No More Learning

ON SENSIBILITY.

TO

MY DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, MRS. DUNLOP,

OF DUNLOP.

[These verses were occasioned, it is said, by some sentiments
contained in a communication from Mrs. Dunlop. That excellent lady was
sorely tried with domestic afflictions for a time, and to these he
appears to allude; but he deadened the effect of his sympathy, when he
printed the stanzas in the Museum, changing the fourth line to,

"Dearest Nancy, thou canst tell! "

and so transferring the whole to another heroine. ]


Sensibility how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell:
But distress with horrors arming,
Thou host also known too well.

Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray:
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.

Hear the woodlark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys:
Hapless bird! a prey the surest,
To each pirate of the skies.

Dearly bought, the hidden treasure,
Finer feeling can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.

* * * * *




CXLIII.

LINES,

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD

OFFENDED.

[The too hospitable board of Mrs.
Riddel occasioned these repentant
strains: they were accepted as they were meant by the party. The poet
had, it seems, not only spoken of mere titles and rank with
disrespect, but had allowed his tongue unbridled license of speech, on
the claim of political importance, and domestic equality, which Mary
Wolstonecroft and her followers patronized, at which Mrs. Riddel
affected to be grievously offended. ]


The friend whom wild from wisdom's way,
The fumes of wine infuriate send;
(Not moony madness more astray;)
Who but deplores that hapless friend?

Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,
Ah, why should I such scenes outlive
Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!
'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

* * * * *




CXLIV.

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT

NIGHT.

[This address was spoken by Miss Fontenelle, at the Dumfries theatre,
on the 4th of December, 1795. ]


Still anxious to secure your partial favour,
And not less anxious, sure, this night than ever,
A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter,
'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better;
So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies,
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes;
Said nothing like his works was ever printed;
And last, my Prologue-business slyly hinted!
"Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes,
"I know your bent--these are no laughing times:
Can you--but, Miss, I own I have my fears,
Dissolve in pause--and sentimental tears;
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence,
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance;
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand,
Waving on high the desolating brand,
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land? "

I could no more--askance the creature eyeing,
D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying?
I'll laugh, that's poz--nay more, the world shall know it;
And so your servant: gloomy Master Poet!
Firm as my creed, Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief;
I also think--so may I be a bride!
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd.

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye;
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive--
To make three guineas do the work of five:
Laugh in Misfortune's face--the beldam witch!