Poems (1828) by Thomas Gent
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Thomas Gent >> Poems (1828)
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Him, skill'd alike great Nature's genuine form,
Or Fashion's light factitious traits to trace,
The scene confess'd;--with glowing pathos warm,
Or gaily sportive in familiar grace.
With what nice art his master-hand he flung
O'er each fine chord which thrills the polish'd breast,
Let Faukland tell! with woes ideal stung;
Let gentle Julia's generous flame attest![1]
Satire, that oft with castigation rude
Degrades, while zealous to correct mankind,
Refined by him, more generous aims pursued,
Reform'd the vice--but left no sting behind.
Yet, though with Wit's imperishable bays
Enwreath'd, he held an uncontested throne;
Though circling climes, unanimous in praise,
Confirm'd the partial suffrage of his own:
In careless mood he sought the Muse's bower;
His lyre, like that to great Pelides strong,
The soft'ning solace of a vacant boor,
Its airy descant indolently rung.
But when, portentous 'mid the storms of war,
Glared Public danger; when, with withering din,
The spoil-flush'd foe strode furious from afar;
And direr dread! Rebellion raged within:
Then SHERIDAN! dilating to the storm,
Bright as the pharos, as the watch-tower strong,
With all the patriot's inspiration warm,
Thy genius pour'd its thundering voice along.
Who heard thee not, in that tremendous hour,
When Britain mourn'd her surest anchor lost,
And saw her alienated Navies lour,
Like the charged tempest, round their parent coast?
With active zeal, which no cold medium knew,
Nor party ruled, nor prejudice confined,
But, to thy heart's spontaneous impulse true,
Thou gay'st thy country ALL thy mighty mind.
What time Iberia, gash'd with many a scar,
Braved the fierce Gaul, in fervour uncontroll'd,
Though doubts and fears bedimm'd her struggling star,
Its bright ascent thy prescient soul foretold.
Late, too, when France, with sophist cunning fraught,
Essay'd that field which force had fail'd to gain,
And proudly question'd, by success untaught,
Britannia's lineal right--her watery reign!
While meaner foes denounced with equal hate
Her flag, which wide in Freedom's cause unfurl'd,
The saving sign of many a sinking state,
Had chased Oppression from th' insulted world.--
Oh! that beyond the light diurnal page,
Inscribed on high in monumental gold,
That strain might kindle each succeeding age,
Which thus thy generous indignation roll'd:
"If e'er, of ancient energy bereaved,
Britannia, bent by menace or design,
Should stain her naval sceptre, hard-achieved,
And yield one claim, one cherish'd right resign:
"Then, hurl'd in ruin from her radiant sphere,
Sunk her proud Isle in Ocean's depths profound;
May all her glories pass from Memory's ear,
An idle legend--a derided sound!"
Such were his merits whom the Muse deplores,
The Wit, the Statesman, Orator, and Bard!
Nor when his frailties jealous truth explores,
Shall Candour shrink from her supreme award?
If, all propitious, when his ardent prime
Beat high with hope, in conscious powers elate,
Ambition woo'd him from her height sublime,
And partial Fortune op'd her golden gate;
What hostile influence, glooming o'er his way,
Chill'd each fine impulse, each aspiring aim,
Effused bleak clouds round Life's declining ray,
And left his labours no reward but fame?
'Twas not alone that in the festive bower,
Prompt in the social sympathies to melt,
Too long he linger'd; that the genial hour
His fervid sense too exquisitely felt.
But that in tasks of public duty proved,
Onward with faith inflexible he trod;
Alike by Fortune's dazzling lure unmoved,
Or stern Necessity's relentless rod.
E'en Envy's self shall sanction that applause:
And oft, slow pacing yon sepulchral gloom,
With fond regret shall Meditation pause,
And breathe these accents o'er his honour'd tomb:
Ye Muses! come, with ministry divine.
Protect the shrine where SHERIDAN is laid;
Ye Patriot Virtues! here your homage join;
Assert his worth, and soothe his hovering shade.
Emblazon'd high in Albion's rolls of fame,
A guiding star by which her sons may steer;
This proud inscription let his memory claim--
Above himself, he held his Country dear!
[Footnote 1: Rivals.]
ON THE BEAUTIFUL PORTRAIT OF MRS. FOREMAN, AS PANDORA.
In the Somerset-house Exhibition, 1826.--Painted by J.P. Davis.
Oh! had'st thou, Jove! with adamantine locks
Fix'd fast the springs of poor Pandora's box,
Then had she, bright enchantment! bloom'd for ever
In all the charms consenting Gods could give her--
Wit, Wisdom, Beauty, she had every grace
Which makes man play the madman for a face!
But chief, bless'd gift! for him ordain'd to ask it,
The gem of gems, th' incomparable casket;
And, lo! with trembling hands and ardent eyes
The bridegroom claims it--and--behold the prize!
First, like a vapour o'er the heavens obscured,
From that dark confine, rose the fiends immured,
Then groan'd the earth, in fury swell'd the floods,
Blasts smote the harvests, lightning fired the woods;
Blue spotted Plague rode gibbering on the blast,
And nations shriek'd, and perish'd, as he pass'd.
Amazed, indignant, Epimetheus stood,
Vow'd dire revenge, and strung his nerves for blood.
It was not then, that from the coffer's lid
Hope's roseate smile his fierce delirium chid;
He saw, in that fair wife which heaven had sent
But mighty Mischiefs mortal instrument,
And swore not Hope, nor Mercy's self should save her,
Look'd in her face, smiled, sigh'd, and then--forgave her!
SONNET
TO----,
ON HER RECOVERY FROM ILLNESS.
Fair flower! that fall'n beneath the angry blast,
Which marks with wither'd sweets its fearful way,
I grieve to see thee on the low earth cast,
While beauty's trembling tints fade fast away.
But who is she, that from the mountain's head
Comes gaily on, cheering the child of earth?
The walks of woe bloom bright beneath her tread,
And Nature smiles with renovated mirth?
'Tis Health! She comes: and, hark! the vallies ring,
And, hark! the echoing hills repeat the sound:
She sheds the new-blown blossoms of the spring,
And all their fragrance floats her footsteps round.
And, hark! she whispers in the zephyr's voice,
Lift up thy head, fair floweret, and rejoice!
THE RUNAWAY.
Ah! who is he by Cynthia's gleam
Discern'd, the statue of distress;
Weeping beside the willow'd stream
That laves the woodland wilderness?
Why talks he to the idle air?
Why, listless, at his length reclined,
Heaves he the groan of deep despair,
Responsive of the midnight wind?
Speak, gentle shepherd! tell me why?
--Sir! he has lost his wife, they say:--
Of what disorder did, she die?
--Lord, sir! of none--she ran away.
TO MARGARET JANE H----,
ON HER BIRTH-DAY, 17 JUNE.
Thou art indeed a lovely flower,
And I, just like the fleeting hour,
Which few will heed on folly's brink,
So rarely deigns the world to think.
Yet, ere I go, child of my heart--
One faithful offering I'll impart
To thee--thy parents' sole delight:
To me--an angel, pure as light.
Sent on this earth to cheer and bless,
Like sunbeam in a wilderness,
With fascination's form and face,
And all the charms that please and grace.
A guileless heart, a lovely mind,
A temper ardent, yet refined,
And in the early dawn of youth,
Taught to love honour, faith, and truth.
Ah! these--when all the transient joys
Of idle life, when all its toys
Shall fade like mist before the sun,
Yet, ere thy little day is done,
Shall give that calm, that true delight,
Which gilds the darkling hues of night,
The sunset of a well spent day,
A glorious immortality!
ON READING THE POEM OF "PARIS."
BY THE REV GEORGE CROLY, A.M.
Author of "The Angel of the World," "Sebastian," &c.
By the trim taper, and the blazing hearth,
(While loud without the blast of winter sung),
Now thrill'd with awe, and now relax'd with mirth,
Paris, I've roam'd thy varied haunts among,
Loitering where Fashion's insect myriads spread
Their painted wings, and sport their little day;
Anon, by beckoning recollection led
To the dark shadow of the stern ABBAYE,
Pale Fancy heard the petrifying shriek
Of midnight Murder from its turrets bleak,
And to her horrent eye came passing on
Phantoms of those dark times, elapsed and gone,
When Rapine yell'd o'er his defenceless prey,
As unchain'd Anarchy her tocsin rung,
And France! in dust and blood thy throne and altars lay!
Oh! thou, thus skill'd with absolute controul,
Where'er thou wilt to lead th' admiring soul,
Gifted alike with Fancy's train to sport,
And tread light measures in her elfin court;
Or pierce the height where Grandeur sits alone,
Girt by the tempest, on his mountain throne:
Whate'er the theme which wakes thy vocal shell,
Well-pleased I follow where its concords swell;
In regal halls, where pleasure wings the night
With pomp and music, revelry and light,
Or where, unwept by Love's deploring eyes,
In the lone Morgue, the self-doom'd victim lies--
Then, midst the twilight of yon Chapel dim,
To mark Religion's reverend Martyr, him
Who kneels entranced in agony of prayer,
His fellow victims torpid with despair,
Thrill'd by his piercing tones, his beaming eye
Glows, as he glows, nor longer dread to die!
Now, borne to Belgium's plain on bolder wings,
Where England's warriors fix'd the fate of Kings:
At once the Patriot and the Poet glows,
And full the mingling inspiration flows:--
Resume the lyre: not thine in myrtle bowers
To trifle light with Life's uncounted hours--
To crown thy toils, propitious Fame from far
Entwines her noblest wreath, illumes her loftiest star!
WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF
GENERAL SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE.
Mute Memory stands at Valour's awful shrine,
In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead;
A world's regret, brave ABERCROMBIE's thine,
For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fled!
For, not the tear that matchless courage claims,
To honest zeal, and soft compassion due,
Alone is thine--o'er thy adored remains
Each virtue weeps, for all once lived in you.
Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell,
To speak the merits of thy honour'd name;
But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell,
When Rapture's self has echoed forth thy fame?
Yet, still thy name its energies shall deal,
When wild storms gather round thy country's sun;
Her glowing youth shall grasp the gleamy steel,
Rank'd round the glorious wreaths which thou hast
won!
WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM
OF
I---- H---- P----, ESQ.
Dear P----, while Painters, Poets, Sages,
Inscribe this volume's votive pages
With partial friendship: why invite
The tribute of a luckless wight
Unknown--by wisdom or by wit
Indulged with no certificate?
Perchance, as in a diadem
Glittering with many a radiant gem,
Some mean metallic foil is placed
Judicious, by the hand of taste;
You seek, amidst the sons of fame,
To set an undistinguish'd name?
If so--that name is freely lent,
A pebble to your gems--T. GENT.
RETALIATION.
Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate'er
We call that elf, seen every where,
Half frolicsome, half _ennuyeuse_,
Had chanced a country walk to choose;
When sudden, sweet and bright as May,
Young Beauty tripp'd across his way.--
"Upon my word," exclaims the boy,
"A lucky hit! this pretty toy
To pass an hour, with vapours haunted,
Is quite the thing I wish'd and wanted;
I do not so far condescend
As serious mischief to intend,
But just to show my powers of pleasing
In flattery, _badinage_, and teasing;
But should she, for young girls, poor things!
Are tender as yon insect's wings--
Should she mistake me, and grow fond,
Why, I'll grow serious--and abscond."
First, not abruptly to confound her,
With glance and smile he hovers round her:
Next, like a Bond-street or Pall-mall beau,
Begins to press her gentle elbow;
Then plays at once, familiar walking,
His whole artillery of talking:--
Like a young fawn the blushing maid
Trips on, half pleased and half afraid--
And while she palpitates and listens,
Still fluttering where the sunbeam glistens,
He shows her all his pretty things,
His bow and quiver, dart, and wings;
Now, proud in power, he sees her eyes
Dilate with beautiful surprise;
But most, though fraught with perturbation.
His weapons claim her admiration,
And with an archness most bewitching
(Her naive simplicity enriching),
She wonders where a maid might buy than,
And begs to be allow'd to try them.
With secret scorn, but smiling bland,
He yields them to her curious hand,
When, instant, twang! the arrow flew,
So just her aim, it pierced him through,
Right through his heart, the luckless lad!
(A heart, to do him right, he had);
All prone he lies, in throbbing anguish,
Through many an hour to pine and languish,
And what made all his pangs more bitter,
Off flew the damsel in a titter.
Prudence, conceal'd behind a tree,
Cries out, "you've always laughed at me--
Henceforth you'll recollect, young sir!
'Tis not so safe to laugh at her."
LINES
WRITTEN IN A COPY OF THE POEM ON PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.
Presented to Mrs. D---- T----.
Madam! when sorrowing o'er the virtuous dead,
The gentlest solace of the tears we shed,
Is, to surviving excellence to turn,
And honour there those merits that we mourn.
The Muse, whose hand fair Brunswick's ashes strew
With votive flowers, would weave a wreath for You;
But living worth forbids th' applausive lay.
Therefore, repressing all respect, would say,
She proffers silently her simple strain;
If you approve--she has not toil'd in vain!
SONNET.
When the rough storm roars round the peasant's cot,
And bursting thunders roll their awful din;
While shrieks the frighted night-bird o'er the spot,
Oh! what serenity remains within!
For there contentment, health, and peace, abide,
And pillow'd age, with calm eye fix'd above;
Labour's bold son, his blithe and blooming bride,
And lisping innocence, and filial love.
To such a scene let proud Ambition turn,
Whose aching breast conceals its secret woe;
Then shall his fireful spirit melt, and mourn
The mild enjoyments it can never know;
Then shall he feel the littleness of state,
And sigh that fortune e'er had made him great.
TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.
ON READING HIS
"REMAINS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE."
Southey! high placed on the contested throne
Of modern verse, a Muse, herself unknown,
Sues that her tears may consecrate the strains
Pour'd o'er the urn enrich'd with WHITE'S Remains!
While touch'd to transport, Taste's responding tone
Makes the rapt poet's ecstasies thine own;
Ah! think that he, whose hand supremely skill'd,
The heart's fine chords with deep vibration thrill'd,
In stagnant silence and petrific gloom,
Unconscious sleeps, the tenant of the tomb!
Extinct that spirit, whose strong-bidding drew
From Fancy's confines Wonder's wild-eyed crew,
Which bade Despair's terrific phantoms pass
Like Macbeth's monarchs in the mystic glass.
Before the youthful bard's impassion'd eye,
Like him, led on, to triumph and to die;
Like him, by mighty magic compass'd round,
And seeking sceptres on enchanted ground.
Such spells invest, such blear illusion waits
The trav'ller bound for Fame's receding gates,
Delusive splendours gild the proud abode,
But lurking demons haunt th' alluring road;
There gaunt-eyed Want asserts her iron reign,
There, as in vengeance of the world's disdain,
This half-flesh'd hag midst Wit's bright blossoms stalks,
And, breathing winter, withers where she walks;
Though there, long outlaw'd, desp'rate with disgrace,
Invidious Dulness wields the critic mace,
And sworn in hate, exerts his ruffian might
Where'er young genius meditates his flight.
Erewhile, when WHITE, by this fell fiend oppress'd,
Felt Hope's fine fervours languish in his breast,
When shrunk with scorn, and trembling to aspire,
He dropp'd desponding his insulted lyre.
Alert in zeal, with art benigh endued,
SOUTHEY! thy hand his blasted strength renew'd,
And lured him on, his labours scarce begun,
To win those laurels which thyself had won.
In vain! though vivified with pristine force,
O'er learning's realms he shot with meteor course;
To worth relentless, Fate's despotic frown
Scowl'd in the bright perspective of renown:
Timeless he falls, in Death's pale triumph led.
And his first laurels shade his grassy bed.
So sinks the Muse's offspring, doom'd to try,
Like a caged eagle panting tow'rds the sky,
A foil'd ascent, while adverse fortune flings
Her strong link'd meshes o'er his flutt'ring wings,
Sinks, while exalted Ignorance supine,
Unheeded slumbers like the pamper'd swine;
Obsequious slaves in his voluptuous bowers
Young pleasures warble, while the dancing Hours
In sickly sweetness languishingly move,
Like new-waked virgins flush'd with dreams of love--
Him, when by Death's dark angel swept away
From sloth's embrace, in premature decay,
Surviving friends, donation'd into grief,
Shall mourn with anguish audible and brief,
And pander-bards ring round in goodly chime
His liberal heart, high wit, and soul sublime;
But Flattery's frauds impartial Time disowns,
Funereal pomp, and adulative tones;
Slow where she moves through monumental aisles,
With stern contempt insulted Reason smiles,
While Falsehood, shrined above th' emblazon'd palls,
Shames sanctity from consecrated walls:
She seeks, with pensive step and saintly eyes,
Some lonely grave, where rude the grass-tufts rise;
Nor sculptured angels tell, nor chisell'd lines,
There slumbers CHATTERTON--here WHITE reclines!
But nobler triumphs WHITE'S probation claims
Than ever blazon'd Wit's recorded names;
For Virtue's sons, to bliss immortal born,
Tower to their native heaven, and view with scorn
The vain distinction of the trophied sod,
'Tis theirs to gain distinction with their God!
THE STATE SECRET.
AN IMPROMPTU.
"Murder will out:"--and so will truth sometimes;
For once I'll prove it in a dozen lines.--
At one of those parties where Julia's sweet face
Added interest to beauty, and archness to grace,
Where many fine folks met; and one very great,
Proud and stupid, an embryo minister sate;
Like a damper he came to put good humour out,
And it chanced that, as Julia's pet-bird flew about.
It presumptuously 'lit on this mighty man's head;
When her lore-laughing sister, sweet Eleanor, said,
"Naughty bird! I must cage you for being so rude,
On Lord------head, oh! how dare you intrude?"
"Let it rest," replied Julia, with an exquisite grace,
"Don't frighten it off--for it likes a _soft place_!"
THE MORNING CALL.
TO THE HONOURABLE LADY--------.
Written and left on her Table during her absence--Bathing.
I dare not look at those dear eyes,
The sun was never half so bright,
There surely more of rapture lies
Than ever bless'd a mortal's sight.
In thy sweet face I see impress'd
Ten thousand thousand charms divine,
The sunbeams of thy guileless breast
Like Heaven's eternal mercies shine!
Angel of love! life's endless joy,
Our hope at morn, our evening prayer;
The bliss above would have alloy,
Unless dear--------- thou wert there!
Oh! Woman--what a charm hast thou
Our rebel nature thus to tame:
We ever must adore and bow.
While virtue guards thy holy fane!
_Werthing_.
SONNET.
ON THE DEATH OF TOUSSAINT L'OUVERTURE.
His weary warfare done, his woes forgot,
Freedom! thy son, oppress'd so long, is free:
He seeks the realms where tyranny is not,
And those shall hail him who have died for thee!
Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine,
Who scorn'd obedience to usurp'd command:
Who rose a giant from a sphere indign,
To tear the rod from proud oppression's hand.
Alas! no victor-wreaths enzon'd his brow,
But freedom long his hapless fate shall mourn;
Her holy tears shall nurse the laurel-bough,
Whose green leaves grace his consecrated urn.
Nursed by these tears, that bough shall rise sublime,
And bloom triumphant 'mid the wrecks of time!
ON THE RUPTURE OF THE THAMES' TUNNEL,
WRITTEN 2nd JULY, 1827.
Every poor Quidnunc _now_ condemns
The Tunnel underneath Old Thames,
And swears, his science all forgetting,
Friend Brunel's judgment wanted _whetting;_
'Tis thus great characters are dish'd,
When they get _wetter_ than was wish'd,--
Brunel to _Gravesend_ meant to go
Under the water, wags say so,
And under that same water put
His hopes to find a shorter cut;
But when we leave the light of day.
Water hath many a devious way,
Which, like a naughty woman, leads
The best of men to strange misdeeds:
Had nearly, 'twas a toss-up whether,
Gone to his grave and end together.
How the performance went amiss
The _classical_ account is this--
The Naiads, Thames' stream that swim in,
Being _curious_, just like mortal _women_,
Dear souls! 'tis said, midst all their cares,
They love to peep at man's affairs,
And wondering at the workmen's hammers,
The noise of axes, engines, rammers,
Thought 'twould be well, nor meant the fun ill,
To make an opening through the Tunnel,
Just to see how the work went on,
And then, down dash'd they, every one;
When these same _belles_ began to dire,
'Twas well the workmen 'scaped alive:
Brunel, indeed, who knew full well
The nature of a _diving bell_,
Remain'd some time, nor made wry faces,
Within their aqueous embraces;
Nay, fierce and ungallant, adventured
To oust them by the breach they entered.
Vain man! 'twas well that he could swim,
Or, certes, they had ousted _him_.
Speed on great projects! though we rate 'em
_Rash_, for alluvial pomatum,
And under that a sandy stratum,
Will offer at a little distance
An insurmountable resistance.
How strange! to find the labour done
Just as the _sand_ begins to _run_;
In general human projects drop,
Just when our _sand_ begins to _stop!_
ANACREONTIC.
"THE WISEST MEN ARE FOOLS IN WINE."
The wisest men are fools in wine,
Experience makes us think:
Its magic spells are so divine,
We reason--yet we drink!
How short's the longest life of man,
How soon its brightest laurels fade--
Then, as our life is but a span,
Let all its hours be joyous made.
Wine o'er the ardent restless mind
Entwines its poppy chain;
A solace, then, the wretched find.
In fictions of the brain.
Oh! as the charmed glass we sip,
We conquer care and pain:
It woos like woman's dewy lip,
To kiss--and come again!
This Song has been admirably set to Music, and Sung with great
success, by MR. HENRY PHILLIPS.--It is published by MORI and
LAVENU, 28, New Bond-street.
LINES
WRITTEN IN HORNSEY WOOD
Oh! ye, who pine, in London smoke immured,
With spirits wearied, and with pains uncured,
With all the catalogue of city evils,
Colds, asthmas, rheumatism, coughs, blue devils!
Who bid each bold empiric roll in wealth,
Who drains your fortunes while he saps your health:
So well ye love your dirty streets and lanes,
Ye court your ailments and embrace your pains.
And scarce ye know, so little have ye seen,
If corn be yellow, or if grass be green;
Why leave ye not your smoke-obstructed holes,
With wholesome air to cheer your sickly souls?
In scenes where Health's bright goddess wakes the breeze,
Floats on the stream, and fans the whisp'ring trees:
Soon would the brighten'd eye her influence speak,
And her full roses flush the faded cheek.
Then, where romantic Hornsey courts the eye
With all the charms of sylvan scenery,
Let the pale sons of Diligence repair,
And pause, like me, from sedentary care;
Here the rich landscape spreads profusely wide,
And here embowering shades the prospect hide:
Each mazy walk in wild meanders moves,
And infant oaks, luxuriant, grace the groves:
Oaks, that by time matured, removed afar,
Shall ride triumphant, 'midst the wat'ry war;
Shall blast the bulwarks of Britannia's foes,
And claim her empire, wide as ocean flows!
O'er all the scene, mellifluous and bland,
The blissful powers of harmony expand;
Soft sigh the zephyrs 'mid the still retreats,
And steal from Flora's lips ambrosial sweets;
Their notes of love the feather'd songsters sing,
And Cupid peeps behind the vest of Spring.
Ye swains! who ne'er obtain'd with all your sighs
One tender look from Chloe's sparkling eyes,
In shades like these her cruelty assail,
Here, whisper soft your amatory tale;
The scene to sympathy the maid shall move,
And smiles propitious crown your slighted love.
While the fresh air with fragrance summer fills,
And lifts her voice, heard jocund o'er the hills,
All jubilant the waving woods display
Her gorgeous gifts, magnificently gay!
The wond'ring eye beholds these waving woods
Reflected bright in artificial floods,
And still, the tufts of clust'ring shrubs between,
Like passing sprites, the nymphs and swains are seen;
Till fancy triumphs in th'exulting breast,
And Care shrinks back, astonish'd! dispossess'd!
For all breathes rapture, all enchantment seems,
Like fairy visions, and poetic dreams!
Though on such scenes the fancy loves to dwell,
The stomach oft a different tale will tell;
Then, leave the wood, and seek the shelt'ring roof,
And put the pantry's vital strength to proof;
The aerial banquets of the tuneful nine
May suit some appetites, but faith! not mine;
For my coarse palate coarser food must please,
Substantial beef, pies, puddings, ducks, and peas;
Such food the fangs of keen disease defies,
And such rare feeding Hornsey-house supplies:
Nor these alone the joys that court us here,
Wine! generous wine! that drowns corroding care,
Asserts its empire in the glittering bowl,
And pours Promethean vigour o'er the soul.
Here, too, _that_ bluff John Bull, whose blood boils high
At such base wares of foreign luxury;
Who scorns to revel in imported cheer,
Who prides in perry, and exults in beer:
On these his surly virtue shall regale,
With quickening cyder, and with fattening ale.
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