And if thy Chloe be of steel;
Too deaf to hear, too hard to feel;
Not her alone that censure fits,
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wits.
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall,
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all
Within that house secure he hides,
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides
Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting power is such,
He shrinks into his house, with much
Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chattels none,
Well satisfied to be his own
Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meets one, only feeds
Who seeks him must be worse than blind,
(He and his house are so combin'd)
If, finding it, he fails to find
WITH two spurs or one; no great matter which,
Boots bought, or boots borrow'd, a whip or a switch,
Five shillings or less the hire of his beast,
Paid part into hand-you must wait for the rest. ·
Thus equipp'd Academicus climbs up his horse,
And out they both sally for better or worse;
His heart void of fear and as light as a feather,
And in violent haste to go-nor knowing whither;
Thro' the fields and the towns, see, he scampers
along,
And is bark'd at, and laugh'd at by old and by young,
The Cantab-1 no BM: and no Hayley. 3 the BM: for the Hayley. 8 nor BM: not Hayley. 10 bark'd BM: look'd Hayley. (Orig. line is Adlatrant catuli, multaque ridet anus.)
Till at length, overspent, and his sides smear'd with
Down tumbles his horse, man and all in the mud. In a waggon or chaise shall he finish his route? Oh scandalous fate! he must do it on foot.
Young gentlemen hear,-I am older than you, The advice that I give I have prov'd to be true, Wherever your journey may be, never doubt it, The faster you ride, you're the longer about it.
TRANSLATION OF THE VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD,
SPOKEN AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION NEXT AFTER HIS DECEASE
[Written 1781. Published by Hayley, 1803. The original Latin verses were by Vincent.]
OUR good old friend is gone, gone to his rest;
Whose social converse was itself a feast.
O ye of riper years, who recollect
How once ye lov'd, and ey'd him with respect,
Both in the firmness of his better day,
While yet he rul'd you with a father's sway,
And when, impair'd by time, and glad to rest,
Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest,
He took his annual seat, and mingled here
His sprightly vein with yours-now drop a tear! 10
In morals blameless, as in manners meek,
He knew no wish, that he might blush to speak,
But, happy in whatever state below,
And richer than the rich in being so,
Obtain'd the hearts of all, and such a meed
At length from one1as made him rich indeed.
Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here!
Go! garnish merit in a higher sphere,
The brows of those, whose more exalted lot
He could congratulate, but envied not!
Light lie the turf, good Senior, on thy breast;
And tranquil, as thy mind was, be thy rest.
Tho', living, thou hadst more desert than fame,
And not a stone now chronicles thy name!
1 He was usher and under-master of Westminster near fifty years, and retired from his occupation when he was near seventy, with a handsome pension from the king [H.].
ANOTHER VERSION
[Written 1781. Published by Bruce, 1863, from MS. in
British Museum.]
TH' old man, our amiable old man is gone—
Second in harmless pleasantry to none.
Ye, once his pupils, who with rev'rence just
View'd him, as all that were his pupils must,
Whether, his health yet firm, he gently strove
To rear and form you with a parent's love,
Or worn with age, and pleas'd to be at large,
He came still mindful of his former charge,
To smile on this glad circle ev'ry year,
And charm you with his humour, drop a tear.
Simplicity grac'd all his blameless life,
And he was kind, and gentle, hating strife.
Content was the best wealth he ever shar'd,
Though all men pay'd him love, and one, reward.
Ye titles! we have here no need of you,
Go, give the Great ones their eulogium due,
If Fortune more on others chose to shine,
'Twas not in Him to murmur or repine.
Placid old man! the turf upon thy breast,
May it lie lightly, sacred be thy rest;
Though, living, thou hadst none thy fame to spread, Nor ev'n a stone to chronicle thee, dead.
TRANSLATION OF EPITAPH TO WILLIAM NORTHCOT
[Written July, 1780. Published by Hayley, 1804. The Latin epitaph was by Unwin.]
FAREWELL!-But not for ever, Hope replies; Trace but his steps, and meet him in the skies ! There nothing shall renew our parting pain; Thou shalt not wither, nor I weep, again.
ON THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE TRANSLATION FROM THE LATIN OF DR. JORTIN [Written Jan., 1784. Published by Hayley, 1804. For Dr. Jortin's verses, see notes at the end of the volume.]
SUNS that set, and moons that wane,
Rise and are restor'd again.
Stars, that orient day subdues,
Night at her return renews.
Another Version--Heading in BM.: Translation of the Latin verses spoken in honour of the late Dr. Lloyd at the last Westminster Election, by W. C., who was two years under him while he was an usher, and had afterwards the happiness of his acquaintance.
Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth
Of the genial womb of earth,
Suffer but a transient death
From the winter's cruel breath.
Zephyr speaks; serener skies
Warm the glebe; and they arise.
We, alas earth's haughty kings,
We, that promise mighty things,
Losing soon life's happy prime,
Droop and fade in little time.
Spring returns, but not our bloom,
Still 'tis winter in the tomb.
EPIGRAMS, TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWEN
[Written Aug.-Dec., 1799. All published by Hayley, 1803.]
ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT
THOU mayst of double ignorance boast,
Who know'st not that thou nothing know'st.
PRUDENT SIMPLICITY
THAT thou mayst injure no man, dove-like be,
And serpent-like, that none may injure thee!
TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS
I WISH thy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend,
For when at worst, they say, things always mend !
WHEN little more than boy in age,
I deem'd myself almost a sage;
But now seem worthier to be styl'd
For ignorance almost a child.
THE works of ancient bards divine,
Aulus! thou scorn'st to read;
And should posterity read thine,
It would be strange indeed!
SUNSET AND SUNRISE
CONTEMPLATE, when the sun declines,
Thy death, with deep reflection!
And when again he rising shines,
The day of resurrection!
Sunset and Sunrise-3 he] his Hayley (1812).
[Written Aug.-Dec., 1799. All published by Hayley, 1803.] FROM THE GREEK OF JULIANUS
A SPARTAN, his companion slain,
Alone from battle fled,
His mother, kindling with disdain
That she had borne him, struck him dead;
For courage, and not birth alone,
In Sparta, testifies a son!
ON THE SAME, BY PALLADAS
A SPARTAN 'scaping from the fight,
His mother met him in his flight,
Upheld a faulchion to his breast,
And thus the fugitive address'd:
"Thou canst but live to blot with shame
Indelible thy mother's name,
While ev'ry breath that thou shalt draw,
Offends against thy country's law;
But, if thou perish by this hand,
Myself indeed throughout the land
To my dishonour shall be known
The mother still of such a son,
But Sparta will be safe and free,
And that shall serve to comfort me."
My name-my country-what are they to thee? What-whether base or proud, my pedigree? Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men
Perhaps I fell below them all-what then?
Suffice it, stranger! that thou seest a tomb-
Thou know'st its use-it hides--no matter whom. 6
TAKE to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain
With much hard labour in thy service worn.
He set the vines, that clothe yon ample plain,
And he these olives, that the vale adorn.
He fill'd with grain the glebe, the rills he led,
Thro' this green herbage and those fruitful bow'rs
Thou, therefore, earth! lie lightly on his head,
His hoary head, and deck his grave with flow'rs.
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