VERSES, SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR ON HIMSELF, WHEN HE WHY, Damon, with the forward day, What winds arise, what rains descend, What do thy noon-day walks avail, Thou and the worm are brother-kind, Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see All must be left when death appears, SIR JOHN VANBRUGH. [Born, 1666. Died, 1726.] SIR JOHN VANBRUGH,* the poet and architect, was the oldest son of Mr. Giles Vanbrugh, of London, merchant; he was born in the parish of St. Stephen, Walbrook, 1666. He received a very liberal education, and at the age of nineteen was sent by his father to France, where he continued several years. In 1703, he was appointed Clarencieux King of Arms, and in 1706 was commissioned by Queen Anne to carry the habit and ensigns of the order of the garter to King George the First, then at Hanover. He was also made comptroller-general of the board of works, and surveyor of the gardens and waters. In 1714, he received the order of knighthood, and in 1719 married Henrietta Maria, daughter of Colonel Yarborough. Sir John died of a quinsey at his house in Scotland-yard, and is interred in the family vault under the church of St. Stephen, Walbrook. He left only one son, who fell at the battle of Fontenoy.† FABLE, RELATED BY A BEAU TO ESOP. A BAND, a Bob-wig, and a Feather, Told her, if she would please to wed Of vigorous youth, The Bob, he talked of management, [*The family of Sir John Vanbrugh is stated, in the Biographia Dramatica, to have come originally from France; but my friend, the Rev. George Vanbrugh, rector of Aughton. in Lancashire, the only surviving descendant of the family, informs me that his ancestors were eminent merchants of Antwerp, and fled out of Flanders when the Duke of Alva tried to establish the inquisition in those provinces. They first took refuge in Holland, and from thence came over to England to enjoy the protestant protection of Queen Elizabeth. Were good for nothing (mend his soul!) And not spend sixpence when he'd done, When these two blades had done, d'ye see, Steps out, sir, from behind the skreen, It proved such sunshine weather And off they went together. [ No man who has been satirized by Swift, and praised by Reynolds, could have much chance of being forgotten; but the fame of him who was at once the author of "The Relapse" and "The Provoked Wife," and the architect of Castle Howard and Blenheim, stands independent of even such subsidiaries.-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM'S Lives of British Artists, vol. iv. p. 253.] WILLIAM CONGREVE. [Born, 1669. Died, 1729.] FROM "THE MOURNING BRIDE." Almeria meeting her husband Alphonso, whom she had imagined to be dead, now disguised as the captive Osmyn, at the tomb of his father Anselmo. Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA. Alm. It was a fancied noise, for all is hush'd. Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle. Leon. Hark! [dreadful! Alm. No, all is hush'd, and still as death-'tis How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof, By its own weight made steadfast and immovable, Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice-my own affrights me with its echoes.* Leon. Let us return; the horror of this place, And silence, will increase your melancholy. Alm. It may my fears, but cannot add to that. No, I will on; show me Anselmo's tomb, [earth, Lead me o'er bones and skulls, and mouldering Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them, Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corpse, Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride Of Garcia's more detested bed: that thought Exerts my spirits, and my present fears Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me, Lead me, for I am bolder grown: lead on Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again, To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul. Leon. I go; but Heaven can tell with what regret. [Exeunt. Heli. I wander through this maze of monuments, Enter HELL. [* This is the passage that Johnson admired so much. "Congreve," he said, "has one finer passage than any that can be found in Shakspeare. What I mean is, that you can show me no passage where there is simply a description of material objects without any intermixture of moral notions, which produced such an effect."-Croker's Boswell, vol. ii. p. 86. "If I were required," he says, in his life of Congreve, "to select from the whole mass of English poetry the most poetical paragraph. I know not what I could prefer to this. He who reads these lines enjoys for a moment the powers of a poet; he feels what he remembers to have felt before; but he feels it with a great increase of sensibility: he recognises a familiar image, but meets it again amplified and expanded, embellished with beauty and enlarged with majesty." Mr. Croker had much improved his edition of Boswell, if he had illustrated Johnson's conversation by his own writings.] Yet cannot find him-Hark! sure tis the voice Of one complaining-there it sounds! I'll follow it. [Exit. SCENE II.-Opening, discovers a place of Tombs: one Monu ment, fronting the view, greater than the rest. Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA. Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb, The poor remains of good Anselmo rest, Alm. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for OSMYN ascending from the tomb. Alm. Angels, and all the host of heaven, support me! Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, Is this a father? Osm. Look on thy Alphonso. Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia: Alm. It is, it is Alphonso! 'tis his face, The wildness of the waves and rocks to this; That, thus, relenting, they have given thee back To earth, to light and life, to love and me? Osm. Oh, I'll not ask, nor answer, how or why To fold thee thus, to press thy balmy lips, Alm. Stay awhile Let me look on thee yet a little more. Osm. What would'st thou thou dost put me from thee. Alm. Yes Osm. And why? What dost thou mean? Why dost thou gaze so? Alm. I know not; 'tis to see thy face, I thinkIt is too much! too much to bear and live? To see thee thus again in such profusion Of joy, of bliss-I cannot bear-I must Be mad-I cannot be transported thus. Osm. Thou excellence, thou joy, thou heaven of love! Alm. Where hast thou been? and how art thou alive? How is all this? All-powerful Heaven, what are we? Oh, my strain'd heart-let me again behold thee, For I weep to see thee-Art thou not paler? Much, much; how thou art changed! Osm. Not in my love. Alm. No, no! thy griefs, I know, have done this to thee. Thou hast wept much, Alphonso; and, I fear, Too much, too tenderly, lamented me. Osm. Wrong not my love, to say too tenderly. No more, my life; talk not of tears or grief; Affliction is no more, now thou art found. Why dost thou weep, and hold thee from my arms, My arms which ache to hold thee fast, and grow To thee with twining? Come, come to my heart! Alm. I will, for I should never look enough. They would have married me; but I had sworn To Heaven and thee, and sooner would have died Osm. Perfection of all faithfulness and love! Alm. Indeed I would-Nay, I would tell thee all, If I could speak; how I have mourn'd and pray'd; Osm. Grant me but life, good Heaven, but length of days, To pay some part, some little of this debt, Of yet unmeasured time; when I have made Alm. "Tis more than recompense to see thy face. Osm. I did: and thou, my love, didst call me ; What's he, who, like thyself, is started here Osm. Where? Ha! What do I see, Antonio? I am fortunate indeed-my friend, too, safe! Heli. Most happily, in finding you thus bless'd. And war: for in the fight I saw him fall. Heli. But fell unhurt, a prisoner as yourself, And as yourself made free; hither I came, Impatiently to seek you, where I knew Your grief would lead you to lament Anselmo. Osm. There are no wonders; or else all is wonder. [up, Heli. I saw you on the ground and raised you When with astonishment I saw Almeria. Osm. I saw her too, and therefore saw not thee. Alm. Nor I; nor could I, for my eyes were yours. Osm. What means the bounty of all gracious That persevering, still, with open hand, Leon. Or I am deceived, or I beheld the glimpse soon. Osm. I wish at least our parting were a dream, Or we could sleep till we again were met. Heli. Zara and Selim, sir; I saw and know them: You must be quick, for love will lend her wings. Alm. What love? Who is she? Why are you alarm'd? Osm. She's the reverse of thee; she's my unhappiness. Harbour no thought that may disturb thy peace; But gently take thyself away, lest she Should come, and see the straining of my eyes To follow thee. Retire, my love, I'll think how we may meet To part no more; my friend will tell thee all; Alm. Sure we shall meet again Osm. We shall; we part not but to meet again. Gladness and warmth of ever-kindling love Dwell with thee, and revive thy heart in absence! [Exeunt ALM. LEON, and HELI. Yet I behold her-yet-and now no more. Turn your lights inward, eyes, and view my thoughts, So shall you still behold her-'twill not be. But that in vain. I have Almeria here SONG. TELL me no more I am deceived, That Chloe's false and common; As such I liked, as such caress'd; Bnt, oh! her thoughts on others ran, And what care I a farthing? ELIJAH FENTON. [Born, 1683. Died, 1730.] ELIJAH FENTON was obliged to leave the university on account of his non-juring principles, He was for some time secretary to Charles, Earl of Orrery; he afterward taught the grammarschool of Sevenoaks, in Kent; but was induced, by Bolingbroke, to forsake that drudgery for the more unprofitable state of dependence upon a political patron, who, after all, left him disappointed and in debt. Pope recommended him to Craggs as a literary instructor, but the death of that statesman again subverted his hopes of preferment; and he became an auxiliary to Pope in translating the Odyssey, of which his share was the first, fourth, nineteeth, and twentieth books. The successful appearance of his tragedy of Mariamne on the stage, in 1723, relieved him from his difficulties, and the rest of his life was comfortably spent in the employment of Lady Trumbull, first as tutor to her son, and afterward as auditor of her accounts. His character was that of an amiable but indolent man, who drank, in his great chair, two bottles of port wine a day He published an edition of the poetical works of Milton and of Waller.* [* Fenton wrote nothing equal to his Ode to the Lord Gower, which is, says Joseph Warton, written in the true spirit of lyric poetry. It has received too the praises of Pope and Akenside, but is better in parts than as a whole. AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER. WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716. O'ER winter's long inclement sway, Where Philomel laments forlorn. Unblamed t' approach your blest retreat: Where Horace wantons at your spring, And Pindar sweeps a bolder string; Whose notes th' Aonian hills repeat. Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides, Slow through the vale in silver volumes play; Now your own Phoebus o'er the month presides, Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day; Thither, indulgent to my prayer, Ye bright, harmonious nymphs, repair May Gower's propitious ear be charm'd Beneath the Pole on hills of Snow, Like Thracian Mars, th' undaunted Swede† In fight unknowing to recede: The Muse's green retreat can pierce; Here, wing'd with innocence and joy, Drop freedom, health, and gay desires; (The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,) And where her mazy waters flow Shall man from Nature's sanction stray, Leave all her beauties unenjoy'd? Fool! Time no change of motion knows; To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away: By giving, bids him live To-Day. O Gower! through all the destined space, United and complete in thee. O flower of ancient English faith! In which confirm'd thy father shone; A lustre equal to its own. Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns rear'd, Fix'd by the Muse, the temple grace; EDWARD WARD. [Born, 1667. Died, 1731.] EDWARD (familiarly called Ned) Ward was a low-born, uneducated man, who followed the trade of a publican. He is said, however, to have attracted many eminent persons to his house by his colloquial powers as a landlord, to have had a general acquaintance among authors, and to have been a great retailer of literary anecdotes. those times the tavern was a less discreditable haunt than at present, and his literary acquaintance might probably be extensive. Jacob offended him very much by saying, in his account of the In [* Borrow'd from Milton's minor poems, whence, in 1716, ene might steal with safety.] Charles XII. poets, that he kept a public-house in the city. He publicly contradicted the assertion as a falsehood, stating that his house was not in the city, but in Moorfields. Ten thick volumes attest the industry, or cacoethes, of this facetious publican, who wrote his very will in verse. His favourite measure is the Hudibrastic. His works give a complete picture of the mind of a vulgar but acute cockney. His sentiment is the pleasure of eating and drinking, and his wit and humour are equally gross; but his descriptions are still curious and full of life, and are worth preserving, as delineations of the manners of the times. |