THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 o 
 
 ^J^ 
 
 \v
 
 THE 
 
 LITERARY REMAINS 
 
 OF 
 
 CATHERINE MARIA FANSHAWE.
 
 fR 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE 
 READER. 
 
 " I ^HE few notes which will be found in this 
 -*- small collection of Poems are from the 
 hand of the late Rev. William Harness : of the 
 Poems themselves he said that he " never 
 turned to the little treasure he possessed in them 
 without an earnest wish that they should, in a 
 collected form, be rescued from the oblivion 
 that threatened them." With this end in view 
 he printed a few copies ; the number must have 
 been very limited, as I have been in search of 
 a copy for years. He printed them, as he said, 
 in order " that some enduring memorial may 
 txist of one who, in her varied accomplish- 
 ments, her acute perception of the beautiful, 
 her playful fancy, her charming conversation, 
 her gentle and retiring manners, her lively sym- 
 pathy with the sorrows and joys of others, and, 
 above all, her simple piety, was so cherished a 
 
 S536C2
 
 VI. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER. 
 
 member of a society, not very extended, but 
 intimately united by a common love of litera- 
 ture, and art, and science, which existed in 
 London at the close of the last and the opening 
 of the present century, and which, perhaps, 
 taken for all in all, has never been surpassed." 
 In reprinting his privately printed volume I am 
 but more fully fulfilling his wish, and I should 
 have been very glad to have enlarged the col- 
 lection of his friend's literary remains, but I 
 have failed to trace any other pieces ^vritten 
 by her. Should, however, any person into whose 
 hands this volume may come enable me so 
 to do, they will greatly oblige not only myself, 
 but some at least of the literary world. Of the 
 merits of the poems themselves I will not 
 speak further than to say that one of them has 
 been long erroneously attributed to Byron, and 
 that another is such a clever imitation of Words- 
 worth's style, that it deceived " a distinguished 
 friend and admirer" of that poet. 
 
 B. M. P.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 I. THE LETTER K : EPISTLE TO EARL HAR- 
 
 COURT I 
 
 II. EPISTLE ON BOTANY . . -I? 
 
 III. THE DEATH OF THE MINUET . 27 
 
 IV. EXTRACT FROM A LETTER TO THE 
 
 HON. CAROLINE LYTTLETON ; AND 
 LINES, " VILLAGE CHILDREN " 35 
 
 V. LETTER TO MISS BERRY, AND ODE 
 
 IN IMITATION OF GRAY . . 43 
 
 VI. VERSES SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRIT- 
 TEN BY ROBINSON CRUSOE ON THE 
 ACQUISITION OF HIS MAN FRIDAY 5 1 
 
 VII. A RIDDLE (h) 55 
 
 Vlir. AN ACCOUNT OF A DINNER AT SIR HUM- 
 PHREY Davy's with mde. de 
 
 STAEL AND LORD BYRON . . 57 
 
 IX. A RIDDLE (pillion) . 6i 
 
 X. SPEECH OF W, COBBETT, ESft., .M.P. . 63 
 XI. IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH 69
 
 Vlll. CONTENTS. 
 
 XII. CHARAPR (KINDRKn) 72 
 
 XIII. VERSES IN \N.SWKR TO A LETTER OK 
 
 THE HON. MRS. POLE CAREW 73 
 
 XIV. UGO FOSCOLO ON " LIBERTY." . . 75 
 
 XV. CHARADE (CURRANT.S) . -7^ 
 XVI. SONNET 79
 
 POEMS. 
 
 EPISTLE TO EARL HARCOURT, 
 
 ON HIS WISHING HER TO SPELL THE NAME OF 
 CATHERINE WITH A K. 180I. 
 
 AND can his antiquarian eyes, 
 My Anglo-Saxon C despise ? 
 And does Lord Harcourt day by day, 
 Regret the extinct initial K ? 
 And still with ardour unabated, 
 Labour to get it reinstated ? 
 I know, my Lord, your generous passion 
 For every long exploded fashion ; 
 And o^vn the Catherine you delight in, 
 Looks irresistibly inviting. 
 Appears to bear the stamp and mark 
 Of English used in Noah's Ark ; 
 
 B
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 " But all that glitters is not gold," 
 
 Not all things obsolete are old. 
 
 Would you but take the pains to look 
 
 In Dr. Johnson's quarto book 
 
 (As I did, wishing much to see 
 
 Th' aforesaid letter's pedigree), 
 
 Believe me, 't would a tale unfold, 
 
 Would make your Norman blood run cold. 
 
 My Lord, you'll find the K's no better 
 
 Than an interpolated letter ; 
 
 A wand'ring Greek, a franchis'd alien. 
 
 Derived from Cadmus or Deucalion ; 
 
 And why, or wherefore, none can tell, 
 
 Inserted 'twixt the J and L. 
 
 The learned say, our English tongue 
 
 On Gothic beams is built and hung ; 
 
 Then why the solid fabric piece 
 
 With motley ornaments from Greece ? 
 
 Her lettered despots had no bowels 
 
 For northern consonants and vowels ; 
 
 The Roman and the Greek grammarian 
 
 Deem'd us and all our words barbarian ; 
 
 Till those hard words, and harder blows.
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Had silenced all our haughty foes ; 
 
 And proud they were to kiss the sandals 
 
 (Shoes we had none) of Goths and Vandals. 
 
 So call we now the various race 
 
 That gave the Roman Eagle chase ; 
 
 Nurtur'd by all the storms that roll 
 
 In thunder round the Arctic Pole, 
 
 And from the bosom of the North, 
 
 Like gelid rain-drops, scattered forth — 
 
 Dread Odin's desolating sons, 
 
 Teutones, Cimbrians, Franks and Huns : — 
 
 But hold, 't would try Don Quixote's patience 
 
 To nomenclate this mob of nations, 
 
 Whose names a poet's teeth might break. 
 
 And only botanists could speak. 
 
 T/iey at a single glance would see us 
 
 Rang'd in the system of Linnaeus ; 
 
 Would organise the mingled mass, 
 
 Assign their genus, order, class, 
 
 And give, as trivial and specific. 
 
 Names harder still and more terrific. 
 
 But since our Saxon line we trace 
 
 Up to this all-subduing race.
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Since flows their blood in British veins, 
 
 Who led the universe in chains, 
 
 And from their " sole dominion " hurl'd 
 
 The giants of the ancient world, 
 
 Their boasted languages confounding. 
 
 And with such mortal guttrals wounding, 
 
 That Greek and Latin fell or fled, 
 
 And soon were number'd with the dead ; 
 
 Befits it us, so much their betters, 
 
 To spell our names with conquer'd letters ? 
 
 And shall they rise and prate again, 
 
 Like Falstaff, from among the slain ? 
 
 A license quite of modem date 
 
 Which no long customs consecrate ; 
 
 For since this K, of hateful sound. 
 
 First set his foot on British gi-ound, 
 
 ' Tis not, as antiquarians know, 
 
 A dozen centuries ago. — 
 
 That darling theme of English story, 
 
 For learning fam'd and martial glory, 
 
 Alfred, who quell'd th' usurping Dane, 
 
 And burst indignant from his chain ; 
 
 ^Vho slaves redeem'd to reign o'er men.
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Changing the falchion for the pen, 
 And outhned, \vith a master's hand, 
 Th' immortal Charter of the land ; 
 Alfred, whom yet these realms obey, 
 In all his kingdom own'd no K, 
 From foreign arms and letters free 
 Preserv'd his Cyngly dignity. 
 And wrote it with a Saxon C. 
 This case in point, from Alfred's laws. 
 Establishes my client's cause ; 
 Secures a verdict for defendant, 
 K pays the costs, and there's an end on't. 
 The suit had lingered long, I grant, if 
 Counsel had first been heard for plaintiff; 
 Who might, to use a new expression, 
 Have urg'd the plea of ^w-possession, 
 And put our better claims to flight 
 By pre-, I mean /r^-scriptive right, 
 Since that which modem times explode, 
 The world will deem the prior mode. 
 But grant this specious plea prevailing. 
 And all my legal learning failing ; 
 There yet remains so black a charge,
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Not only 'gainst the K 's at large, 
 But th' individual K in question, 
 You'd tremble at the bare suggestion, 
 Nor ever more a wish reveal 
 So adverse to the public weal. 
 
 Dear gentle Earl, you little know 
 
 That wish might work a world of woe ; 
 
 The ears that are unborn would rise 
 
 In judgment 'gainst your lordship's eyes ; 
 
 The ears that are unborn would rue 
 
 Your letter patent to renew 
 
 The dormant dignity of Shrew. 
 
 The K restor'd, takes off th' attainder. 
 
 And grants the title, with remainder 
 
 In perpetuity devis'd, 
 
 To Katherines lawfully baptis'd. 
 
 What has not Shakespeare said and sung. 
 
 Of our pre-eminence of tongue ! 
 
 His glowing pen has A\Tit the name 
 
 In characters of fire and flame ; 
 
 Not flames that mingle as they rise 
 
 Innocuous, \\\\h their kindred skies ;
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Some chemic, lady-like solution, 
 Shown at the Royal Institution ; 
 But such as still, with ceaseless clamour, 
 Dance round the anvil and the hammer. 
 See him the comic muse invoking 
 (The merry nymph with laughter choking), 
 While he exhibits at her shrine 
 Th' unhallow'd form of Katherine ; 
 And there the Gorgon image plants, — 
 Palladium of the termagants. 
 He form'd it of the rudest ore 
 That lay in his exhaustless store. 
 Nor from the crackling furnace drew, 
 Which still the breath of genius blew. 
 Till (to preserve the bright allusion) 
 The mass was in a state of fusion ; 
 Then cast it in a Grecian mould, 
 Once modell'd from a living scold ; 
 When from her shelly prison burst 
 That finished vixen, Kate the curst ! 
 
 If practice e'er with precept tallies, 
 
 Could Shakespeare set down ought in malice ?
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 From nature all his forms he drew, 
 And held the mirror to her view ; 
 And if an ugly wart arose, 
 Or freckle upon Nature's nose, 
 He flatter'd not the unsightly flaw, 
 But marked and copied what he saw ; 
 Strictly fulfilling all his duties 
 Alike to blemishes and beauties ; 
 So that in Shakespeare's time, 'tis plain, 
 The Katherines were scolds in grain, 
 No females louder, fiercer, worse. 
 Now contemplate the bright reverse. 
 And say, amid the countless names 
 Borne by contemporary dames — 
 Exotics fetched from distant nations, 
 Or good old English appellations — 
 Names hunted out from ancient books, 
 Or found on dairymaids and cooks, 
 Genteel, familiar, or pedantic, 
 Grecian, Roman, or romantic. 
 Christian, Infidel, or Jew, 
 Heroines, fabulous, or true, 
 Ruths, Rebeccas, Rachels, Sarahs,
 
 FANS H AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Charlottes, Harriets, Emmas, Claras, 
 
 Auroras, Helens, Daphnes, Delias, 
 
 Martias, Portias, and Cordelias, 
 
 Nannies, Fannies, Jennies, Hetties, 
 
 Dollies, Mollies, Biddies, Betties, 
 
 Saccharissas, Melesinas, 
 
 Dulcibellas, Celestinas, — 
 
 Say, is there one more free from blame. 
 
 One that enjoys a fairer fame. 
 
 One more endow'd with Christian graces, 
 
 (Although I say it to our faces. 
 
 And flattery we don't delight in,) 
 
 Than Catherine, at this present writing ? 
 
 Where, then, can all the difference be ? 
 
 Where ? but between the K — C — .• 
 
 Between the graceful curving line 
 
 We now prefix to atherine, 
 
 Which seems to keep, with mild police, 
 
 Those rebel syllables in peace, 
 
 Describing, in the line of duty, 
 
 Both physical and moral beauty, 
 
 And that impracticable K 
 
 Who led them all so much astray —
 
 lo FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Was never seen in black and white 
 A character more full of spite ! 
 That stubborn back, to bend unskilful, 
 So perpendicularly wilful ! 
 With angles hideous to behold, 
 Like the sharp elbows of a scold, 
 In attitude, when words shall fail, 
 To fight their battle tooth and nail. 
 In page the first, you're sagely told 
 " That all that glitters is not gold ; " 
 Fain would I quote one proverb more- 
 " Ne veillez pas le chat qui dort." 
 Here some will smile as if suspicious 
 That simile was injudicious; 
 Because in C A T they trace 
 Alliance with the feline race ; 
 But we the name alone inherit, 
 C has the letter, K the spirit. 
 And woe betide the man who tries 
 UTiether or no the spirit dies ! 
 Tho' dormant long, it yet survives, 
 With its full complement of lives. 
 The nature of the beast is still
 
 FANS H AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 To scratch and claw, if ;/<?/ to hV/: 
 For royal Cats to low-bom ^vrangling 
 Will superadd the gift of strangling. 
 Witness in modem times the fate 
 Of that unhappy potentate, 
 Who from his palace near the pole. 
 Where the chill waves of Neva roll, 
 Was snatched, while yet alive and merry, 
 And sent aboard old Charon's ferry. 
 The Styx he travers'd, execrating 
 A Katherine of his OAvn creating. 
 Peter the Third ! Illustrious peer ! 
 Great Autocrat of half the sphere ! 
 (At least of all the Russias, he 
 Was Emperor, Czar of Muscovy). 
 In evil hour, this simple Czar, 
 Impell'd by some malignant star, 
 Impos'd upon his new Czarina 
 The fatal name of Katarina ; 
 And as Monseigneur 1' Arche'veque 
 Chose to baptise her k la grecque, 
 'Twas Katherina, with a K : 
 He rued it to his dying day :
 
 FANS HA WE' S POEMS. 
 
 Nay, died, as I observed before. 
 
 The sooner on that very score. 
 
 The Princess quickly learnt her cue, 
 
 Improved upon the part of Shrew, 
 
 And as the plot began to thicken, 
 
 She wrung his head off like a chicken. 
 
 In short, this despot of a wife 
 
 Robb'd the poor man of crown and life : 
 
 And robbing Peter, paid not Paul ; 
 
 But clear'd the stage of great and small, 
 
 No corner of the throne could spare, 
 
 To gratify her son and heir ; 
 
 But liv'd till three-score years and ten. 
 
 Still trampling on the rights of men. 
 
 Thy brief existence, hapless Peter ! 
 
 Had doubtless longer been, and sweeter ; 
 
 But that thou wlfully disturb'st 
 
 The harmless name she brought from Zerbst. 
 
 Nor was it even then too late. 
 
 When crown'd and register'd a Kate ; 
 
 When all had trembling heard and seen 
 
 The shriller tone, and fiercer mien ; 
 
 Had'st thou e'en then, without the measure
 
 FANS H AWE'S POEMS. 13 
 
 That Russian boors adopt at pleasure, 
 
 Or publishing a tedious ukase, 
 
 To blab to all the world the true case, 
 
 By virtue of th' Imperial knout, 
 
 But whipp'd the offending letter out : 
 
 She, in the fairest page of fame, 
 
 Might then have writ her faultless name, 
 
 And thou retained thy life and crown, 
 
 Till Time himself had mow'd them do^\^^. 
 
 Perhaps, my Lord, you think the storm 
 
 That needs must follow this reform, 
 
 And crown your philanthropic labours, 
 
 Will only crush your friends and neighbours ; 
 
 While you, secure from all alarms. 
 
 May brave the alphabet in arms ; 
 
 Assur'd no gathering clouds can lower 
 
 On fair Eliza's charmed bower. 
 
 But ah ! reflect — 'tis worth reflection, 
 
 On one yet unforseen objection: 
 
 Th' enormous sureties you must find 
 
 To tranquillize the public mind. 
 
 We must suppose so wise a State
 
 14 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Would feel the danger to be great, 
 Nor such delinquents would release 
 Till bound in form to keep the peace ; 
 And not alone your simple word 
 Would satisfy the vulgar herd. 
 They'd large securities demand, 
 And seek them at your Lordship's hand, 
 Such as would drain your every coffer, 
 Tho' stored with all the wealth of Ophir. 
 Tho' lovely Nuneham's rich domains 
 Were wider than Arabian plains ; 
 Tho' Flora, portress at your gate, 
 Could vegetable gold create, 
 And, where her orange groves ascend. 
 Whose boughs with yellow fruitage bend. 
 And scatter round from countless flowers. 
 With each light breeze, ambrosial showers, 
 That fruit could change to sterling metal, 
 And drop a pearl from every petal 
 Scarce would the mighty pledge avail 
 To justify so rash a bail. 
 Shall you your wealth and credit barter. 
 For a dead letter's forfeit charter?
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 15 
 
 Shall I a helping hand extend 
 
 To aid the ruin of my friend ? 
 
 Forbid it, all ye powers that bind 
 
 With potent chains the human mind ; 
 
 Forbid it, all ye powers excelling 
 
 In the deep mysteries of spelling ! 
 
 And ye, who teach the sons of men 
 
 To guide with faltering hand the pen, 
 
 These solemn words record — and thou, 
 
 Harcourt's dread Earl, attest my vow ; 
 
 If e'er, an alien bom and bred, 
 
 The K dare rear its mushroom head, — 
 
 Proved, as it is beyond dispute, 
 
 A consonant of ill repute, — • 
 
 Within the precincts of my name. 
 
 And I admit th' imlawful claim. 
 
 May never syllable of mine 
 
 Reach the full length of Catherine ! 
 
 Depriv'd of their baptismal right, 
 
 May they — uncouth to sound and sight — 
 
 Of self-disgrace an hideous pattern, 
 
 By my own hand be written — Kattern !
 
 EPISTLE ON THE SUBJECTS OF BOTANY, 
 
 CONTAINING A TALE AND MUCH GOOD ADVICE. 
 BY A LOVER OF BOTANISTS. 
 
 HiimNy inscribed to Isabella tVay and E. C. Fanshawe. 
 
 YE Fair ! who in this favour'd cHme 
 Are taught t' employ, not murder, Time; 
 And see his reverend figure pass. 
 Without a wish to break his glass ; 
 Who, skill'd to vary each successive hour. 
 Embroider now, and now dissect a flower, 
 And scientifically know 
 To pull to pieces all that blow ; 
 And, as they lie in sad disorder. 
 Piecemeal, and litt'ring on the table, 
 Are with the more precision able 
 To name their genus, class, and order ; 
 I joy to see this gen'rous age 
 c
 
 i8 FANS H AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Unclosing Nature's folio treasure, 
 
 Confine not to their sons the page, 
 But bid their daughters share the pleasure. 
 
 I joy to see your light feet tread 
 
 The dew-bespangled grass, 
 
 Benignly bending as ye pass 
 
 To raise the violet's drooping head, 
 Or pale-faced primrose from her lowly bed ; 
 
 While your philosophic eyes 
 
 With honest pride despise 
 A tasteless gardener's pamper'd care, 
 Those gaudy monsters of the gay parterre. 
 
 I joy to see you fondly grope. 
 
 With vasculum and microscope, 
 
 Under bush, and under briar, 
 
 Thro' the bog, and in the mire ; 
 Or, on the river's slippery bank, 
 
 Outstretch'd upon its utmost verge, 
 Struggle to grasp aquatics dank 
 
 Tliat from its oozy wave emerge. 
 
 Daughters of Britain, persevere, 
 Secure your envied places,
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS, 19 
 
 To science and to Nature dear, 
 As Muses and as Graces. 
 
 But ah ! let Caution be your guide, 
 
 » 
 
 Be her's the devious path to trace, 
 
 Conform to her's your sprightly pace. 
 Nor quit her venerable side, 
 Nor feed rude mirth and giddy laughter, 
 By leaving her to hobble after. 
 
 It grieves your Poet much to see 
 
 What perils wait on Botany, 
 
 What dangers lurk in berries blue, 
 In berries black, or red, or yellow. 
 
 Rough or glossy, bright or sallow ; 
 
 Berries of ev'ry shade and hue. 
 
 To those who taste as well as view. 
 Sad is the instance that's afforded, 
 By the first Female Botanist recorded. 
 
 Have ye not heard how Ceres' child, 
 
 Proserpina, in evil hour, 
 Gathering plants and flow'rets wild. 
 
 Herself a fairer flow'r, 
 By gloomy Dis was cropt, as poets tell,
 
 ) FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Tom from Sicilian plains with him to dwell, 
 A hapless Bride, reluctant Queen of Hell.* 
 
 Or have ye read that classic story, 
 
 Unmindful of the allegory ? 
 
 Examine well the moral tale. 
 
 Unravel each mysterious part, 
 
 Divest it of the Muse's veil, 
 
 And bid it speak devoid of art. 
 Dame Ceres, once upon a time, 'tis said, 
 
 Was indispos'd and kept her bed ; 
 
 Had caught, perhaps, as thought by some, 
 
 A surfeit at her harvest-home. 
 
 So, rather than bestow a fee 
 
 On any neighbouring M.D., 
 
 She sent her daughter out to find 
 
 Cheap med'cines of the rural kind. 
 Less fraught with skill than filial duty, 
 
 * Not that fair field 
 
 Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers, 
 Herself a fairer flower, by gloomy Dis 
 Was gather'd, which cost Ceres all that pain 
 To seek her through the world. 
 
 — Paradise Lost, Book iv., 268 — 172.
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 The little botanizing beauty 
 
 Went simpling to the fields of Enna, 
 In quest of rhubarb, bark, or senna. 
 Long waited the impatient Dame, 
 Nor Proserpine, nor Physic came. 
 Nor could the tongue of comfort tell 
 That Proserpine was safe and well. 
 New pains the mother's bosom fill, 
 She has not leisure to be ill ; 
 For fear has power to impart 
 Th' acuter sickness of the heart. 
 
 Binding up her aching head. 
 
 She springs all frantic from her bed, 
 And seeks each mossy dell or tangled grove, 
 Where haply Proserpine might chance to rove. 
 
 Wand'ring now by gushing fountains, 
 Fast flowing as her tears ; 
 
 Now traversing volcanic mountains. 
 Less hideous than her fears ; 
 Vainly she sought her thro' the land, 
 
 The livelong day and tedious night, 
 With two wax candles in her hand,
 
 ! FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 When Phoebus had withdrawn his light.* 
 At length a stranger comes from far, 
 
 ^Vho tells how he had seen the maid, 
 In grisly Pluto's ebon car, 
 
 Just entering the Stygian shade. 
 In our time he would have said, 
 " Poor little Proserpine is dead." 
 The hapless parent, on the wings of love. 
 
 To high Olympus flies, and seeks redress of Jove. 
 
 If one might risk a supposition. 
 
 Said Jove was some renown'd physician. 
 
 Touch'd with the eloquence of sorrow. 
 
 He bids her call again to-morrow : 
 " And if," says he, " we can discover," 
 And prove beyond dispute, 
 She has not eat of deadly fruit 
 The patient may recover, f 
 Poor Ceres' hopes were soon appall'd 
 
 * History says that Ceres sought Proserpine on the mountains 
 of Enna, with two torches in her hand. 
 
 t Hearing Pluto has carried her off, she entreats Jupiter to get 
 her restored, who promises to do it, in case she has tasted no fruit 
 in Hell.
 
 FANSHAJVE'S POEMS. 23 
 
 By the first witness that was call'd ; 
 
 *Ascalaphus, a surly wight, 
 
 The son of Acheron and Night, 
 
 Who did depose, he saw her feed 
 
 On the pomegranate's spicy seed. 
 
 " To his behef," he swore by Stym, 
 
 " He saw her swallow number six: — 
 
 " Six grains at least, then died upon the spot, 
 
 "And further this deponent sayeth not." 
 
 Sans perjury^ a man may make, 
 
 Tho' upon oath, some small mistake. 
 
 This evidence, tho' not complete. 
 
 Yet went to prove the girl hcui mt. 
 
 Ill-fated nymph, 'twas thine, perchance, to stray, 
 Where poisonous weeds and deadly berries grow. 
 
 These closed thine eyelids on the cheerful day, 
 And sent thee struggling to the shades below ; 
 
 The baleful Luridce\ with wizard powers, 
 
 * Ascalaphus, the son of Acheron and Night, reported she had 
 eaten six grains of a pomegranate; whereupon Jupiter decreed 
 she should not return. 
 
 fSee Rousseau's " Letters on Botany." Letter i6th, Pentandria 
 Monogynia.
 
 24 FANS HA I'VE' S POEMS. 
 
 Haply entic'd thee to their " insane root ; " 
 
 AUur'd thee to explore their specious flowers, 
 Or rashly taste their fatal, fatal fruit ! 
 * Datura there her purple blossoms shed , 
 Or sad Solanumi hung his murky head ; 
 Or fell Atropia,X who presumes to claim 
 Of lovely woman the attractive name ; 
 Or Daphne there her sickly visage shows, 
 Whose pale corolla murd'rous fruits enclose. 
 
 Alas ! if these she ate. 
 
 Too certain was her fate ; 
 For Withering — immortal sage 
 
 Whose name shall never die, 
 But wither on in his perennial page, 
 
 Still flourishing, tho' dry — 
 Asserts that if a wolf shall be inclin'd. 
 
 Driven by hunger's pinching pain. 
 To eat six berries of the Daphne kind,§ 
 
 He'd never eat again. 
 
 * See Withering, p. ii8, vol. ii. f H'id, p. 124. 
 
 J Atropia, Bella Donna. Ibid, p. 126. 
 
 § Six berries of this kind will kill a wolf. Withering, vol. ii., p. 232.
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 25 
 
 It grieves your Poet then to see 
 
 The perils that environ 
 This dang'rous branch of Botany, 
 
 More fatal than cold iron. 
 
 With harmless buds, and wholesome roots, 
 
 While Nature decks your bowers ; 
 3Vhy should ye taste forbidden fruits 
 
 Or touch pernicious flowers ? 
 Such various perfume, growth and hue. 
 
 Her blooming scenes present ; 
 The dear pursuit may still be new, 
 
 And still be innocent. 
 
 Or, if ye must experience pain. 
 
 To render pleasure sweet. 
 Nor the extreme of bliss attain. 
 
 But where their boundaries meet ; 
 With many a safe but glorious wound 
 
 Your flowery toils may yet be crown'd ; 
 Ere all that sting, and all that prick us, 
 Be numbered in your Hortus Siccus.
 
 V//,o^>
 
 ELEGY 
 
 ON THE ABROGATION OF THE BIRTHNIGHT BALL, AND 
 CONSEQUENT FINAL SUBVERSION OF THE MINUET. 
 
 BY A BEAU OF THE LAST CENTURY. 
 
 NOW cease the exulting strain, 
 And bid the warbhng lyre complain ; 
 Heave the soft sigh, and drop the tuneful tear, 
 And mingle notes far other than of mirth. 
 E'en with the song that greets the new-born year, 
 Or hails the day that gave a monarch birth. 
 That self-same sun, whose chariot wheels have roll'd 
 Thro' many a circling year, with glorious toil, 
 Up to the axles in refulgent gold. 
 And gems, and silk, and crape, and flowers and foil ; 
 That self-same Sun no longer dares 
 Bequeath his honours to his heirs, 
 And bid the dancing hours supply 
 As erst, with kindred pomp, his absence from the sky.
 
 28 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 For ever at his lordly call 
 Uprose the spangled Night ! 
 Leading, in gorgeous splendour bright, 
 The Minuet and the Ball. 
 And balls each frolic hour may bring, 
 That revels through the maddening spring, 
 Shaking with hurried steps the painted floor ; 
 But Minuets are no more ! 
 
 No more the well-taught feet shall tread 
 The figure of the mazy Zed ; 
 The beau of other times shall mourn, 
 As gone, and never to return, 
 The graceful bow, the curts'y low. 
 The floating forms, that undulating glide 
 (Like anchored vessels on the swelling tide), 
 That rise and sink, alternate, as they go, 
 Now bent the knee, now lifted on the toe. 
 The side-long step that works its even way. 
 The %\o\v pas-grave, and slower balance — 
 Still with fix'd gaze he eyes the imagin'd fair, 
 And turns the comer with an easy air. 
 Not so his partner — from her ""tangled train
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 29 
 
 To free her captive foot, she strives in vain ; 
 Her 'tangled train, the struggling captive holds 
 (Like Great Atrides) in its fatal folds ; 
 The laws of gallantry his aid demand. 
 The laws of etiquette wthhold his hand. 
 Such pains, such pleasures, now alike are o'er, 
 And beau and etiquette shall soon exist no more 1 
 
 In their stead, behold advancing, 
 
 Modem men and women dancing ! 
 
 Step and dress alike express. 
 
 Above, below, from head to toe, 
 
 Male and female awkwardness. 
 
 Without a hoop, without a ruffle. 
 
 One eternal jig and shuffle ; 
 
 Where's the air, and where's the gait ? 
 
 Where's the feather in the hat ? 
 
 Where's the frizz'd toupee ? and where. 
 
 Oh, where's the powder for their hair ? 
 
 Where are all their former graces ? 
 
 And where three quarters of their faces ? 
 
 With half the forehead lost and half the chin ? 
 
 We know not where they end, or where begin.
 
 30 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Mark the pair, whom favouring fortune 
 At the envy'd top shall place, 
 
 Humbly they the rest importune 
 To vouchsafe a little space. 
 
 Not the graceful arm to wave in, 
 Or the silken robe expand ; 
 
 All superfluous action saving, 
 Idly drops the lifeless hand. 
 
 Her downcast eye the modest beauty 
 
 Sends, as doubtful of their skill. 
 To see if feet perform their duty. 
 And their endless task fulfil ; 
 Footing, footing, footing, footing. 
 Footing, footing, footing, still. 
 
 \\'hile the rest in hedge-row state. 
 
 All insensible to sound, 
 With more than human patience wait, 
 
 Like trees fast rooted in the ground.
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 31 
 
 Not such as once, with sprightly motion, 
 To distant music stirr'd their stumps, 
 
 And tript from PeUon to the Ocean, 
 Performing avenues and clumps ; 
 
 What time old Jason's ship, the Argo, 
 
 Oqjheus fiddling at the helm. 
 From Colchis bore her golden cargo, 
 
 Dancing o'er the azure main. 
 
 But why recur to ancient story, 
 
 Or balls of modern date ? 
 Be mine to trace the Minuet's fate, 
 
 And weep its fallen glory : 
 
 To ask, Who rang the parting knell ? 
 
 If Vestris came the solemn dirge to hear ? 
 
 Genius of Valoiiy, didst thou hover near ? 
 Shade of Lepicq I and spirit of Gondcl 1 
 
 I saw their angry forms arise 
 Where wreaths of smoke involve the skies 
 Above St. James's steeple :
 
 32 FANSH AWE'S POEMS 
 
 I heard them curse our heavy heel, 
 The Irish step, the Highland reel, 
 
 And all the United People. 
 To the dense air the curse adhesive clung, 
 Repeated since by many a modish tongue, 
 In words that may be said, but never shall be sung.* 
 
 What cause untimely urged the Minuet's fate ? 
 Did war subvert the manners of the State ? 
 Did savage nations give the barbarous law, 
 The Gaul Cisalpine, or the Gonoquaw ? 
 Its fall was destined to a peaceful land, 
 A sportive pencil, and a courtly hand ; 
 They left a name, that time itself might spare. 
 To grinding organs and the dancing bear. 
 On Avon's banks, where sport and laugh 
 Careless Pleasure's sons and daughters. 
 Where health the sick, and aged quaff. 
 From good King Bladud's healing waters ; 
 AMiile genius sketched, and humour grouped, 
 Then it sickened, then it drooped ; 
 
 * "Go to tlie D — 1 and Shake Yourself." The name of a 
 favourite country dance.
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 33 
 
 Sadden'd with laughter, wasted with a sneer, 
 
 And the long Minuet shortened its career.* 
 
 With cadence slow, and solemn pace, 
 
 Th' indignant mourner quits the place — 
 
 For ever quits — no more to roam 
 
 From proud Augusta's regal dome. 
 
 Ah ! not unhappy who securely rest 
 
 Within the sacred precints of a court ; 
 
 Who, then, their timid steps shall dare arrest ? 
 
 White wands shall guide them and gold sticks support. 
 
 In vain — these eyes, with tears of horror wet, 
 
 Read its death warrant in the Court Gazette. 
 
 " No ball to-night ! " Lord Chamberlain proclaims ; 
 
 " No ball to-night shall grace thy roof, St. James ! 
 
 " No ball ? " the Globe, the Sun, the Star repeat. 
 
 The morning paper and the evening sheet ; 
 
 Through all the land the tragic news has spread, 
 
 And all the land has mourn'd the Minuet dead. 
 
 So power completes ; but satire sketched the plan, 
 
 And Cecil t ends what Bunbury began. 
 
 * " The Long Minuet," was a once celebrated caricature 
 by Bunbur)'. — W. H. 
 
 t Lord Salisbury, the then Lord Chamberlain.
 
 I ASKED for a copy of the following verses, because Sir 
 Thomas Lawrence had told me that they were in his 
 mind when making his sketch for the picture of Mr. 
 Calmady's Children. In the note which inclosed the 
 verses. Miss Fanshawe writes : — 
 
 - " I am e.x-tremely obliged to you for explaining the 
 connection between these verses and the President's 
 beautiful picture : it is now quite comprehensible, and of 
 course not a little flattering. To tell you the honest truth 
 they were struck off at once, under the impression of a 
 strong feeling ; and while it was fresh, the lines had some 
 merit in my own eyes, as may be seen from my venturing 
 to show them to Sir Thomas Lawrence ; but now the 
 bloom had so completely flown as the dust from the 
 butterfly's gorgeous wings ; and reading them again, 
 when you asked for a copy, it seemed as if the faults re- 
 mained, and the spirit had evaporated. I would rather 
 you would read, than give them, to your friend, Mrs. 
 Calmady, who can desire no other worldly goods than 
 such a picture. The misfortune is, the children will grow 
 into men and women ; but then she will be able to say — 
 ' See what they were ! ! ' " 
 
 Fragment of a letter to the Hon. Caroline Lyttelton, on 
 her leafing London. 
 
 June, 1804.
 
 36 FANS HA WE' S POEMS. 
 
 THEN welcome lawns, and welcome shades, 
 And round-frock'd swains, and rosy maids; 
 Welcome die little merry train, 
 That loiter in our grassy lane ; 
 There, ere they cross the stile that leads 
 Do\\Ti a slant path, through dewy meads, 
 To yonder vale, where humble knowledge 
 Founded long since a rural college,* 
 They chat, they play, they pick up flowers, 
 And spend deliciously the hours 
 Of morn or eve, when fresh and cool. 
 'Tis ever}\vhere — except at school — 
 " Oh, Caroline ! that you and I 
 Could draw the archness of their eye. 
 
 * There is a small endowed school at the foot of our hill, and 
 the present schoolmaster being almost as much in repute as Mr. 
 Lancaster, numbers of little children are sent thither from Chip- 
 stead and the adjoining villages. Most of them pass through a 
 broad lane that parts the grounds of Shabden. They are much 
 addicted to play, are very pretty, and sometimes have their 
 pictures drawn at a shilling ahead.
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 37 
 
 Paint to the life the nameless graces, 
 That character their various faces ; 
 Pourtray the happiness that speaks 
 In the sleek dimple of their cheeks ; 
 And as it deeper grows, catch half 
 The joyous beauty of their laugh ! 
 Oh ! could we trace with rapid lines, 
 A few of Nature's sweet designs, 
 When she has bid the little troop 
 Disperse in many a scattered group ! 
 Some sitting in a sunny place. 
 With winking eyes and glowing face, 
 To count the blue bells in their lap. 
 Or hang them in each other's cap ; 
 Half blinded, but without the wit. 
 Poor imps ! the other way to sit." 
 Some, clustered on a rising bank. 
 Where the long grass is green and rank. 
 And spreading elms stand close behind, 
 With fragrant honeysuckle 'twined. 
 In shade luxuriously repose ; 
 While, now a foot, and now a nose, 
 The sun just peeps at, as the trees
 
 38 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Wave their long branches in the breeze. 
 
 Then up they start, away they hie 
 
 To chase a flecker'd butterfly ; 
 
 And should they catch him, straight one sees 
 
 Their little heads, like swarming bees, 
 
 Close huddled to survey the prize ; 
 
 Nor come alone the prying eyes. 
 
 But each a busy finger brings 
 
 To help disrobe the gorgeous wings. 
 
 Alas ! our labours but burlesque, 
 Great mistress of the picturesque, 
 Nature ! thy matchless power to please, 
 Bom of inimitable ease. 
 Thy brilliant tints, thy fine expression, 
 Thy youthful forms in soft succession. 
 But chief, thy fav'rite playmate wild — 
 The little happy village child — 
 Sweet subject still, however rude. 
 Graceful in every attitude ! 
 
 Then, Caroline, let you and I 
 Despairing throw our pencils by. 
 I've wonder'd oft, and wonder'd much, 
 That man's presumption should be such,
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 39 
 
 As e'er to form the bold design 
 
 Of imitating works Divine. 
 
 But more I mar\'el, marvel most, 
 
 He proudly of success should boast, 
 
 And still the worthless copies prize, 
 
 While living models round him rise. 
 
 Nor springs from self-applause the joy 
 
 Alone, that crowns his fond employ ; 
 
 People, who never cast an eye 
 
 On the rich colouring of the sky, 
 
 The vesture of departing day, \ 
 
 And know not how each splendid ray > 
 
 In the blue conclave melts away, ) 
 
 Will prate of Rubens by the hour 
 
 And seem to feel the magic power 
 
 Of tones harmonious, such as rule 
 
 The Flemish and Venetian school. 
 
 Mere jargon all ! Soon learnt by rote ! 
 
 Cease we the Pedant then to quote. 
 
 And ask the man whom nature warms, 
 
 Genuine admirer of her charms, 
 
 Whence spring the unbidden joys that rise 
 
 From pencill'd groves, and lakes, and skies ?
 
 40 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 How should the mockery of art 
 
 Touch the fine fibres of his heart ? 
 
 E'en though she reach not forth her hand 
 
 To seize on fonns sublimely grand, 
 
 Such as on wildest beauty wait, 
 
 And yielding fancy captivate ; 
 
 But fragments, that we hourly see, 
 
 Of rustic, common scenery, 
 
 And pass them by, as little worth, 
 
 Till memory fondly calls them forth ; 
 
 These simple truths, as simply told, 
 
 Pleas'd, we remember, pleas'd, behold. 
 
 Gives memory, then, the secret charm ? 
 
 Or does simplicity disarm 
 
 The critic of his chastening brow ? 
 
 Or, rather. Nature ! art not thou 
 
 Still the bright form to which we bow ? 
 
 In every path which thou hast trod 
 
 Are seen the footsteps of a God ; 
 
 For, eldest born of Him who spake, 
 
 And bade the dust His image take — 
 
 Ere man became a living soul 
 
 To lord it o'er this goodly whole —
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 41 
 
 Thou vvert — and earliest, latest, best, 
 Thy love is cherished in his breast ; 
 Therefore the meanest things that bear 
 Impression of a form so fair, 
 Or of the race that dwell with thee, 
 Children of sweet simplicity, 
 Wake in the heart some hidden spring. 
 And find the charm they cannot bring. 
 Then why, my friend, should you and I, 
 Despairing, throw our pencils by ? 
 We'll carry them to Nature's school. 
 And learn of her some golden rule, 
 Which haply to the work shall give 
 One glowing touch to bid it live. 
 Unless that stamp of life be there, 
 Ah ! what avails the artist's care ? 
 Vain is the poet's tuneful strain, 
 The patient sculptor toils in vain. 
 Truth gives the charm, and trutli alone ; 
 Else all is paper, paint, and stone. 
 
 The lines in the above Poem between inverted commas, 
 are those which Lawrence said he had in his mind when 
 painting the " Calmady Children." Miss Fanshawe had
 
 42 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 herself made a most exquisite drawing of some village 
 children sitting in the sun, to which the passage is also 
 applicable. — W. H. 
 
 r t
 
 ODE 
 
 SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY MISS BERRY, 
 - SENT TO HER WITH THE FOLLOWING NOTE : — 
 
 I RETURN you your Ode, my dear Miss Berry, with 
 many thanks, and with all due apologies for having de- 
 tained it so long. Believe me I no longer marvel at your 
 enthusiastic admiration of Gray, whose spirit you have 
 most happily infused into your admirable Poem. Indeed, 
 his own works never charmed me so much ; for you have 
 had the art to compress into a small compass some of his 
 most valuable passages, and to give them an interest, a 
 decision, and a dignity of subject, which was wanting. 
 But it is when you venture to depart from your illustrious 
 model, that you rise to the highest excellence, and acquire 
 an elevation and originality, that in my humble opinion 
 place your Muse on a far higher form in Parnassus than 
 even his could claim. 
 
 The price of the hat is a figure absolutely new in 
 poetry ; and as to individual character, he could not 
 have rendered it with that truth and delicacy which we 
 acknowledge in the portraits of yourself and Mrs. Clinton.
 
 44 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 If in so splendid a work I could search for blemishes, 
 perhaps one might be found in the parody of a passage, 
 which, after all, must ever remain inimitable. I allude to 
 these lines — 
 
 " And they that creep, and they that fly, 
 Shall end where they began.'' 
 
 When first suggesting to you the idea of composing an 
 Ode on the model of your favourite Gray, or when you 
 lamented at the Institution the delay occasioned by your 
 choice of a bonnet, I little thought that you were going to 
 immortalize your name at my instigation. This glorious 
 circumstance gives me a sort of property in the work, by 
 which I feel entitled to request that you would shew it 
 sparingly, and on no account distribute any copies with- 
 out license and authority from her, who has the honour to 
 be, with sentiments of the most profound admiration, 
 dear Madam, 
 
 Yours faithful and obliged. 
 May iph, 1805. C. M. F. 
 
 Excuse my sending my own copy instead of the original.
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 45 
 
 O D E. 
 
 LO ! where the gaily vestur'd throng, 
 Fair learning's train, are seen, 
 Wedg'd in close ranks her walls along, 
 
 And up her benches green.* 
 Unfolded to their mental eye 
 Thy awful form, Sublimity ! 
 The moral teacher shows — 
 Sublimity of Silence born, 
 And Solitude 'mid caves forlorn 
 And dimly vision'd woes ; 
 Or Stedfast Worth, that inly great 
 Mocks the malignity of fate. 
 While whisper'd pleasure's dulcet sound 
 Murmurs the crowded room around, 
 And Wisdom, borne on Fashion's pinions, 
 Exulting hails her new dominions. 
 
 * The Royal Institution where the Rev. Sydney Smith was 
 reading lectures on moral philosophy. The paiticular lecture al- 
 luded to in the above ode was " The Sublime." — W. H.
 
 46 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Oh ! both on me your influence shed, 
 Dwell in my heart and deck my head ! 
 
 Where'er a broader, browner shade 
 
 The shaggy beaver throws, 
 And with the ample feather's aid 
 
 O'er canopies the nose ; 
 Where'er ^vith smooth and silken pile, 
 Ling'ring in solemn pause awhile. 
 
 The crimson velvet glows ; 
 From some high benches giddy brink, 
 Clinton with me begins to think 
 
 (As bolt upright we sit) 
 That dress, like dogs, should have its day, 
 That beavers are too hot for May, 
 
 And velvets quite unfit. 
 
 Then taste, in maxims sweet, I draw 
 
 From her unerring lip ; 
 How light, how simple are the straw, 
 
 How deUcate the chip ! 
 Hush'd is the speaker's powerful voice, 
 
 The audience melt away, 
 
 /^
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 47 
 
 I fly to fix my final choice 
 And bless th' instructive day. 
 
 The milliner officious pours 
 
 Of hats and caps her ready stores, 
 
 The unbought elegance of spring ; 
 Some wide, disclose the full round face, 
 Some shadowy, lend a modest grace 
 
 And stretch their sheltering wing. 
 
 Here clustering grapes appear to shed 
 Their luscious juices on the head, 
 
 And cheat the longing eye ; 
 So round the Phrygian monarch hung 
 Fair fruits, that from his parched tongue 
 
 For ever seem'd to fly. 
 
 Here early blooms the summer rose ; 
 
 Here ribbons wreathe fantastic bows ; 
 
 Here plays gay plumage of a thousand dyes — • 
 
 Visions of beauty, spare my aching eyes ! 
 
 Ye cumbrous fashions, crowd not on my head ! 
 Mine be the chip of purest white, 
 Swan-like, and as her feathers light
 
 48 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 When on the still wave spread ; 
 And let it wear the graceful dress 
 Of unadorned simpleness 
 
 Ah ! frugal wish ; ah ! pleasing thought 
 Ah ! hope indulged in vain ; 
 
 Of modest fancy cheaply bought, 
 A stranger yet to Payne.* 
 
 With undissembled grief I tell, — 
 For sorrow never comes too late, — 
 
 The simplest bonnet in Pall Mall 
 Is sold for ;£i 8j\ 
 
 To Calculation's sober view. 
 
 That searches ev'ry plan, 
 \\\\o keep the old, or buy the new, 
 
 Shall end where they began. 
 
 Alike the shabby and the gay 
 Must meet the sun's meridian ray ; 
 The air, the dust, the damp. 
 
 * A fashionable milliner.
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 49 
 
 This, shall the sudden shower despoil ; 
 That, slow decay by gradual soil ; 
 Those, envious boxes cramp. 
 
 Who will, their squander'd gold may pay ; 
 
 Who will, our taste deride ; 
 We'll scorn the fashion of the day 
 
 With philosophic pride. 
 
 Methinks we thus, in accents low, 
 
 Might Sydney Smith address, 
 " Poor moralist ! and what art thou, 
 
 " Who never spoke of dress ! " 
 
 " Thy mental hero never hung 
 " Suspended on a tailor's tongue, 
 
 " In agonizing doubt ; 
 " Thy tale no fllutt'ring female show'd, 
 " Who languish'd for the newest mode, 
 
 "Yet dar'd to Hve without."
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 LINES 
 
 SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY ROBINSON 
 CRUSOE ON THE ACQUISITION OF FRIDAY. 
 
 I HAVE stood on the brink of the grave : 
 Savage feet have imprinted the sand ; 
 But an arm that was mighty to save, 
 
 Has saved in this terrible land. 
 How awful the silence appear'd 
 
 Of this once uninhabited plain ! 
 When the shrieks of the dying were heard, 
 How I wish'd for that silence again ! 
 
 But the tempest which gather'd around 
 Was fraught with a blessing for me ; 
 
 One victim a refuge has found, 
 I, Friday, a treasure in thee. 
 
 Some affection the bosom requires. 
 It seeks to be cherish'd again ;
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 This sentiment never expires, 
 'Tis wove in the tecture of man. 
 
 Where no human attachment can dwell, 
 
 Some favourite brute has a place ; 
 Ye meaner associates, farewell, 
 
 I have one of a different race. 
 I command, and he flies at my nod ; 
 
 I weep, and he tries to console ; 
 He is a man, in the image of God, 
 
 And endued with a reasoning soul. 
 
 O ye, to whom Providence sends 
 
 The domestic endearments of life, 
 Who, encircled by kindred and friends. 
 
 Still have room for dissension and strife ; 
 Could ye see the transporting delight 
 
 With which I contemplate ray guest, 
 Those endearments ye never would slight ; 
 
 While yet of such comforts possest. 
 
 What ye now with indifference see. 
 Ye Nature's best gift had esteem'd ;
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 53 
 
 Had ye learnt in a desert, like me, 
 
 How lovely society seem'd ; 
 How ready myself I have been 
 
 Some offence to suppose from a friend ! 
 And yet, with resentments so keen. 
 
 How unfeelingly I could offend. 
 
 But here I have learnt to repress 
 
 Ev'ry sally of passion or whim ; 
 For I would not my savage distress, 
 
 Or for worlds be offended with him. 
 Shall the horrors of solitude teach 
 
 More than civil society can ? 
 Must a voice in the wilderness preach, 
 
 " That man should be tender to man ? '' 
 
 From this gloomy and desolate waste, 
 
 No way to escape could I find ; 
 And I thought that a gulph had been plac'd 
 
 To separate me from mankind. 
 Though I sat in the shadow of death 
 
 I was seen by the Father of Light ; 
 He who kindled my life with his breath. 
 
 Now illumines my wearisome night.
 
 54 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Dear beams that revisit these eyes, 
 
 Are ye sent to prepare them for day ? 
 As the dawn first approaches the skies 
 
 With a doubtful and tremulous ray ? 
 O, Hope, can thy visions be true ? 
 
 No, Reason, the picture disowns ; 
 Fair England arose to my view 
 
 With the hum of her populous towns. 
 
 But Hope is a dangerous guest, 
 
 For the heart will grow sick with delay ; 
 Disappointment imbitters the breast, 
 
 And drives resignation away. 
 The comforts that Heaven denies 
 
 Are withheld but from motives of love ; 
 And all tears shall be wped from my eyes 
 
 In the blessed assembly above.
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 A RIDDLE. 
 
 ' '' I ^ WAS in heaven pronounced, and 'twas muttered 
 
 1 in hell, 
 -And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell ; 
 On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest. 
 And the depths of the ocean its presence confest. 
 'Twill be found in the sphere, when 'tis riven asunder, 
 Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. 
 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, 
 Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death, 
 Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, 
 Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. 
 In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care, 
 But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. 
 It begins every hope, every wish it must bound. 
 With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is 
 
 crown'd. 
 W'ithout it the soldier, the seaman may roam, 
 But woe to the wretch who exj^els it from home !
 
 56 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, 
 Nor e'en in the whirlpool of passion be drown'd. 
 'Twill not soften the heart ; but though deaf be the ear, 
 It will make it acutely and instantly hear. 
 Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower, 
 Ah, breathe on it softly — it dies in an hour.
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 57 
 
 FRAGMENT OF A LETTER 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1817, AND GIVING THE 
 ACCOUNT OF A DINNER AT SIR HUMPHREY DAVY'S, 
 - WITH MDE. DE STAEL AND LORD BYRON. 
 
 " I have just stayed in London long enough to get a 
 sight of the last-imported lion, Mde. de Stael ; but it was 
 a sight worth twenty peeps through ordinary show-boxes, 
 being the longest and the most entertaining dinner at 
 which I ever in my life was present. The party being 
 very small, her conversation was for the benefit of all who 
 had ears to hear, and even my imperfect organ lost but 
 little of the discourse : — happy if memory had served me 
 with as much fidelity ; for, had the whole discourse been 
 written without one syllable of correction, it would be dif- 
 ficult to name a dialogue so full of eloquence and wit. 
 Eloquertce is a great word, but not too big for her. She 
 speaks as she writes ; and, upon this occasion, she was 
 inspired by indignation, finding herself between two 
 opposition spirits, who gave full play to all her energies. 
 She was astonished to hear, that this pure and perfect 
 constitution was in need of radical reform ; that the only 
 safety for Ireland was to open wide the doors which had
 
 58 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 been locked and barred by the glorious revolution ; and 
 that Great Britain, the bulwark of the World, the Rock 
 which alone had withstood the sweeping flood, the ebbs 
 and flows of Democracy and Tyranny, was herself feeble, 
 disjointed, and almost on the eve of ruin. So, at least, 
 was it represented by her antagonist in argument, Childe 
 Harold, whose sentiments, — partly, perhaps, for the sake 
 of argument, — grew deeper and darker in proportion to 
 her enthusiasm. The wit was his. He is a mixture of 
 gloom and sarcasm, chastened, however, by good breeding, 
 and with a vein of original genius that makes some atone- 
 ment for the unheroic and ungenial cast of his whole 
 mind. It is a mind that never conveys the idea of sun- 
 shine. It is a dark night upon which the lightning 
 flashes. The conversation between these two and Sir 
 Humphry Davy, at whose house they met, was so ani- 
 mated, that Lady Davy proposed the coffee being served 
 in the eating-room ; so we did not separate till eleven. 
 Of course, we had assembled rather late. I should not 
 say ' assembled,' for the party included no guests but 
 Lord Byron and myself in addition to the Stael quartette. 
 She has a son, who, as well as herself, speaks English 
 with facility (when animated, however, she had generally 
 recourse to her own tongue), and a daughter of 15, who 
 listened in perfect silence, and an accompanying Baron, 
 who, being my neighbour, was almost the only interrupter 
 of my own ; and, as he could not speak English, he did 
 not say much. The extraordinary beauty of his features.
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 59 
 
 for he might serve as a model for a sculptor, was more 
 interesting than his conversation. As foreigners have no 
 idea that any opposition to Government is compatible 
 with general obedience and loyalty, their astonishment 
 was unbounded ; for the Baron de Rocca's whispers were 
 but the echo of her thunder. I, and perhaps I only, 
 completely relished all her reasonings, and I thought her 
 perfectly justified in replying to the pathetic mournings 
 over departed liberty, — ' Et vous comptez pour rien la lib- 
 erte de dire tout cela, et mcme devant les domestiques !" 
 She concluded with heartily wishing us a little taste of 
 real adversity to cure us of our plethora of political 
 health."* 
 
 * I had some doubt about printing the above extract ; but it 
 was so interesting to myself that I could not help thinking it 
 might interest others. Byron was evidently playing his company 
 character of " Childe Harold," and not appearing as his own 
 simple self. — W. H.
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 6i 
 
 A RIDDLE. 
 
 INSCRIB'D on many a learned page, 
 In mystic characters and sage, 
 Long time my ^rs^ has stood ; 
 And though its golden age be past. 
 In wooden walls it yet may last, 
 'Till clothed with flesh and blood. 
 
 My second is a glorious prize, 
 
 For all who love their wandering eyes 
 
 With curious sights to pamper ; 
 But 'tis a sight — which, should they meet 
 All'improviso in the street. 
 
 Ye Gods ! how they would scamper ! 
 
 My wholis a sort of wandering throne, 
 To woman limited alone, 
 
 The Salique law reversing ; 
 But while th' imaginary queen
 
 62 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Prepares to act this novel scene, 
 
 Her royal part rehearsing ; 
 O'ertuming her presumptuous plan, 
 Up climbs the old usurper, Man, 
 And she jogs after as she can. — Pillion.
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 63 
 
 SPEECH OF THE MEMBER FOR 
 ODIUM* 
 
 MR. COBBETT ask'd leave to bring in very soon 
 A bill to abolish the sun and the moon. 
 The Honourable Member proceeded to state 
 Some arguments us'd in a former debate, 
 On the subject of sinecures, taxes, vexations. 
 The army and navy, and old corporations, — 
 The heavenly bodies, like those upon earth, 
 Had, he said, been corrupt from the day of their birth ; 
 With reckless profusion expending their light 
 One after another, by day and by night. 
 And what classes enjoyed it ? The upper alone. 
 Upon such they had always exclusively shone ; 
 But when had they ever emitted a spark 
 For the people who toil underground in the dark ? 
 The people of England — the miners and borers. 
 Of earth's hidden treasures the skilful explorers, 
 
 * Oldham.
 
 64 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Who furnish, by grubbing beneath like the mole, 
 All the iron and copper, the tin and the coal. 
 But their minds are enlightning ; they learn every hour 
 That discussion is knowledge, and knowledge is power. 
 Long humbled and crush'd, like a giant they rise, 
 And sweep off the cobwebs that darken the skies ;* 
 To sunshine and moonshine their duties assign, 
 And claim equal rights for the mountain and mine. 
 
 Turn to other departments. High time to inquire 
 What abuses exist in air, water, and fire. 
 Why keep up volcanoes ? that idle display ! — 
 That pageant was all mighty well in its day ; 
 But the reign of utility now has commenced, 
 And wisdom with such exhibitions dispens'd. 
 When so many were starving with cold, it was cruel 
 To make such a waste of good fire and fuel. 
 As for Nature — how little experience had taught her 
 Appear'd in the administration of water. 
 Was so noble a capital duly employed ? 
 
 * Old woman, old woman, whether so high ? 
 To sweep the cobwebs off the sky, 
 And I will be with you again by and bye. 
 
 Ancieiit Poetry.
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 65 
 
 Or was it by few (if by any) enjoyed ? 
 
 Pour'd on marshes and fens, which were better \vithout. 
 
 While pasture and arable perish'd for drought. 
 
 When flagrant injustice so often occurs, 
 
 Abler hands must be wanted, and purer than hers. 
 
 Not to speak of old Ocean's insatiable needs, 
 
 Or of seas so ill plough'd they bear nothing but weeds. 
 
 At some future day he perhaps should be able 
 To lay the details of their cost on the table. 
 At present, no longer the House to detain, 
 He'd confine his remarks to the subject of rain. 
 Was it wanted ? A more economical plan. 
 More equally working, more useful to man, 
 In this age of improvement might surely be found, 
 By which all would be sprinkled, and none would be 
 
 dro^vn'd 
 He would boldly appeal to the nation's good sense, 
 Not to sanction this useless, enormous expense. 
 If the wind did but shift — if a cloud did but lower — 
 What millions of rain drops were spent in a shower ! 
 Let them burst through the shackles of wind and of 
 
 weather. 
 Do away with the office of rain altogether. 
 • F
 
 66 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Let the whole be remodelled on principles new, 
 And consolidate half the old funds into Dew. 
 Less than half was sufficient — the surplus applied 
 To steam and canals, would for commerce provide. 
 What on earth could be wanted that Dew would not 
 
 give? 
 Refreshment and food for all creatures that live, 
 Just moisture enough to promote vegetation, 
 And supply the demands of this vast population ; 
 For warmth would consummate what Dew had begun, 
 When clouds should no longer offuscate the sun. 
 He hoped that the house a few minutes would 
 spare, 
 While he ofTer'd some brief observations on Air. 
 To plain statements he must their attention beseech, 
 For he never had yet in his life made a speech. 
 Air called for its censure, nor should it escape, 
 Tho' skiU'd to allude any tangible shape. 
 
 Not the Sun, nor the Moon, nor Earth, Water or fire, 
 Nor Tories themselves, when with \\1iigs they conspire, 
 Nor Churchmen, nor Statesmen, nor Placemen nor 
 
 Peers, 
 Nor the Emperor Paul, nor the Dey of Algiers,
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 67 
 
 Were half so unjust, so despotic, so blind, \ 
 
 So deaf to the cries and the claims of mankind, /- 
 As Air and his wicked Prime Minister, Wind. ) 
 Goes forth the despoiler, consuming the rations 
 Design'd for the lungs of unborn generations. 
 What a waste of the elements made in a storm ! 
 And all this carried on in the teeth of Reform ! 
 ■ Hail, Lightning and Thunder, in volleys and peals, 
 The tropics are trembling, the Universe reels ! 
 Come Whirlwind and Hurricane, Tempest, Torna- 
 does, 
 Woe, woe, to Antigua, Jamaica, Barbadoes ! 
 Plantations uprooted, and sugar dissolv'd ; 
 Rum, coffee, and spice, in one ruin involv'd ; 
 And while the Caribbees were ruin'd and rifled, 
 Not a breeze reached Guiana and England was stifled. 
 The quality bad, and the quantity bare. 
 Our /(fe^s spent in taking or changing the Air ! 
 
 Rate all that exists at its practical worth — 
 Twas a system of humbug from Heaven to Earth ! 
 These abuses must cease — they had lasted too long ; 
 Was there anything right? — was not everything wrong? 
 The Crown was too costly, the Church was a curse ;
 
 68 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Old Parliaments bad, Reform'd Parliaments worse ; 
 
 All revenues ill manag'd, all wants ill provided ; 
 
 Equality, Liberty, Justice derided. — 
 
 But the people of England no more would endure 
 
 Any remedy short of a Radical cure. 
 
 Instructed, united, a nation of Sages 
 
 Would look with contempt on the ^\'isdom of ages ; 
 
 Provide for the world a more just Legislature, 
 
 And impose an Agrarian law upon Nature.
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 69 
 
 FRAGMENT IN IMITATION OF 
 WORDSWORTH. 
 
 'T^HERE is a river clear and fair, 
 -■- 'Tis neither broad nor narrow ; 
 It winds a little here and there — 
 It winds about like any hare ; 
 And then it takes as straight a course 
 As on the turnpike road a horse, 
 Or through the air an arrow. 
 
 The trees that grow upon the shore, 
 Have grown a hundred years or more ; 
 
 So long there is no knowing. 
 Old Daniel Dobson does not know 
 When first those trees began to grow ; 
 But still they grew, and grew, and grew, 
 As if they'd nothing else to do, 
 
 But ever to be growing.
 
 ^o 
 
 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 The impulses of air and sky 
 
 Have reared their stately stems so high, 
 
 And clothed their boughs with green ; 
 Their leaves the dews of evening quaff, — 
 
 And when the wind blows loud and keen, 
 I've seen the jolly timbers laugh, 
 
 And shake their sides with merry glee — 
 
 Wagging their heads in mockery. 
 
 Fix'd are their feet in solid earth, 
 
 Where winds can never blow ; 
 But visitings of deeper birth 
 
 Have reached their roots below. 
 For they have gained the river's brink, 
 And of the living waters drink. 
 
 There's little Will, a five years' child — 
 
 He is my youngest boy ; 
 To look on eyes so fair and wild, 
 
 It is a very joy : — 
 He hath conversed with sun and shower. 
 And dwelt with every idle flower. 
 
 As fresh and gay as them.
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 71 
 
 He loiters with the briar rose, — 
 The blue belles are his play-fellows, 
 That dance upon their slender stem. 
 
 And I have said, my little Will, 
 Why should not he continue still 
 
 A thing of Nature's rearing ? 
 A thing beyond the world's control — 
 A living vegetable soul, — 
 
 No human sorrow fearing. 
 
 It were a blessed sight to see 
 That child become a willow tree, 
 
 His brother trees among. 
 He'd be four time as tall as me. 
 
 And live three times as long. 
 
 When the above lines were read to a distinguished 
 friend and admirer of Wordsworth, she thought them 
 beautiful, and wondered he had never shown them to 
 her.— W. H.
 
 72 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 CHARADE. 
 
 "/"^OME, take your chair, 
 
 ^^^^ " And set it there, 
 " Farther from the door ; 
 " Pray, pray, 
 " Don't say nay, 
 " Eat a Httle more." 
 
 M.y first is said ; 
 
 My second 's red ; 
 
 My third I'm sure you know ; 
 
 'Tis cousin Pat, 
 
 And brother Mat, 
 
 My Aunt and Uncle Joe. 
 
 [Kind-red.]
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 73 
 
 Answer to a Letter feom the Hon. Mrs. Pcjle 
 Carew, in which she had said : — 
 
 - " I am very happy, and care every day less for poetry 
 and painting, and more for cookery and poultry." — From 
 Antony. 
 
 BLEST be the day that on your book of life 
 Stamp't the fair title of a happy wife ! 
 Blest be the hand that, arm'd with virtuous rage. 
 Tore thence, or cancell'd, every useless page, 
 Renounc'd the pomps of vanities and wit, 
 Poultry inscribed where Poetry was writ, 
 Painting (unprofitable art) effaced, 
 And gave to Cookery all your thoughts on taste ; 
 Who deck those altars, feed no transient flame, 
 Nor solid pudding change for empty fame. 
 May each revolving year your joys increase, 
 With added flocks of guinea fowls and geese ; 
 On countless eggs may ducks and pigeons sit !
 
 74 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 And all attain the honours of the spit ! 
 
 Chickens in multitudes be hatch'd, and oh ! 
 
 May no chill autumn lay your turkies low ; 
 
 Their tender lives, ye felon foxes, spare ! 
 
 Make them, ye poultry maids, your hourly care ! 
 
 So their plump forms your Christmas feasts shall crown. 
 
 Well trussed and roasted of a lively brown ; 
 
 Boiling is spoiling ; but, if boil they must, 
 
 To insipidity itself be just. 
 
 O'er their pale limbs be creamy currants pour'd. 
 
 And the rich sauce stand plenteous on your board ; 
 
 See round your shores th' instructive lesson float. 
 
 Within the oyster, and without the boat ; 
 
 Ocean your measure, but avoid its fault ; 
 
 Nor make your sauce so thin, nor half so salt. 
 
 Happy, whom thus domestic pleasures fix, 
 Blest with one husband, and with many chicks.
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 75 
 
 LIBERTY. 
 
 A CONVERSATION VERSIFIED. — UGO FOSCOLO SPEAKS. 
 
 . The following tri-lingual harangue was made at one of 
 Mr. Sotheby's parties in Grosvenor Street, in the Spring 
 of 1818, and was, the next morning, thus faithfully 
 reported. 
 
 WHY talk of Liberty upon this earth ? 
 All men are slave or tyrant from their birth. 
 To father, mother first, and what is worse 
 Siamo Schiavi even to the nurse. 
 'Tis nonsense what they talk. Do you not see, 
 In the whole world at all, no Liberty ? 
 Thousand of thousand people bold and brave ; 
 But they must eat, le ventre make them slave ! 
 The belly hunger ; and the man who fill, 
 He rule, he task, he tyrannise, he kill. 
 You who don't want the little piece of bread, ^ 
 Qjial cosa sia, come not in your head, ,- 
 
 Nor what they do, the feeder and the fed. j
 
 76 FANSH AWE'S POEMS. 
 
 Take all the histories ever writ, and read 'em ; 
 
 When was equality ? and where was freedom ? 
 
 'Twas not in England when the whole was savage ; 
 
 'Twas not when civil war made all his ravage. 
 
 Those guerres civiles of Commons, Lords and King, 
 
 What blood, what strife, what ill, what good they bring ! 
 
 How hard you fight to get your Magna Charta I 
 
 Think of poor Helots when you talk of Sparta ! 
 
 And Rome ! Ah Dieux ! quel bruit epo^ivantable. 
 
 Bah ! ce n'est rien, remettez-vous a tables. 
 
 ' y^^fals egorger dix mille homtties to-day,^ 
 
 'Twas Sylla did it, and 'twas Sylla say. 
 
 There was a law to guard the life at Rome 
 
 Of the Padrone in his cruel home ; 
 
 If he was murdered, all the house was slaughtered, 
 
 Guilty or innocent, that nothing altered ! 
 
 Les hommes, lesfemmes, et les petits enfam, 
 
 Tuita la casa ! tout ce qui est dedans ! 
 
 Each prey on other — great fish eat the small ; — 
 
 Beast, bird, the same, — and mankind eat them all. 
 
 Some eat their little ones — three, four, five, six ] — 
 
 That animal — the mother of the Picks — 
 
 ye park des pourceaux et de lafemelle;
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 77 
 
 NoJi so, in English, comment cela ^appellel 
 
 Laragyia pot, — she who weaves la sii 
 
 Her cobweb on the travee, what she do ? 
 
 She kill her husband on the wedding day — 
 
 She kill him dead, and thow him quite away. 
 
 'Tis very true. You see it if you look ; 
 
 Or you may read the story in the book." 
 
 '^ Pardon me, sir, I scarcely comprehend 
 
 To what result your arguments would tend." 
 
 " Que tout le moiide " should labour to be free ; 
 
 That every man should strive for Liberty. 
 
 Ha ! are they moving all ? They will not wait. 
 
 They go ! Ces dames — perhaps 'tis growing late."
 
 78 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 
 
 CHARADE. 
 
 HIGGLEDY, piggledy, here we lie, 
 Pulled and picked, and put in a pie. 
 Divide us in half, and I'm sure you wall wonder. 
 To see what a figure we make when asunder. 
 My first is snappish, and snarling, and howling ; 
 My second is busy, and active, and prowling. 
 But higgledy, piggledy, here we lie, 
 Pulled and picked, and put in a pie. — 
 
 Currants. \^Cur-Ants.'\
 
 FANSHAWE'S POEMS. 79 
 
 SONNET.* 
 
 TO MY MOTHER. AUGUST, I 789. 
 
 OH thou ! who Still by piercing woe pursued, 
 Alone and pensive, pours't thy sorrows here, 
 Forgive, if on thy griefs I dare intrude, 
 
 To wipe from thy lov'd cheek the falling tear. 
 Dear mourner think ! — thy son will weep no more ; 
 
 His life was spotless, and his death was mild ; 
 And, when this vain delusive life is o'er. 
 
 He'll shine a seraph, whom thou lost a child. 
 Then, as we bend before th' eternal throne. 
 
 Oh may'st thou, w^th exulting accents boast, 
 " Now shall my children ever be my own. 
 For none of those thou gavest me are lost." 
 With rapture then thou'lt meet th' angelic boy, 
 And she who sowed in tears shall meet in joy. 
 
 * This Sonnet only recently came into my possession. 
 It must have been written when the authoress was very 
 young ! — and I print it, as evincing more real poetic skill 
 and feeling than any other precocious effort which I have 
 ever happened to meet with. — W. H.
 
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