To reach the Court of Truth and Juftice,
(Where, I confefs, my only truft is :)
Though here below the learned pleader
Shew'd talents worthy of a leader,
Yet his own fame he muft fupport,
Be fometimes witty with the court,
Or work the paffions of a jury
By tender strains, or, full of fury,
Misleads them all, though twelve apoftles,
While with new law the judge he jostles,
And makes them all give up their pow'rs
To fpeeches of at least three hours!
But we have left our little man,
And wander'd from our purpos'd plan :-
'Tis faid, without ill-natur'd leaven,
"If ever lawyers get to heaven,
It furely is by flow degrees;"
Perhaps 'tis flow they take their fees!
The cafe, then, now I'll fairly state;
Flaw reach'd at laft to heav'n's high gate:
Quite spent, he rapp'd-none did it neater;
The gate was open'd by St. Peter,
Who look'd aftonish'd when he saw,
All black, the little man of law!
But charity was Peter's guide,
For, having once himself denied
His Mafter, he would not o'erpafs
The penitent of any class;
Yet, never having heard there enter'd
A lawyer, nor of one that ventur'd
Within the realms of Peace and Love,
He told him, mildly, to remove-
And would have clos'd the gate of day,
Had not old Flaw in fuppliant way,
Demurring to fo hard a fate,
Begg'd but to look, though through the gate.
St. Peter, rather off his guard,
Unwilling to be thought too hard,
Opens the gate to let him peep in :
What did the lawyer?-Did he creep in;
Or dafh at once, to take poffeffion?
Oh, no-he knew his own profeffion :
He took his hat off with respect,
And would no gentle means neglec&t;
But, finding it was all in vain
For him admittance to obtain,
Thought it were beft, let come what will,
To gain an entry by his skill;
So, while St. Peter stood aside,
To let the door be open'd wide,
He skimm'd his hat with all his strength
Within the gates, to no small length!
St. Peter ftar'd: the Lawyer afk'd him
"Only to fetch his hat"-and pass'd him :
But, when he reach'd the Jack he'd thrown,
Oh, then was all the lawyer fhown!-
He clapp'd it on; and, arms a-kimbo,
As if he'd been the gallant Bembo,
Cried out, "What think you of
"Eject me, Peter, if you can!"
GERMAN Bishop, who was alfo a temporal Prince, being much addicted to fwearing, was reproached by his Confeffor for the practice of a vice fo peculiarly difgraceful to an ecclefiaftical character. The Prelate, however, excufed himself by faying, "that he fwore as a Prince, and not as a Bishop.""All that may be very true," replied the Confeffor; "but I fhould be glad to know, when the Prince goes to the Devil for fwearing, what will become of the Bishop."
THE BLINDNESS OF HOMER *.
[From the Suffex Chronicle.]
WHAT time the penfive evening's twilight gray
Had dimm'd the brightness of the fetting day,
When Phoebus' car the western furge had gain'd,
And fober stillness o'er the landscape reign'd;
* A Prize Poem, May 1803.
Wrapt in poetic dreams by Meles' flood,
The boaft of Greece, immortal Homer stood;
Oft had he stray'd its verdant banks along,
Whilft humbler themes attun'd his native song;
But ne'er did Fancy's vifionary fire
Pourtray fuch glories to th' enraptur'd fire,
As when contending nacions clad in arms,
The ten years' war, and Helen's fatal charms,
The Grecian conquefts, and the fall of Troy,
And great Achilles' acts, his deathless strains employ:
His fparkling eye with magic frenzy beam'd,
Wide to the sweeping breeze his treffes ftream'd,
With high-wrought vigour heav'd his ftruggling breast,
As his lov'd hero's fhade he thus addrefs'd:
"Hail, goddess-born! fage Chiron's darling care,
Propitious grant thy fuppliant vot'ry's pray'r;
Oh! could one momentary glance infuse
Some faint conception to my longing mufe,
Did but thy rifing image once impart
Thy manly graces to my votive heart,
Then might my verfe become thy matchlefs fame,
And unborn ages celebrate thy name."
He fpake, when inftant through th'illumin'd air
The pealing thunder told the vision near;
High o'er the altar's top, the awful form
Rofe, like the demon of the troubled storm;
His nodding plumes attach'd the paffing gale,
Bright gleam'd his falchion's blade and burnish'd mail,
His full-orb'd shield diffus'd a dazzling light,
And all the hero burft upon his fight:
Loft in the wild emotions of furprise,
Refiftlefs darkness veils the poet's eyes,
Yet ftill entranc'd his wakeful fancy roves,
And paints in varied tints the theme he loves.
First, baleful Difcord rears her fnaky crest,
And struggling paffions fire each royal breaft;
The king of men afferts a monarch's right,
Pelides boasts his prowefs in the fight;
And now, by ftrife impell'd, his brandifh'd fword
Had wreak'd his vengeance on Mycene's lord,
But that the fage Minerva's prudent aid
Check'd his ran hand, and fheath'd the glittering blade; Sternly feceding from th' embattled host,
Silent he wanders on the lonely coast,
No more in triumph dares th' enfanguin'd field,
Whilft to his hate e'en hopes of conqueft yield;
Nor yet can time with opiate balm remove
The keen remembrance of his ravish'd love.
No kingdoms proffer'd from Atrides' hand,
Not Hiera's paftures, or Epeas' land,
Not Ajax' threats, or Phoenix' former care,
Nor wife Ulyffes' more enticing pray'r,
Can roufe th' inexorable prince to war.
At length, in milder traits, the chief appears
O'ercome, and yielding to Patroclus' tears;
Yet, ah! what ills the granted boon attend,
How swiftly fate o'erwhelms his hapless friend!
Now view him bending o'er the mournful bier,
Pay the fad tribute of a parting tear,
With human victims load the facred flames,
And celebrate with pomp the fun'ral games,
Then vow, the last, best offering to the dead,
Unerring vengeance on the murd'rer's head.
Like Mars defcending from his native sky,
When Rage and Terror 'fore his chariot fly;
He marks him next, in hoarfe Scamander's flood,
Deal death around and tinge the stream with blood;
Th' unfathom'd depths infpire no chilling dread,
Or foaming furges bursting o'er his head;
Dauntless th' impetuous tide he firmly braves,
Stems the proud torrent, and defies the waves:
Thus in Dodona's groves, when winds contend,
Some giant oak, the foreft's pride, to bend,
Strong in itself, we find its sturdy form
Deride the whirlwind and endure the storm.
What throbbing tumults fwell the poet's foul,
What mingled fhapes in quick fucceffion roll,
When flufh'd with conqueft, through the thickest war
Th' infulting victor drives his rapid car;
Thrice round the Trojan walls (a fcene of woe),
Drags at his wheels his pale, disfigur'd foe,
Whilft frequent accents ring from fhore to fhore, "Hector is flain, and Ilion is no more!"
'Mid these fell fcenes of cruelty and fate,
As fatiate Vengeance feeds her utmost hate;
See dove-ey'd Pity from her throne descend,
Dejected Sorrow's fympathizing friend;
Weigh'd down by years, by piercing forrow bow'd,
The wretched father parts th' aftonish'd crowd,
And dares that hand to feek whofe deftin'd force
Strew'd Ilion's plain with many a bleeding corfe;
"Oh grant me Hector! let these streaming eyes
View his lov'd form adorn'd with obfequies;
Let Trojan matrons deck his honour'd bier,
And his loft country grace it with a tear."
He fpake-and Mercy, Valour's foothing bride,
In great Pelides' name with weeping joy complied.
Thus, matchless bard, thy active fancy caught
What great Pelides' godlike actions taught;
Like his celeftial fhield, thy numbers trace
The living manners of the human race;
'Tis thine each warring paffion to control,
That prompts the mind, or leads th' afpiring foul;
And while thou paint'ft thy chofen hero's praise,
Eternal laurels crown his poet's laýs.
ON THE GENIUS OF HOMER.
THOU to whofe ample foul was given
The first, the noblest boon of Heaven,
Bard divine! who, blind and old,
To the deep lyre attun'd thy facred fong: I hear thee now the tale unfold,
That wrapt in mute fufpenfe the Grecian throng;
I fee them pant and gafp for breath,
And half unfheath the fword of death:
Near, and more near, they prefs around,
And catch with fierce delight the lofty found:
|