Florio soon found he had a heart;
He saw; and but that admiration
Had been too active, too like passion;
Or had he been to ton less true,
Cupid had shot him through and through;
But, vainly speeds the surest dart,
Where fashion's mail defends the heart;
The shaft her cold repulsion found,
And fell, without the power to wound:
For fashion, with a mother's joy,
Dipp'd in her lake the darling boy;
That lake, whose chilling waves impart
The gift to freeze the warmest heart:
Yet guarded as he was with phlegm,
With such delight he eyed the dame,
Found his cold heart so melt before her,
And felt so ready to adore her,
That fashion fear'd her son would yield,
And flew to snatch him from the field;
O'er his touch'd heart her aegis threw,
The goddess mother straight he knew;
Her power he own'd, she saw and smiled,
And claimed the triumph of her child.
Cella a table still supplied,
Which modish luxury might deride:
A modest feast the hope conveys,
The master eats on other days;
While gorgeous banquets oft bespeak
A hungry household all the week.
And decent elegance was there,
And plenty with her liberal air.
But vulgar plenty gave offence,
And shock'd poor Florio's nicer sense.
Patient he yielded to his fate,
When good Sir Gilbert piled his plate;
He bow'd submissive, made no question,
But that 'twas sovereign for digestion:
But, such was his unlucky whim,
Plain meats would ne'er agree with him;
Yet feign'd to praise the gothic treat,
And, if he ate not, seem'd to eat.
In sleep sad Florio hop'd to find,
The pleasures he had left behind.
He dreamt, and, lo! to charm his eyes,
The form of Weltje seem'd to rise,
The gracious vision wav'd his wand,
And banquets sprung to Florio's hand;
Th' imaginary savours rose
In tempting odours to his nose.
A bell, not fancy's false creation,
Gives joyful " note of preparation; "
He starts, he wakes, the hell he hears;
Alas! it rings for morning prayers.
But how to spend next tedious morning,
Was past his possible discerning;
Unable to amuse himself,
He tumbled every well-rang'd shelf;
This book was dull, and that was wise,
And this was monstrous as to size.
With eager joy he gobbled down
Whate'er related to the town;
Whate'er look'd small, whate'er look'd new,
Half-bound, or stitch'd in pink or blue;
Old play-bills, Astley's last year's feats,
And opera disputes in sheets.
As these dear records meet his eyes,
Ghosts of departed pleasures rise;
He lays the book upon the shelf,
And leaves the day to spend itself.
To cheat the tedious hours, whene'er
He sailed forth to take the air,
His sympathetic ponies knew
Which way their lord's affections drew;
And, every time he went abroad,
Sought of themselves the London road;
He ask'd each mile of every clown,
How far they reckon'd it to town?
And still his nimble spirits rise,
Whilst thither he directs his eyes;
But when his coursers back he guides,
The sinking mercury quick subsides.
A week he had resolv'd to stay,
But found a week in every day;
Yet if the gentle maid was by,
Faint pleasure glisten'd in his eye;
Whene'er she spoke, attention hung
On the mild accents of her tongue;
But when no more the room she graced,
The slight impression was effaced.
Whene'er Sir Gilbert's sporting guests
Retail'd old news, or older jests,
Florio, quite calm, and debonair,
Still humm'd a new Italian air;
He did not even feign to hear 'em,
But plainly show'd he could not bear 'em,
Celia perceiv'd his secret thoughts,
But liked the youth with all his faults;
Yet 'twas unlike, she softly said,
The tales of love which she had read,
Where heroes vowed, and sighed, and knelt;
Nay, 'twas unlike the love she felt;
Though when her sire the youth would blame,
She clear'd his but suspected fame,
Ventured to hope, with falt'ring tongue,
" He would reform — he was but young; "
Confess'd his manners wrong in part,
" But then — he had so good a heart!
She sunk each fault, each virtue rais'd,
And still, where truth permitted, prais'd;
His interest farther to secure,
She praised his bounty to the poor,
For, votary as he was to art,
He had a kind and melting heart;
Though, with a smile, he used to own
He had not time to feel in town;
Not that he blush'd to show compassion, —
It chanced that year to be the fashion;
And equally the modish tribe,
To clubs or hospitals subscribe.
At length, to wake ambition's flame,
A letter from Bellario came;
Announcing the supreme delight,
Preparing for a certain night,
By Flavia fair, return'd from France,
Who took him captive at a glance;
The invitations all were given!
Five hundred cards! — a little heaven!
A dinner first — he would present him,
And nothing, nothing, must prevent him.
Whoever wished a noble air,
Must gain it by an entree there;
Of all the glories of the town,
'Twas the first passport to renown.
Then ridiculed his rural schemes,
His pastoral shades, and purling streams;
Sneer'd at his present brilliant life,
His polish'd sire, and high-bred wife!
Thus, doubly to inflame, he tried,
His curiosity and pride.
The youth with agitated heart,
Prepared directly to depart;
But, bound in honour to obey
His father, at no distant day
He promised soon to hasten down,
Though business called him now to town;
Then faintly hints a cold proposal —
But leaves it to the knight's disposal —
Stammer'd half words of love and duty,
And mutter'd much of — " worth and beauty; "
Something of " passion, " then he dropp'd,
" And hoped his ardour " — here he stopp'd;
For some remains of native truth
Flashed in his face, and checked the youth;
Yet still th' ambiguous suffusion,
Might pass for artless love's confusion.
The doting father thought 'twas strange,
But fancied men, like times, might change;
Yet own'd, nor could he check his tongue,
It was not so when he was young.
That was the reign of love, he swore,
Whose halcyon days are now no more.
In that blest age, for honour fam'd,
Love paid the homage virtue claim'd;
Not that insipid, dandling Cupid,
With heart so hard, and air so stupid,
Who coldly courts the charms which lie
In affectation's half-closed eye.
Love then was honest, genuine passion,
And manly gallantry the fashion:
Yet pure as ardent was the flame
Excited by the beauteous dame;
Hope could subsist on slender bounties,
And suitors galloped o'er two counties,
The ball's fair partner to behold,
Or humbly hope — she caught no cold.
But mark how much love's annals mend!
Should beauty's goddess now descend;
On some adventure should she come,
To grace a modish drawing-room;
Spite of her form and heavenly air
What bean would hand her to her chair?
Vain were that grace, which to her sun,
Disclosed what beauty had not done;
Vain were that motion which betrayed,
The goddess was no earth-born maid;
If noxious Faro's baleful spright,
With rites infernal ruled the night.
The group absorbed in play and pelf
Venus might call her doves herself.
As Florio passed the castle gate,
His spirits seem'd to lose their weight;
He feasts his lately vacant mind
With all the joys he hopes to find;
Yet on whate'er his fancy broods,
The form of Celia still intrudes;
Whatever other sounds he hears,
The voice of Celia fills his ears;
Howe'er his random thoughts might fly,
Her graces dance before his eye;
Nor was th' obtrusive vision o'er,
But when he reach'd Bellario's door;
The friends embraced with warm delight,
And Flavia's praises crown'd the night.
Soon dawned the day which was to show
Glad Florio what was heaven below.
Flavia, admired wherever known,
Th' acknowledg'd empress of bon-ton;
O'er fashion's wayward kingdom reigns,
And holds Bellario in her chains:
Various her powers; a wit by day,
By night unmatch'd for lucky play.
The flattering, fashionable tribe,
Each stray bon-mot to her ascribe;
And all her " little senate " own
She made the best charade in town;
Her midnight suppers always drew
Whate'er was fine, whate'er was new.
There oft the brightest fame you'd see
The victim of a repartee;
For slander's priestess still supplies
The spotless for the sacrifice.
None at her polish'd table sit,
But who aspire to modish wit;
The persiflage , the unfeeling jeer,
The civil, grave, ironic sneer;
The laugh, which, more than censure, wounds,
Which, more than argument, confounds.
There the fair deed, which would engage
The wonder of a nobler age,
With unbelieving scorn is heard,
Or still to selfish ends referred;
If in the deed no flaw they find,
To some base motive 'tis assign'd;
When malice longs to throw her dart,
But finds no vulnerable part,
Because the Virtues all defend,
At every pass, their guarded friend;
Then by one slight insinuation,
One scarce perceiv'd exaggeration;
Sly ridicule, with half a word,
Can fix her stigma of — absurd;
Nor care nor skill extracts the dart,
With which she stabs the feeling heart;
Her cruel caustics inly pain,
And scars indelible remain.
Supreme in wit, supreme in play,
Despotic Flavia all obey;
Small were her natural charms of face.
Till heighten'd with each foreign grace;
But what subdued Bellario's soul
Beyond philosophy's control,
Her constant table was as fine
As if ten rajahs were to dine;
She every day produced such fish, as
Would gratify the nice Apicius,
Or realize what we think fabulous,
I'th' bill of fare of Heliogabalus.
Yet still tho natural taste was cheated,
'Twas delug'd in some sauce one hated.
'Twas sauce! 'twas sweetmeat! 'twas confection!
All poignancy! and all perfection!
Rich entremets , whose name none knows,
Ragouts, tourtes, tendrons, fricandoaux,
Might pique the sensuality
O' th' hogs of Epicurus' sty;
Yet all so foreign, and so fine,
'Twas easier to admire than dine.
O! if the muse had power to tell
Each dish, no muse has power to spell!
Great goddess of the French cuisine!
Not with unhallow'd hands I mean
To violate thy secret shade,
Which eyes profane shall ne'er invade;
No! of thy dignity supreme,
I with " mysterious reverence, " deem!
Or should I venture with rash hand,
The vulgar would not understand;
None but th' initiated know
The raptures keen thy rites bestow.
Thus much to tell I lawful deem,
Thy works are never what they seem;
Thy will this general law has past,
That nothing of itself shall taste.
Thy word this high decree enacted,
" In all be nature counteracted! "
Conceive, who can, the perfect bliss,
For 'tis not given to all to guess,
The rapturous joy Bellario found,
When thus his ev'ry wish was crown'd.
To Florio, as the best of friends,
One dish be secretly commends;
Then hinted, as a special favour,
What gave it that delicious flavour;
A mystery he so much reveres,
He never to unhallow'd ears
Would trust it, but to him would show
How far true friendship's power could go.
Florio, though dazzled by the fete ,
With far inferior transport eat;
A little warp his taste had gain'd,
Which, unperceiv'd, till now, remained;
For, from himself, he would conceal
The change he did not choose to feel;
He almost wish'd he could be picking
An unsophisticated chicken;
And when he cast his eyes around,
And not one simple morsel found,
O give me, was his secret wish,
My charming Celia's plainest dish!
Thus Nature, struggling for her rights.
Lets in some little, casual lights;
And love combines to war with fashion,
Though yet 'twas but an infant passion;
The practis'd Flavia tried each art
Of sly attack, to steal his heart;
Her forced civilities oppress,
Fatiguing through mere graciousness;
While many a gay, intrepid dame,
By hold assault essay'd the same.
Fill'd with disgust, he strove to fly
The artful glance and fearless eye;
Their jargon now no more he praises,
Nor echoes back their flimsy phrases.
He felt not Celia's powers of face,
Till weigh'd against bon-ton grimace;
Nor half her genuine beauties tasted,
'Till with factitious charms contrasted,
Th' industrious harpies hover'd round,
Nor peace nor liberty he found;
By force and flattery circumvented,
To play, reluctant, he consented;
Each dame her power of pleasing tried.
To fix the novice by her side;
Of pigeons he the very best,
Who wealth, with ignorance, possest:
But Flavia's rhetoric best persuades
That sibyl leads him to the shades;
The fatal leaves around the room,
Prophetic, tell th' approaching doom!
Yet, different from the tale of old,
It was the fair one pluck'd the gold;
Her arts the pond'rous purse exhaust;
A thousand borrow'd, stak'd, and lost,
Wakes him to sense and shame again,
Nor force nor fraud could more obtain.
He rose, indignant, to attend
The summons of a ruin'd friend,
Whom keen Bellario's arts betray
To all the depth of desperate play;
A thoughtless youth who near him sat,
Was plunder'd of his whole estate;
Too late he call'd for Florio's aid,
A beggar in a moment made.
And now with horror, Florio views
The wild confusion which ensues;
Marks how th' dames, of late so fair,
Assume a fieren demonine air;
Marks where the infernal furies hold
Their orgies foul o'er heaps of gold:
And spirits dire appear to rise,
Guarding the horrid mysteries;
Marks how deforming passions tear
The bosoms of the losing fair;
How looks convuls'd, and haggar'd faces,
Chase the scar'd loves, and frighten'd graces
Touch'd with disdain, with horror fir'd.
Cella! he murmur'd, and retired.
That night no sleep his eyelids prest,
He thought; and thought's a foe to rest:
Or if, by chance, he clos'd his eyes,
What hideous spectres round him rise!
Distemper'd fancy wildly brings
The broken images of things;
His ruin'd friend, with eyeball fix'd,
Swallowing the draught despair had mix'd;
The frantic wife beside him stands,
With bursting heart and wringing hands;
And every horror dreams bestow,
Of pining want, or raving wo.
Next morn, to check or cherish thought,
His library's retreat he sought;
He view'd each book with cold regard,
Of serious sage or lighter bard;
At length, among the motley band,
The " Idler " fell into his hand;
Th' alluring title caught his eye,
It promis'd cold inanity;
He read with rapture and surprise,
And found 'twas pleasant, though 'twas wise;
His ten grew cold, whilst he, unheeding,
Pursued this reasonable reading.
He wonder'd at the change he found,
Th' elastic spirits nimbly bound;
Time slipp'd, without disgust, away,
While many a card unanswer'd lay;
Three papers, reeking from the press,
Three pamphlets thin, in azure dress,
Ephemeral literature well known,
The lie and scandal of the town;
Poison of letters, morals, time!
Assassin of our day's fresh prime!
These, on his table, half the day,
Unthought of, and neglected lay.
Florio had now fall three hours read.
Hours which he used to waste in bed;
His pulse beat virtue's vigorous tone,
The reason to himself unknown;
And if he stopp'd to seek the cause,
Fair Colia's image fill'd the pause.
And now, announc'd, Bellario's name
Had almost quench'd the new-born flame:
" Admit him, " was the ready word
Which first escap'd him, not unheard;
When sudden, to his mental sight,
Uprose the horrors of last night;
His plunder'd friend before him stands,
And — " not at home, " his firm commands;
He felt the conquest as a joy
The first temptation would destroy.
He knew next day that Hymen's hand,
Would tack the slight and slippery hand,
Which, in loose bondage, would ensnare
Beliario bright and Flavin fair.
Oft had he promis'd to attend
The nuptials of his happy friend:
To go — to stay — alike he fears;
At length a holder flight he dares;
To Celia he resolves to fly,
And catch fresh virtue from her eye;
Though three full weeks did yet remain,
Ere he engag'd to come again.
This plan he tremblingly embraced,
With doubtful zeal, and fluttering haste;
Nor ventur'd he one card to read,
Which might his virtuous scheme impede;
Each note, he dreaded might betray him,
And shudder'd lest each rap should stay him
Behold him seated in his chaise;
With face that self-distrust betrays;
He hazards not a single glance
Nor through the glasses peeps by chance,
Lest some old friend, or haunt well known,
Should melt his resolution down.
Fast as his foaming coursers fly,
Hyde Park attracts his half-rais'd eye;
He steals one fearful, conscious look,
Then drops his eye upon his boolt.
Triumphant he persists to go;
But gives one sigh to Rotten-row .
Long as he view'd Augusta's tow'rs,
The sight relax'd his thinking pow'rs;
In vain he better plans revolves,
While the soft scene his soul dissolves;
The tow'rs once lost, his view he bends,
Where the receding smoke ascends;
But when nor smoke, nor tow'rs arise,
To charm his heart or cheat his eyes;
When once he got entirely clear
From this enfeebling atmosphere;
His mind was braced, his spirits light.
His heart was gay, his humour bright;
Thus feeling, at his inmost soul,
The sweet reward of self-control.
Impatient now, and all alive,
He thought he never should arrive;
At last he spies Sir Gilbert's trees;
Now the near battlements he sees;
The gates he enter'd with delight,
And, self-announced, embraced the knight:
The youth his joy unfeign'd exprest,
The knight with joy receiv'd his guest,
And own'd, with no unwilling tongue,
'Twas done like men when he was young.
Three weeks subducted, went to prove,
A feeling like old-fashion'd love.
For Celia, not a word she said,
But blush'd, " celestial, rosy red! "
Her modest charms transport the youth,
Who promis'd everlasting truth.
Celia, in honour of the day,
Unusual splendour would display:
Such was the charm her sweetness gave,
He thought her wedgwood had been seve;
Her taste diffus'd a gracious air,
And chaste simplicity was there,
Whose secret power, though silent, great is,
The loveliest of the sweet penates.
Florio, now present to the scene,
With spirits light, and gracious mien,
Sir Gilbert's port politely praises,
And carefully avoids French phrases;
Endures the daily dissertation
On land-tax, and a ruin'd nation;
Listens to many a tedious tale
Of ponchers who deserv'd a jail:
Heard all the business of the quorum,
Each cause and crime produced before 'em;
Heard them abuse with complaisance
The language, wines, and wits of France;
Nor did he hum a single air,
While good Sir Gilbert fill'd his chair.
Abroad, with joy and grateful pride,
He walks, with Celia by his side:
A thousand cheerful thoughts arise,
Each rural scene enchants his eyes;
With transport he begins to look
On nature's all-instructive book;
No objects now seem mean or low,
Which point to him from whom they flow.
A berry or a bud excites
A chain of reasoning which delights,
Which, spite of sceptic ebullitions,
Proves atheists not the best logicinus.
A tree, a brook, a blade of grass,
Suggests reflections as they pass,
Till Florio, with a sigh, confest
The simplest pleasures are the best!
Bellario's systems sink in air,
He feels the perfect, good, and fair.
As pious Celia rais'd the theme
To holy faith and love supreme,
Enlighten'd Florio learn'd to trace
In nature's God the God of grace.
In wisdom as the convert grew,
The hoars on rapid pinions flew;
When call'd to dress, that Titus wore
A wig the niter'd Florio swore;
Or else, in estimating time,
He ne'er had mark'd it as a crime,
That he had lost but one day 's blessing,
When we so many lose, by dressing.
The rest, suffice it now to say,
Was finish'd in the usual way.
Cupid, impatient for his hour,
Reviled slow Themis' tedious power,
Whose parchment legends, signing, sealing,
Are cruel forms for love to deal in.
At length, to Florio's eager eyes,
Behold the day of bliss arise:
The golden sun illumes the globe,
The burning torch, the saffron robe,
Just as of old, glad Hymen wears,
And Cupid, as of old, appears
In Hymen's train; so strange the case,
They hardly knew each other's face;
Yet both confess'd, with glowing heart,
They never were design'd to part;
Quoth Hymen, sure you're strangely slighted,
At weddings not to be invited;
The reason's clear enough, quoth Cupid,
My company is thought but stupid,
Where Plutus is the favourite guest,
For he and I scarce speak at best.
The self-same sun which joins the twain
Sees Flavin sever'd from her swain:
Bellario sues for a divorce,
And hath pursue their sep'rate course.
Oh wedded love! thy bliss how rare!
And yet the ill-assorted pair;
The pair who choose at fashion's voice,
Or drag the chain of venal choice,
Have little cause to curse the state;
Who make , should never blame their fate;
Such flimsy ties, say where's the wonder,
If Doctor's Commons snap asunder.
In either case, 'tis still the wife
Gives cast and colour to the life.
Florio escap'd from fashion's school,
His heart and conduct learns to rule;
Conscience his useful life approves;
He serves his God, his country loves;
Reveres her laws, protects her rights,
And, for her interests, plends or fights;
Reviews with scorn his former life,
And, for his rescue, thanks his wife.