Thomas Oldham

Reform! reform! cries out the longing nation;
The people hail their own-elected House;
On tiptoe stands the general expectation:
What the grand doings of the Administration?
Lo! from the labouring mountain creeps a mouse!

    *    *    *    *    *

    Metaphysical Sages
    Have writ many pages,
    To decide if the Mind
    Be Spirit or Matter:
How strange! that in the pages
Of these metaphysical sages
    We so seldom can find
    Mind, Spirit, or Matter!

The labourers in the vineyard toil
(So numerous are their creeds)
Far less to cultivate the soil,
Than break each others' heads.

    *        *        *        *        *

'Write epigrams! why, Sir, there's nothing in it.
I would be bound the merest scribbler could
        To write one in a minute.'
No doubt you could but then there would
        Indeed, be nothing in it.

    *        *        *        *        *

The ambitious rage of Russia nought controls,
With her vast empire she'd unite the Poles.

'March on! march swiftly on!' the people cry,
Let us pursue Truth, Knowledge, Liberty!
March not so fast, my friends! or you will find,
That, in your haste, you've left them all behind.

    *        *        *        *        *

One day Maria, that keen-witted Belle,
Challenged her Beau to play at Bagatelle.
'What shall we play for?' Edwin quickly cried;
"Whate'er you please;" the smiling girl replied.
'Then for a kiss, fair lady, we will play.'
He wins the game, and straight demands his pay.
"No" 'Yes' "I wont" 'You shall' "I wont be kiss'd:
I'll pay you with a check if you persist."

Too long within the House has darkness dwelt,
Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt;
Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill,
For blind debate might love that darkness still,
'Tis well the new experiment to try:
A stronger, purer light none can deny
Will then illume the House light coming from on high.

    *    *    *    *    *

'Not one of all my actors, rot 'em!'
Cried Hal, 'can play the part of Bottom.'
"Play it yourself;" retorted Ned,
"You'll look quite natural with an ass's head."

Pale is Amelia's face,
And red Lavinia's nose is;
The sisters ever jar:
'Tis like the civil war
Between the rival roses.

    *        *        *        *        *

On that dark theme, man's genealogy,
How strangely people's notions disagree!
Sir Snub-nose, growling, swears that he can trace
Strong kindred likeness to the monkey-race:
My Lady Graceful smiles, well-pleased, to find
Far more resemblance to the Angelic-kind:
Sure the reflection from their looking-glasses
Into their minds, to prompt opinion passes.
Would-be philosophers have tried to scan
The pedigree of that odd creature, man.
'We are of monkey-race!' Sir Snub-nose cries.
Your strange assertion strikes me with surprise;
(I, for my part, the compliment decline)
But do you,...

Why, when I praise you, Ma'am, why tell me flat,
    All flattery you despise?
Self-love, the greatest flatterer, tells you that,
    And I am sure he lies.

    *        *        *        *        *

What a strong contrast to most modern sages
Were some philosophers of ancient ages!
E'en Socrates, so wise, yet modest too,
Own'd he knew only that he nothing knew.
Now! vain pretenders such presumption show,
They seem to fancy that they all things know.
Ye moderns, thus puff'd up with vanity,
Would that ye knew but half as much as he!

By faith alone, you say, not works,
    Man must obtain salvation;
If you are saved, the doctrine needs
    No better confirmation.

    *    *    *    *    *

My Lady Sceptical, for want of proof,
    What all believe, denies;
Yet she believes what all, with proof, deny,
    That she is wondrous wise.


    *    *    *    *    *

'The dullest ass may write
    In verse, that jingling stuff!'
Indeed, Sir? have you tried?
    'I have.' That's proof enough.

Yon fop has strangely got it in his noddle
That he excels in tragic declamation;
Kemble's the favourite, and the model,
That claims his praise, and prompts his imitation;
Now, that the praise is just, none can deny;
But the imitation gives that praise the lie:

Mark! how the Rose, when Phoebus burns,
    Averts her blushing face;
Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turns
    To meet his warm embrace:
Like the coy rose, when woo'd by others, be,
Like the fond sun-flower, Love, when woo'd by me.

The Chancellor keeps the conscience of the King.
This seems, at first, a strange, mysterious thing;
But there's a deep-laid policy in it;
For, did the Chancellor not that conscience keep,
It might, perchance, be doom'd on thorns to sit;
Seated on wool, it may securely sleep.

    *    *    *    *    *

Papist and Protestant can ne'er agree.
'Pat!' cries an Englishman ''tis clear to me,
More grateful for the union you should be;
Think what an honour is to Ireland done:
Zounds! John Bull wed a whore of Babylon!'<...

Bury, for practice bold and skill
    Deserves to be of note;
He cures by means that well might kill,
    He cuts his patient's throat!

    *        *        *        *        *

When Satan tempts a priest to rise,
'It is the call of heaven!' he cries,
And mount's ambition's ladder:
To heaven's own call that bids him be,
Like Christ, full of humility,
He's deafer than an adder.

Perplexing case! your pardon, Friends, I pray,
My head so turns, I know not what to say;
However, since I've dared to come before ye,
I'll stop the whirligig,
    ("Clapping his hand to his forehead_,)
                and tell my story:
Though 'tis so strange, that I've a pre-conviction
It may by some, perhaps, be judged a fiction.

Learn, gentle Audience, then, with just surprise,
That, when, to-night, you saw the curtain rise,
Our poet's epilogue was still unwrit:
The devil take him for neglecting it!
Nay though, 'twas not neglected; 'twas deferr'd
From certain motives which were most absurd;
For, trusting blindly to his rhyming vein,
And still-prepared inventiveness of brain,
He'd form'd the whimsical, foolhardy plan,
To set about it when the play...

Has then, the Paphian Queen at length prevail'd?
Has the sly little Archer, whom my Friend
Once would despise, with all his boyish wiles,
Now taken ample vengeance, made thee feel
His piercing shaft, and taught thy heart profane
With sacred awe, repentant, to confess
The Son of Venus is indeed a God?
I greet his triumph; for he has but claim'd
His own; the breast that was by Nature form'd
And destined for his temple Love has claim'd.

The great, creating Parent, when she breathed
Into thine earthly frame the breath of life,
Indulgently conferr'd on thee a soul
Of finer essence, capable to trace,
To feel, admire, and love, the fair, the good,
Wherever found, through all her various works.
And is not Woman, then, her fairest work,
Fairest, and oft her ...

Mortal! whoe'er thou art, that passest by,
Stop, and behold this stone with heedful eye!
Here lies a Youth, whom Death's resistless power,
In health's full vigour, at the festal hour,
All unprepared, alas! to meet his doom,
Snatch'd suddenly to an untimely tomb.

Mortal take heed! in awful silence think,
Thou stand'st upon Eternity's dread brink;
O listen to Religion's warning cry!
'Man, know thy nature, and prepare to die!'

Ye! who this hallow'd ground with reverence tread,
Where sleep in honour'd urns the illustrious dead,
To trace the achievements of the Sons of Fame,
And pay just worship to each godlike name;
(If, blest with hearts that melt at human wo,
And feel philanthropy's celestial glow,)
Midst all the monuments that court your view,
And claim the debt to buried merit due,
Mark chiefly this; on this with tearful eyes
More fondly gaze; beneath it Howard lies!

O'er other urns mere mortals only mourn;
Celestial Beings honour Howard's urn;
Benevolence sits weeping on his stone;
Heaven's Angel still, though on her earthly throne.

Lo! Byron's tomb!
            Here, deeply pensive, scan
The greatness, and the littleness of man.
In timeless death here Freedom's Martyr sleeps,
Whom, her lost Champion, Greece, desponding, weeps.
The impassion'd Bard, whose Genius, wing'd with flame,
Swept, like a comet, through the sphere of fame,
Dazzling the astonish'd world, lies buried here.
Thus human Glory ends its bright career.
To Byron what high gifts did heaven impart!
An intellect sublime, a feeling heart;
But ah! his wild desires, his passions strong,
Hurried him irresistibly along
Wherever Pleasure call'd, through good, or ill;
No law could bridle his own proud self-will.
O! had but Virtue ruled his mighty mind,
Byron had been the first of human kind!

Lo! here, on this lone isle amid the deeps,
From his proud height of conquest, greatness hurl'd,
Buried in silent night, Napoleon sleeps!
Long Gallia's boast, the wonder of the world!

Though humbly born, Ambition claim'd her child;
Fate urged him on, his great career to fill;
On him, in war, in dangers, Fortune smiled;
And on his eagles Victory waited still.

By battles won, by policy profound,
Kings he dethroned, fill'd Europe with dismay:
England alone, of all the nations round,
His power opposed, disdaining to obey.

Forced by the flames of Moscow to retreat,
Half his vast host by cold, by famine, dies.
Famed Waterloo beheld his last defeat;
There sunk his glory's sun; ne'er more to rise.

Briton! from this sad spot ere thou depart,

Lo! here are Nelson's honour'd relics laid;
Britons! your Country's Genius calls you here,
And bids you pay to your lost Hero's shade
The noble homage of a patriot tear.

Against the fleets of Gallia, Denmark, Spain,
Full oft Britannia's war-bolts he has hurl'd;
Stretch'd forth her sceptre o'er the vanquish'd main,
And with her glory fill'd the astonish'd world.

His matchless triumphs shall the voice of Fame,
With loud applause, to latest ages tell;
Still uttering with a sigh Trafalgar's name,
Where last he conquer'd, where alas! he fell.

What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail?
Crown they with happiness our mortal state?
Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail!
O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate.

Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!
His frantic hand O horror! doom'd to bleed?
His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes
'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.'

His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;
Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire,
He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear,
Into the holy presence of her Sire.

Here lies interr'd Voltaire; no letter'd name
Can boast more brilliant, more extensive fame.
On him what various gifts did heaven confer!
Poet, historian, wit, philosopher;
But ah! peruse it, Christian, with a tear
The chief of infidels lies buried here:
Lament the abuse of such rare talents given;
Lament such dire ingratitude to heaven.