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WHAT time the jocund rosy-bosom'd Hours
Led forth the train of Phoebus and the Spring,
And Zephyr mild profusely scatter'd flowers

On Earth's green mantle from his musky wing,

The Morn unbarr'd th' ambrosial gates of light,
Westward the raven pinion'd Darkness flew,
The landscape smil'd in vernal beauty bright,
And to their graves the sullen ghosts withdrew:
The nightingale no longer swell'd her throat

With love-lorn plainings tremulous and slow,
And on the wings of Silence ceas'd to float
The gurgling notes of her melodious woe:

The god of sleep mysterious visions led

In gay procession 'fore the mental eye,
And my free'd soul awhile her mansion fled,
To try her plumes for immortality.

Thro' fields of air, methought I took my flight,
Thro' ev'ry clime o'er ev'ry region pass'd;
No paradise or ruin 'scap'd my sight,

Hesperian garden, or Cimmerian waste.

On Avon's banks I lit, whose streams appear
To wind with eddies fond roundShakespear's tomb,
The year's first feath'ry songsters warble near,
And vi'lets breathe, and earliest roses bloom.

Here Fancy sat, (her dewy fingers cold

Decking with flow'rets fresh th' unsullied sod,)
And bath'd with tears the sad sepulchral mould,
Her fav'rite offspring's long and last abode.
"Ah! what avails," she cry 'd, "a poet's name?
Ah! what avails th' immortalizing breath
To snatch from dumb oblivion others' fame?

My darling child here lies a prey to death!

"Let gentle Otway, white-rob'd Pity's priest,

From grief domestic teach the tears to flow, Or Southern captivate th' impassion'd breast With heart-felt sighs and synapathy of woe.

"For not to these his genius was confin'd, Nature and I each tuneful pow'r had given, Poetic transports of the maddir.g mind,

And the wing'd words that wail the soul to Heaven.

"The fiery glance of th' intellectual cye,
Piercing all objects of creation's store,
Which on this world's extended surface lie;
And plastic thought that still created more."

"O grant," with eager rapture I reply'd,
"Grant me, great goddess of the changeful eye,
To view each being in poetic pride,

To whom thy son gave immortality."

Sweet Fancy smil'd, and wav'd her mystic rod,
When straight these visions felt her pow'rful arm,
And one by one succeeded at her nod,

As vassal sprites obey the wizard's charm.

First a celestial form (of azure hue

Whose mantle, bound with brede etherial, flow'd
To each soft breeze its balmy breath that drew)
Swift down the sun-beams of the noon-tide rode.
Obedient to the necromantic sway

Of an old sage to solitude resign'd,
With fenny vapours he obscur'd the day,

Lanch'd the long lightning, and let loose the wind

He whirl'd the tempest thro' the howling air,
Rattled the dreadful thunderclap on high,
And rais'd a roaring elemental war

Betwixt the sea-green waves and azure sky.
Then like Heav'n's mild embassador of love
To man repentant, bade the tumult cease,
Smooth'd the blue bosom of the realms above,
And hush'd the rebel elements to peace.

Unlike to this in spirit or in mien

Another form 2 succeeded to my view;
A two-legg'd brute which Nature made in spleen,
Or from the loathing womb unfinish'd drew.
Scarce cou'd he syllable the curse he thought,
Prone were his eyes to earth, his mind to evil,
A carnal fiend to imperfection wrought,

The mongrel offspring of a witch and devil.
Next bloom'd, upon an ancient forest's bound,
The flow'ry margin of a silent stream,
O'er-arch'd by oaks with ivy mantled round,
And gilt by silver Cynthia's maiden beam.
On the green carpet of th' unbended grass,
A dapper train of female fairies play'd,
And ey'd their gambols in the watry glass,

That smoothly stole along the shad wy glade.
Thro' these the queen Titania pass'd ador'd,
Mounted aloft in her imperial car,
Journeying to see great Oberon her lord
Wage the mock battles of a sportive war.
Arm'd cap-a-pee forth march'd the fairy king,
A stouter warrior never took the field,
His threat'ning lance a hornet's horrid sting,
The sharded beetle's scale his sable shield.

Around their chief the elfin host appear'd,

Each little helimet sparkling like a star,
And their sharp spears a pierceless phalanx rear'd,
A grove of thistles, glittering in the air.

Ariel in the Tempest.

2 Caliban in the Tempest.

3 Fairy-land from the Midsummer-night's Dream.

The scene then chang'd, from this romantic land,
To a bleak waste by bound'ry unconfin'd,
Where three swart sisters of the weird band
. Were mutt'ring curses to the troublous wind.
Pale Want had wither'd every furrow'd face,
Bow'd was each carcase with the weight of years,
And each sunk eye-ball from its hollow case

Distill'd cold rheum's involuntary tears.

Hors'd on three staves they posted to the bourn
Of a drear island, where the pendent brow
Of a rough rock, shagg'd horribly with thorn,.
Frown'd on the boist'rous waves which rag'd below.

Deep in a gloomy grot remote from day,

Where smiling Comfort never show'd her face, Where light ne'er enter'd, save one rueful ray Discov'ring all the terrours of the place. They held damn'd myst'ries with infernal state, Whilst ghastly goblins glided slowly by, The screech-owl scream'd the dying call of fate, And ravens croak'd their horrid augury. No human footstep cheer'd the dread abode, Nor sign of living creature could be seen, Save where the reptile snake, or sullen toad, The murky floor had soil'd with venom green. Sudden I heard the whirlwind's hollow sound, Each weird sister vanish'd into smoke. Now a dire yell of spirits 5 underground Thro' troubled earth's wide yawning surface broke;

When lo! each injur'd apparition rose;

Aghast the murd'rer started from his bed; Guilt's trembling breath his heart's red currentfroze, And horrour's dew-drops bath'd his frantic head.

More had 1 seen-but now the god of day

O'er Earth's broad breast his flood of light had
spread,

When Morpheus call'd his fickle train away,
And on their wings each bright illusion fled.

Yet still the dear enchantress of the brain

My wakeful eyes with wishful wand'rings sought, Whose magic will controls th' ideal train,

The ever-restless progeny of Thought.

"Sweet pow'r," said 1, "for others gild the ray Of wealth, or honour's folly-feather'd crown, Or lead the madding multitude astray

To grasp at air-blown bubbles of renown. "Me (humbler lot!) let blameless bliss engage, Free from the noble mob's ambitious strife, Free from the muck-worm miser's lucrous rage, In calm Contentment's cottag'd vale of life. "If frailties there (for who from them is free?) Thro' errour's maze my devious footsteps lead, Let them be frailties of humanity,

And my heart plead the pardon of my head.

"Let not my reason impiously require

What Heav'n has plac'd beyond its narrow span, But teach me to subdue each fierce desire, Which wars within this little empire, man.

4 The witches in Macbeth.

5 Ghosts in Macbeth, Richard III. &c.

"Teach me, what all believe, but few possess, That life's best science is ourselves to know, The first of human blessings is to bless,

And happiest he who feels another's woe. “Thus cheaply wise, and innocently great, While Time's smooth sand shall regularly pass, Each destin'd atom's quiet course I'll wait, Nor rashly shake, nor wish to stop the glass. "And when in death my peaceful ashes lie,

If e'er some tongue congenial speaks my name, Friendship shall never blush to breathe a sigh, And great ones envy such an honest fame."

VER-VERT; OR, THE NUNNERY PARROT.

A HEROIC POEM IN FOUR CANTOS.

INSCRIBED TO THE ABBESS OF D ".. Translated from the French of Monsieur Gresset, First printed in 1759.

CANTO I.

O you, round whom, at Virtue's shrine,
The solitary Graces shine,
With native charms all hearts engage,
And reign without religious rage;
You, whose congenial soul by Heaven
A pleasing guide to Truth was given,
Uniting, with the family

Of rigid duties, harmless Mirth,
Daughter of social Liberty,
Twin-born with Humour at a birth,
And every other power to please,
Taste, Fancy, Elegance, and Ease;
O! since you bid your bard relate
A noble bird's disastrous fate
In notes of sympathetic woe,
Be you my Muse, my soul inspire,
And teach my numbers how to flow
Like those which trembled from your lyre
In soft and sorrow-soothing sound,
Whilst listening Cupids wept around,
When dear Sultana's1 spirit fled,
In youthful vigour's vernal bloom,
To the dark mansions of the dead:
Then for my hero's hapless doom
Such tears might once again be shed.

One might, upon his virtues cross'd
By adverse Fortune's envious rage,
And wanderings over many a coast,
Swell out the soporific page,
And other Odysseys compose
To lull the reader to repose:
One might the gods and devils raise
Of superannuated lies,

Spin out the deeds of forty days
To volumes of dull histories;
And with a pompous tediousness
Sublimely heavy moralize
Upon a bird, in epic dress,
Who as Eneas' self was great,

A lap-dog.

As famous too for godliness,
And each way more unfortunate;
But folios are, in verse, excess,
Which the sweet Muses most abhor,
For they are sportive bees of spring,
Who dwell not long on any bower,
But, lightly wandering on the wing,
Collect the bloom from flower to flower,
And, when one fragrant blossom's dry,
To other sweets unrifled fly.
This truth my observation drew
From faultless Nature and from you;
And may these lines, I copy, prove
I'm govern'd by the laws I love!
Should I, too faithfully pourtraying
Some cloyster'd characters, reveal
The convent arts themselves, arraying
In pomp, with hieroglyphic skill,
Each weighty business of the great,
Each serious nothing's mystic face,
Each trifle swell'd with holy state;
Your native humour, whilst I trace
The comic semblance, will forbear
To blame the strokes you cannot fear;
You may despise, from folly free,
What dulness is oblig'd to wear,
The formal mask of gravity.
Illusion's meteors never shine
To lead astray such souls as thine.
All holy arts Heaven values less
Than amiable cheerfulness.
Should Virtue her own image show
To ravish'd mortals here below,
With features fierce she'd not appear
Nor Superstition's holy leer,
But, like the Graces, or like you,
She'd come to claim her altar's due.
In many an author of renown
I've read this curious observation,
That, by much wandering up and down,
Men catch the faults of every nation,
And lose the virtues of their own.
'Tis better, e'en where scanty fare is,
Our homely hearths and honours watching,
Under protection of our Lares,

A calm domestic life to wed,
Than run about infection catching
Wherever chance and errour tread:
The youth too soon who goes abroad
Will half a foreigner become,

And bring his wondering friends a load
Of strange exotic vices home.

This truth the bero of my tale
Exemplifies in tarnish'd glory;
Should sceptic wits the truth assail,
1 call for witness to my story
Each cloister'd echo now that dwells
In Nevers' consecrated cells.

At Nevers, but few years ago,
Among the nuns o' th' Visitation,
There dwelt a parrot, though a bean,
For sense of wondrous reputation;
Whose virtues, and genteel address,
Whose figure, and whose noble soul,
Would have secur'd him from distress
Could wit and beauty fate control.
Ver-Vert (for so the nuns agreed
To call this noble personage)
The hopes of an illustrious breed,
FOL. XV.

To India ow'd his parentage,
By an old missionary sent
To this said convent for his good,
He yet was young and innocent,
And nothing worldly understood.
Beauteous he was, and debonnair,
Light, spruce, inconstant, gay, and free,
And unreserv'd, as youngsters are,
Ere age brings on hypocrisy.

In short, a bird, from prattling merit,
Worthy a convent to inherit.

The tender cares I need not tell
Of all the sisterhood devout,
Nothing, 'tis said, each lov'd so well,
Leave but her ghostly father out,
Nay in some hearts, not void of grace,
One plain historian makes no doubt
The parrot of the priest took place.
He shar'd in this serene abode
Whate'er was lov'd by the profession;
On him such dainties were bestow'd
As nuns prepare against confession,
And for the sacred entrails hoard
Of holy fathers in the Lord.
Sole liceus'd male to be belov'd,
Ver-Vert was bless'd without control,
Caressing and caress'd he rov'd
Of all the monastery the soul,
Except some antiquated dames,
Whose hearts to pleasure callous grown,
Remark'd with jealous eyes the flames
Of bosoms younger than their own.
At years of reason not arriv'd
A life of privilege he liv'd,
He said and did whate'er he wou'd,
And what he said or did was good.
He'd peck the nuns in wanton play
To wile their plain-work hours away;
No party ever was approv'd

Without his favourite company;
In him they found what females lov'd,
That life of bliss variety:

He'd strut a beau in sportive rings
Uttering pert sentences by rote,
Mimic the butterfly's light wings
Or nightingale's complaining note;

He'd laugh, sing, whistle, joke, and leer,
And frolic, but discreetly so,
With a prudential cautious fear,
As nuns probationary do.
Question'd at once by many a tongue
Incessantly inquisitive,

He could discordant sounds among,
To each a proper answer give;
This power from Cæsar's nothing varies,
Who did at once great plans conceive
And dictate to four secretaries.

If chronicles may be believ'd,
So lov'd the pampart gallant liv'd,
That with the nuns he always din'd
On rarities of every kind;
Then hoards, occasionally varied,
Of biscuits, sweet-meats, nuts, and fruit,
Each sister in her pocket carried,
Subordinately to recruit,

At leisure times, when not at table,
His stomach indefatigable.
The little Cares, with tender faces,
And fond Attentions, as they say,

MM

Are natives of these holy places,
As Ver-Vert witness'd every day.
No human parrot of the court
Was fondled half so much as he;
In indolence genteel, and sport,
His hours roll'd on delightfully:
Each chamber that he fancied best
Was his the dormitory round,

And, where at eve he chose to rest,
Honour'd, thrice honour'd, was the ground,
And much the lucky nun was bless'd!
But nights he very seldom pass'd,

With those whom years and prudence bless'd,
The plain neat room was more his taste
Of some young damsel not profess'd;
This nicety at board and bed
Show'd he was nobly born and bred.
When the young female anchorite,
Whom all the rest with envy view'd,
Had fix'd him for the coming night,
Perch'd on her Agnus box he stood,
Silent in undisturb'd repose
Till Venus' warning-star arose:
And when at morn the pious maid
Her toilette's mysteries display'd,
He freely saw whate'er was done;

I

say the toilette, for I've read,
But speak it in a lower tone,
That virgins, in a cloyster bred,
Their looks and languishings review
In mirrors to their eyes as true
As those, that serve to show the faces
Of dames who flaunt in gems and laces.
For, as in city or at court
Some certain taste or mode prevails,
There is among the godly sort
A taste in putting on their vails;
There is an art to fold with grace,
Round a young vestal's blooming face,
Plain crape or other simple stuff,
With happy negligence enough.
Often the sportive Loves in swarms,
Which to the monasteries repair,
Spread o'er the holy fillets charms
And tie them with a killing air;
In short, the nuns are never seen
In parlour or at grate below,
Ere at the looking-glass they've been,
To steal a decent glance or so.

This softly whisper'd, friends between,
Farther digression we adjourn,
And to our hero now return.
Safe in this unmolested scene
Ver-Vert, amidst a life of bliss,
Unrivall'd reign'd on every part;
Her slighted sparrows took amiss
This change in sister Thecla's heart;
Four finches through mere rage expir'd
At his advancement mortified,
And two Grimalkins late admir'd,
With envy languish'd, droop'd and died.
In days like these of joy and love,
Who would have thought such tender cares
To form his youthful mind, should prove,
Through Fortune's spite, destructive snares?
Or that an adverse time should come
When this same idol of their hearts
Should stand the mark, by cruel doom,
Of horrour's most envenom'd darts?
But stop, my Muse, forbid to flow

The tears arising from the sight
Of such an unexpected woe,
Too bitter fruit, alas! to grow
From the soft root of dear delight!

CANTO II.

IN such a school, a bird of sense
Would soon acquire, it is confess'd,
The gift of copious eloquence;
For, save his meals and hours of rest,
His tongue was always occupied:
And no good treatise could excel,
In phrases ready cut and dried,
His doctrines about living well.
He was not like those parrots rude
Whom dangling in a public cage
The common manners of the age
Have render'd conversably lewd;
Who, doctor'd by the worldly tribe,
With frail concupiscence endued,
Each human vanity describe.
Our Ver-Vert was a saint in grain,
A soul with innocency fraught,
Who never utter'd word profane,
Who never had immodest thought.
But in the room of ribbald wit
Each mystic colloquy he knew,
And many a text in holy writ
With prayers and collects not a few;
Could psalms and canticles repeat
And benedicite complete;

He could petition Heaven for grace
With sanctimonious voice and eyes,
And at a proper time and place
Religiously soliloquise.

Each help he had in this learn'd college
That could conduce to sacred knowledge.
For many virgins had retreated
Through grace to this religious fold,
Who, word for word, by rote repeated
Each Christmas carol, new and old.
From frequent lessons every day
The scholar grew as learn'd as they;
'Their very tone of speaking too
In pious drawlings he express'd,
The same religious sighs he drew
Deep heaving from the godly breast,
And languid notes in which these doves
Mournfully chant their mystic loves.
In short, the bird perform'd his part
In all the psalmodising art.

Such merit could not be coufin'd
Within a cloyster's narrow bound,
But flew, for Fame is swift as wind,
The neighbouring territories round;
Through Nevers' town from morn to night,
Scarce any other talk was heard,
But of discourses exquisite
Betwixt the nuns and Indian bird:
And e'en from Moulins numbers came
To witness to the truth of Fame.
Ver-Vert, the parlour's boasted glory,
Whilst all that came were told his story,
Perch'd proud upon his favourite stand,
Sister Melania's ivory hand,
Who pointed out each excellence

Of mind or body he possess'd,

His sweet mild temper, polish'd sense,
And various colours on his breast,
When his engaging aspect won
Each visiter he look'd upon;
But beauty the most exquisite
Was, in our tender proselyte,
The least his qualities among,
For all forgot his feathery pride
And every outward charm beside

The moment that they heard his tongue.
With various righteous graces fill'd,
By the good sisterhood instill'd,
Th' illustrious bird his speech began,
At every turn allusions new,
Conceptions fine, and doctrines true,
In streams of honey'd language ran.
But what was singularly new,
In this uncommon gift of speech,
And scarce will be reputed true,
Not any whilst they heard him preach
Did ever feel (his powers were 'such)
Ecclesiastic lethargy,

From soporific sanctity;

What orator can boast as much?

Much was he prais'd and much caress'd,
Whilst he, familiaris'd to fame,
Convinc'd 'twas only a mere name,
His head on his projected breast
With priestly gentleness reclin'd,
And always modestly express'd
The inward triumph of his mind.
When he had utter'd to the crowd
His treasur'd scientific store,
He mutter'd something not aloud,
And sunk in cadence more and more,
Till, with an aspect sanctified,
At last in silence down he sate,
And left his audience edified
On what had pass'd to ruminate.
These eloquent harangues would flow
With choice of sweetest phrases fraught,
Except a trifling word or so,
Which accidentally he caught,
Of scandal, at the grate below,
Or some small syllable of baste,
Which gentle nuns will, by the by,
At one another sometimes cast,
When none but holy ears are nigh.

Thus liv'd in this delightful cage,
As saint, as master, or as sage,
Good father Ver-Vert, dear to more
Than of veil'd Hebes half a score,
As any cloyster'd monk as fat,
As reverend too in holy state,
Learn'd as an abbe town-approv'd,
And fair as youths by brides caress'd,
For lovely he was always lov'd,
Perfum'd, well-bred, in fashion dress'd;
In short, had he not hapless rov'd
To see the world, completely bless'd.

But soon the fatal moments came
Of ever-mournful memory,
Destructive to our hero's fame.
Voyage of crimes and misery,
Of sad remorse, and endless shame!
Would foresight in a former age
Had torn it from th' historic page!
Ah! what a dangerous good at best

Is the possession of renown!
Obscurity is sooner blest,
From his sad fate it will be shown;
Too much success and brilliant parts
Have often ruin'd virtuous hearts.

Thy talents, Ver-Vert, and thy name,
To these lone walls were not confin'd;
As far as Nants the voice of fame
Proclaim'd th' endowments of thy mind.
At Nants, 'tis known, the Visitation
Of reverend sisters has a fold,

Who there, as elsewhere through the nation,
Know first whate'er by Fame is told.
With other news, each holy dame,
This parrot's merit having heard,
Had longings to behold the bird.
A lay-maid's wish is like a flame;
But, when a nun has such desire,
'Tis fifty times a fiercer fire.
Their curious hearts already burn'd,
Their thoughts to distant Nevers flew,
And many a holy head was turn'd,
The feather'd prodigy to view.
Immediately upon the spot

To the good abbess of the place
A female secretary wrote,
Beseeching her to have the grace
To Nants, by water down the Loire,
To send the bird so fam'd for sense,
That all the female Nantine choir
Might hear and see his excellence.

The letter goes: all question, when
The bearer will return again?
'Twill be eleven days at least,
An age to any female breast!

They send each day fresh invitation,
Depriv'd of sleep through expectation.
Howe'er at length to Nevers came
This letter of importance great.
At once the convent's in a flame,

And the whole chapter's summon'd straight. "Lose Ver-Vert? Heaven! send rather death! What comfort will with us be left,

These solitary towers beneath,

When of the darling bird bereft ?"
Thus spoke the nuns of blooming years,
Whose hearts, fatigu'd with holy leisure,
Preferr'd to penance and to tears
Soft sentiments of harmless pleasure,
In truth, a holy flock, at least,
So close confin'd, might fairly claim
To be by one poor bird caress'd,
Since there no other parrot came
Fledg'd or unfledg'd to cheer their nest.
Yet 'twas th' opinion of the dames
Who, by their age superior, `sate
Rulers in senatorial state,
Whose hearts resisted passion's flames,
That, for a fortnight's space or so,
Their dear disciple straight should go;
For, prudence overweighing love,
Th' infatuated state decreed

A stubborn negative might prove
The cause of mutual hate, and breed
For ever after much bad blood
"Twixt theirs and Nants's sisterhood.

Soon as the ladies, in conclusion,
O' th' upper house the bill had pass'd,
The commons were in great confusion;

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