THE 
 
 PAEEOT, 
 
 AND 
 
 OTHER POEMS. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF M, GRESSEI, 
 
 BY T. S. ALLEN. 
 
 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 LONGMAN, ORME ; BROWN, GEEEN, AND LONGMAN, 
 
 PATERNOSTER ROW ; 
 
 DAVENTRY : TOMALIN AND POTTS, 
 
 MDCCCXLVIII. 
 
,0 v 
 
 
 \* 
 
 70 MA-LIN AND P0TTS ; P7UXTER5, DAVENTRY 
 
TO 
 
 THE MOST NOBLE THE 
 
 MARQUESS OE NORTHAMPTON. 
 
 THESE TRANSLATIONS 
 
 OF A FEW OF THE SATIRICAL PRODUCTIONS 
 
 OF THE INGENIOUS POET 
 
 GRESSET, 
 
 ARE RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, 
 
 BY 
 
 his lordship's obedient servant, 
 
 THE TRANSLATOR. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 VER-VERT, and other poems, would never have been 
 arrayed in English habiliments, but for the oft-repeated 
 solicitations, and frequent encouragement of a travelled 
 friend,* whose knowledge of the original, and of my own 
 aptitude for versification, prompted him to press the sub- 
 ject on my attention. 
 
 In a letter from Boulogne he writes : — " If I were cer- 
 tain that this would reach you, I would send a pretty 
 story, from the works of Gresset, entitled Ver-vert, 
 (a parrot,) whiclj is a poem made on purpose for a trans- 
 lation from your pen; and I think you will be of my 
 opinion." In another letter he remarks : — "You ask, 
 'Am I to go on with Ver-VertV Most certainly ! Those 
 who know the original, alone can appreciate your skill, 
 ingenuity, and correctness, in rendering it into English : 
 those who do not, must admire its wit ; its kind and gentle 
 satire ; the various and amusing scenes it unfolds ; the 
 playfulness of its style ; the harmless jokes it abounds 
 in; the truthfulness of its description of conventual life ; 
 and the moral it teaches, that nunneries may, if abused, 
 
 * T. H. Neracher. Esq. 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 become unfavourable to the growth of piety, rather than 
 nurseries for social and domestic virtue." 
 
 For my own part, I am aware that a translation often 
 falls very short of original excellence, and that to clothe 
 the works of another in a different dress, even with the 
 happiest pen, is a difficult task, and requires much toil 
 and continued application. I therefore hope my readers 
 will admit the truth of the assertion, and view with an 
 indulgent eye this imperfect performance. — The re- 
 mark of "Waterson, the English translator of II Pastor 
 Fido in a neat sonnet to his kinsman, Sir Edward Dy- 
 mock, may be applied to my rendering of Ver-vert, &c. 
 
 "If I have fail'd t'express his native looke, 
 And be in my translation tax'd of blame, 
 I must appeale to that true censures booke 
 That sayes, 'tis harder to reform a frame, 
 Than for to build from ground worke of ones wit, 
 A new creation of a noble fit." 
 
 It is remarked by Dr. Johnson : "He will deserve the 
 highest praise, who can give a representation at once 
 faithful and pleasing, who can convey the same thoughts 
 with the same graces, and who, when he translates, 
 changes nothing but the language." 
 
 In this translation of Ver-Vert, I cannot boast of I lav- 
 ing attained to such a near resemblance of the original ; 
 on the contrary, from a careful review of my perform- 
 ance, I find many a rugged line I could wish to alter. 
 
 
PREFACE. Vll 
 
 In the 4th canto of the Parrot, p. 29, 1 would read: 
 Nor does the scoundrel peck her, as before. 
 
 I trust that a considerate public will exercise the same 
 liberality towards my translation of Gresset, as the judi- 
 cious Rowe has done to the English translators of the 
 poems of Boileau, where he says: "I think the transla- 
 tion to be so well done in the main, and so entertaining, 
 that what little faults are in it, if there are any, ought 
 not to be taken notice of, for the sake of the beauties." 
 
 I moreover deem it necessary to make a remark as to 
 the title of each poem of my translation. Ver-Vert I 
 have called The Parrot, and throughout the piece 
 have used Poll, or Polly, as best suited my purpose ; for 
 though the latter term is a feminine appellative, I am 
 warranted in the use of it, since the inimitable Cowper 
 used the same in his Parrot, translated from the Latin of 
 Vincent Bourne, as may be seen in the following stanza : 
 "Belinda's maids are soon preferr'd 
 To teach him now and then a word, 
 
 As Poll can master it ; 
 But 'tis her own important charge 
 To qualify him more at large, 
 And make him quite a wit." 
 Le Careme Impromptu may be termed The Im- 
 promptu Lent, and Le Lutrin Vivant is rendered The 
 Living Lutrin, in accordance with a translation from 
 the said poems of Boileau, where the word lutrin is re- 
 tained. 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 To those who best understand the language of the 
 original poems, I humbly submit my imperfect transla- 
 tions with the greatest deference, and if they do not ap- 
 prove I hope, at least, they will pardon my feeble attempt 
 to give in my native tongue those pieces I have so much 
 admired as the productions of a foreign writer, and the 
 favourites of a home friend. 
 
 To the public in general I present these pages, trust- 
 ing they may be favourably received ; opinions will differ 
 according to taste, as an old adage truly says: — 
 
 Pro captu lectoris habent sua fata libelli. 
 
 Finally, I am desirous that the work may be amusing 
 and profitable, for if it impart any useful instruction, 
 the end of my writing will be fully answered. 
 
 The Translator. 
 
 Daventry, August 9th, 1848. 
 
BIOGEAPHIOAL NOTICE 
 
 or 
 
 JEAN BAPTISTE GRESSET. 
 
 J. B. Gresset was born at Amiens, in the year 1709, 
 where he commenced studying under the Jesuits, who, 
 struck with his great abilities, endeavoured to bring him 
 over to their society. 
 
 As his family were in humble circumstances, he will- 
 ingly acceded to their solicitations, and commenced his 
 novitiate in his sixteenth year. 
 
 His taste for polite literature was another motive of 
 determining his choice, and he was accordingly sent to 
 the college of Louis le Grand at Paris. 
 
 Under the professors of an order which sought to 
 exhibit all its glory in the capital, and having access to 
 the works of the most eminent authors, Gresset applied 
 himself, for several years, to the difficult art of poetry. 
 He was engaged as a professor of classical learning at 
 Tours and Rouen, where he wrote a variety of pieces 
 which he never published. The strict discipline he ex- 
 ercised over himself, secured in a great measure the 
 success of his works, though but few of them were pub- 
 lished, yet those few earned for him the fame of a classic 
 author. 
 
 AA 
 
X BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF J. B. GRESSET. 
 
 Our author was about twenty-four years of age when 
 Ver- Vert was first published. La Harpe, in his Cours 
 de Litter ature, observes, "It is not to Gresset, who so 
 well excelled in hexameters in his Mediant, that may 
 be applied what I have said of the easy style of writing 
 in verse of five feet, to which mediocrity is so often 
 obliged to have recourse." This however is the rhythm of 
 Ver-Vert, which though rather a narrative than a poem, 
 is nevertheless most cleverly done. Ver-Vert is little 
 else than a playful tale, but one so original and superior 
 in its design and execution, that, as it had no model, so 
 it will ever remain inimitable. On its appearance it 
 was regarded in the light of a literary phenomenon. 
 Such were the remarks of J. B. Rousseau in his letters, 
 and in this there is no exaggeration. The whole must 
 have appeared so extraordinary; such perfection in so 
 young an author, such delicacy of sentiment, elegance 
 of expression, and harmless wit in a work which was 
 written in the seclusion of a college, together with that 
 playfulness of style, keenness of satire, refinement and 
 urbanity, to be expected in one thoroughly acquainted 
 with the world, but not in a youthful monk, are here 
 displayed on the coarsest canvass. All were struck with 
 astonishment, and the critics of the art themselves, 
 were even more surprised than others. 
 
 "Le Careme Impromptu" and "Le Lutrin Vivant" arc- 
 two trifles in which he is remarkable for a talent at nar- 
 rative description. 9 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF J. B. GRESSET. XI 
 
 Gresset had, from necessity, embraced a profession 
 opposed to his inclinations ; but his talents having led to 
 the acquirement of much valuable knowledge, he threw 
 off the garb of the monk to go into the world. 
 
 He was now twenty-nine years of age, and his reputa- 
 tion was widely extended. Frederick the Second, in 
 writing to one of his literary correspondents, thus ex- 
 presses himself: "Gresset, as a poet, ranks as one of the 
 first of the French Parnassus: his amiable Muse has the 
 gift of expressing herself with ease ; his epithets are 
 correct and original, and possess features peculiar to 
 himself, so that we are led to admire his works in spite 
 of their defects." The following is an imitation of lines 
 addressed to him by Frederick the Great of Prussia. 
 
 While some unthinking mortals creep, 
 Like senseless moving lumps of clay, 
 Nor e'en their eyelids ope to peep, 
 But just as instinct leads the way ; 
 
 While authors commonplace and low, 
 Like frogs, lie croaking in the mire ; 
 Or like the snake or tortoise go, 
 And vainly strive to strike the lyre ; 
 
 Apollo's darling child thou art, 
 
 A favourite in the Muses' bowers ; 
 
 In song thou ably play'st thy part, 
 
 Thy path is strewed with fruits and flowers. 
 
 aa2 
 
Xll BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF J. B. GRESSET. 
 
 Thy lays are elegantly neat, 
 Nor aught of art pedantic know ; 
 Thy style is natural and sweet, 
 And all thy numbers smoothly flow. 
 
 Of sloth to us thy labours speak, 
 But every line the fact denies ; 
 And naught effeminate or weak 
 Appears before my wondering eyes. 
 
 In Athens New dost thou obtain 
 That fame which to thee well belongs ; 
 The world is envious of the Seine, 
 And all applaud thy tuneful songs. 
 
 Berlin admires : attend her voice, 
 O come, nor fail thy lyre to bring ; 
 The banks of Elbe approve her choice, 
 The Muses wait to hear thee sing. 
 
 Having quitted trie Jesuits, Gresset returned to 
 Amiens, his native city, where at length he happily set- 
 tled, and enjoyed a select circle of acquaintances, to 
 whom he afforded delight by the sprightliness of his wit. 
 
 J. J. Rousseau passing through Amiens, Gresset paid 
 him a visit, and asked his advice on subjects of a 
 literary nature. The wily Genevan replied, "You have 
 had skill enough to make a parrot talk, but you will 
 never be able to make a bear speak." 
 
 Ver-Verty says the Abbe du Cordonnoy, a friend of 
 the poet, and a canon of Champeaux, was composed in 
 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF J. B. GRESSET. X11I 
 
 twenty-four hours, but was not such as it afterwards ap- 
 peared, when more deeply infused with attic salt and 
 finished satire, although we may regard it as completed 
 with as much ease and ability as elegance and delicacy. 
 
 Whilst the author was engaged as a professor at Tours, 
 he went on a pleasure-excursion to a country seat near 
 that city. There he first heard the history of the parrot 
 of Nevers. From that moment, and during the night 
 following, Gresset did nothing but dream about it, 
 and Ver-Vert, the sprightly but unfeathered bird, was 
 hatched at day-break. Our poet afterwards gave a finish 
 to his production by surrounding him with the charms 
 of life, beauty, and substantiality. This real existence, 
 thus given to a bird who had dared to unveil the mys- 
 teries of a convent, became highly offensive to the nuns ; 
 but, as a striking proof of the excellency of the poem, 
 J. B. Rousseau, author of the celebrated Odes, was him- 
 self an admirer of it. 
 
 From a piece entitled L'Ouvroir, a canto added to 
 Ver- Vert, but afterwards withdrawn by the author, the 
 following lines, on the occupation of the fair recluses, 
 are imitated. 
 
 One cuts an agnus into figures quaint, 
 Or gives a rosy colour to a saint ; 
 Another pets a virgin with blue eyes, 
 Or to an angel's locks her skill applies ; 
 And likewise Mother Bruno did, with them, 
 Her part perform, and a lavabo hem. 
 
XIV BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF J. B. GRESSET. 
 
 Finally, an extract from a letter, by J. B. Rousseau, 
 to M. De Laserre, a high legal Functionary, will prove 
 the opinion entertained of Ver-Vert and its Author. 
 
 "I have read the poem you sent me, and I confess 
 without flattery, that I have never seen a work which 
 made so powerful an impression on me as this has done. 
 Without departing from the familiar style adopted by 
 the author, he exhibits all that is most striking in poe- 
 try, with the most perfect knowledge of the world. He 
 was not adapted for the station he has quitted, and I am 
 rejoiced to see his talents freed from the slavery of a 
 profession so uncongenial to his taste. 
 
 I cannot thank you too kindly, Sir, for the trouble 
 you have taken in copying for me so excellent a pro- 
 duction : it may be long, but I have found it too short, 
 though I have read it twice ; I am desirous already of 
 uniting it with that which you promise me from the same 
 hand. I know not if we modern poets had not better 
 give up the trade rather than continue it, after the birth 
 of such a phenomenon, whose appearance quite eclipses 
 us all, and over which we have no superiority but that of 
 seniority, which we might happily dispense with. 
 
 Should a printed copy of Ver-Vert fall into your 
 hands, you would oblige by sending it, as I have not a 
 good copy. I am of opinion that this has an advantage 
 over its younger brothers, not only in invention, but 
 even in accuracy. It is a true poem, and one of the 
 most pleasingly told tales in our languag 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Biographical Notice of J. B. Gresset ix 
 
 The Parrot, a poem in four Cantos 1 
 
 The Impromptu Lent 37 
 
 The Living Lutrin , ... 47 
 
ERRATUM. 
 
 Page 32, line 23, for Artemisians, read Artemisias. 
 
THE PARROT 
 
 TO THE ABBESS OF * * *. 
 
 ^ttM^-^ 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 VOU, in whose life the lonely graces shine 
 And without paint, and without pride combine ; 
 You, who possess a truth-devoted inind, 
 A heart to sterner duties e'er inclin'd, 
 
 5 And which withal is ever known to be 
 The seat of taste, of smiles and liberty ; 
 Since you request that I should here relate 
 A truly noted bird's unhappy fate, 
 Be now my Muse, my feeble verse inspire, 
 
 /« And lend to me the sweetness of your lyre, 
 
 Those soothing strains which in your flowing rhyme 
 Resounded, when Sultana,* in her prime, 
 Was from your fond embraces snatch'd away, 
 To darkest realms consign'd, — to death a prey • 
 
 * A spaniel, 
 B 
 
2 THE PARROT. 
 
 'Tis thus my Hero of illustrious name, 
 And of misfortunes sad, your tears may claim. 
 To make his virtue and his lot my song, 
 To trace his travels and his wanderings long, 
 To write so great a work as this would be, 
 
 ~^ c In fact, to make another Odyssey, 
 
 And twice ten cantos would my readers steep 
 In poppy-juice, and send them all to sleep ; 
 With worn out fables, antiquated lays, 
 I might e'en demi-gods and demons raise ; 
 
 2T The facts of one short month I might spin out 
 A wondrous length — indeed be years about, — 
 And sing the fate of one so often named, 
 A parrot, — than iEneas not less famed, 
 Nor less devout than he, 'tis well to state, 
 Yet still, Alas ! was far less fortunate : 
 But verse too lengthy naturally must 
 Fatigue the reader, and produce disgust. 
 The Muses are, like bees, but fickle things, 
 Of changeful taste, and move on fluttering wings, 
 Nor do they long o'er one engagement rest, 
 But taste of every sweet, and take the best ; 
 The object leave from which at first they drew, 
 And quickly fly in quest of something new. 
 From you these maxims I have drawn, I ween, 
 And in my verses may your laws be seen ! 
 If I, too plain, have here at once unveil'd 
 Mysterious secret things, and have not fail'd 
 
CANTO FIRST. 
 
 To speak of parlours, gratings at the door, 
 And very many mystic trifles more, 
 
 #" As you on reading haply may perceive, — 
 I trust your kindness will at once forgive ; 
 From weakness free, you rise on reason's wings 
 And soar at once above such trifling things ; 
 So great your mind, to duty ever true, 
 Deceit could never find a place in you : 
 A face disguis'd by Heaven's regarded less, 
 You know full well, than lovely openness. 
 If therefore Virtue were herself to show, 
 In her true garb, to mortals here below, 
 
 rf She surely would not with wry faces come, 
 And fierce unbridled tempers shew, like some, 
 But like yourself, or like the Graces, she 
 Would at our altars well deserve to be. 
 
 I've somewhere read, but cannot now say where, 
 One loses oft by rambling here and there ; 
 A life erratic but to error tends, 
 An ever-wandering traveller seldom mends : 
 'Tis surely best midst household gods to stay, 
 And guard our virtue in a peaceful way, 
 Than thus to traverse many a foreign land, 
 And hear a language hard to understand : 
 Or else the heart, full oft expos'd, comes back 
 With foreign sins o'ercharg'd — a monstrous pack 
 
 b2 
 
THE PARROT. 
 
 Of this a proof the hero that I sing, — 
 70 A fearful fate, a most affecting thing : 
 / Yet, should you doubt the tale that I rehearse, 
 
 The nuns of Nevers will attest my verse. 
 
 A parrot lately dwelt, (you ask me where,) 
 At Nevers, with the Visitandines there, 
 
 7 r A famous bird, so well he play'd his part, 
 Of manners easy, and of generous heart, 
 And might have fill'd a station less severe, 
 If lovely creatures always happy were. 
 This noted bird from India's borders came, 
 
 M Transported thence, and Ver-vert was his name ; 
 Was very young, and little understood, — 
 Shut up within this convent for his good. 
 Fair, florid, neat, and very gay was he, 
 Lovely and frank, as youth are wont to be ; 
 In short, a prating bird, yet meek and lowly, 
 And well deserving of a place so holy. 
 
 J 
 
 No need, Methinks, that here the cares I tell 
 Of lonely nuns, of sisters known so well ; 
 Each mother, after her director, lov'd 
 W One more, — as well a chronicler has prov'd, 
 Nay, nothing lov'd so much, and as we find, 
 In many a heart the Father was behind. 
 
CANTO FIRST. 
 
 Of various little dainties Poll partook, 
 Thanks to the sisters in this peaceful nook ; 
 
 ?~Of rarest dishes every day he shar'd, 
 
 And choicest drinks, by nuns demure prepar'd, 
 And thus refresh'd was he by many a cup, 
 With which the Father kept his spirits up. 
 Permitted object of their love was Poll, 
 
 zoo And of this solitary spot the soul ; 
 For (save some antiquated ladies there, 
 Who watch'd o'er youthful hearts with jealous care,) 
 With one and all, this favourite bird, 'twas clear, 
 Was quite the pet, — to all the house was dear. 
 
 /tfj-Not to maturer age attain'd had he, 
 And thus to say and do was ever free ; 
 His part he well perform'd and spoke with ease, 
 Whate'er he said or did was sure to please. 
 With these dear sisters oft he pass'd the day, 
 
 tta And peck'd their tippets in his harmless way, — 
 Their bandages he pull'd — and, I'm aware, 
 If he were not no company was there. 
 Thus with his youthful antics all was gay — 
 He'd pass a joke, he'd whistle, sing, and play, 
 
 Hf Yet shy and modest was, — as prudent he 
 As any novice e'er was known to be. 
 Incessantly assail'd by many a call, 
 He well replied, — and justly answered all : 
 So Caesar did, 'tis said, in days of yore, 
 Dictate, at once, in different styles to four. 
 
D THE PARROT. 
 
 Admitted everywhere was Poll, we find, 
 The cherish'd lover, — in the hall he din'd ; 
 There many a tempting dish the table grac'd, — 
 The viands various, suited to his taste ; 
 
 i Nor was this all, — his ever-craving maw, 
 Besides, was fed with more than there he saw ; 
 The sisters in their pockets, by the bye, 
 Of sweetmeats ever had a vast supply : 
 Such little marks of kindness, I must own, 
 
 » Are ever by the Visitandines shown. 
 Thus Poll, with dainties of so rich a sort, 
 More petted than a parrot of the court, 
 Was daily fed, — all lov'd their inmate gay, — 
 And thus his hours fled happily away. 
 
 In the great chamber he retir'd to rest, 
 And chose the bed, or couch, that suited best ; 
 Happy the mother — yes, too happy she 
 With whom, the live-long night, he deign' d to be ! 
 The bird with ancient ladies seldom slept, 
 But near to youthful nuns he mostly crept, 
 Whose little cell, with artless hangings grac'd, 
 Was far more snug and pleasing to his taste : 
 Simplicity to him was ever sweet, — 
 For know that he in every thing was neat. 
 When nightly this young hermit went to bed, 
 Upon the relic-box he laid his head, 
 
CANTO FIRST. 
 
 And there, in slumber soft, was wont to lie 
 Till milder Venus glitter'd in the sky : 
 Awake at early morn, the bird was free 
 The toilet of the beauteous nun to see. 
 Toilet, I say, and in a voice quite low ; 
 I've read forsooth, or someone told me so, 
 That faces veil'd need glasses quite as clear 
 As those who dizen and with paint besmear. 
 
 j f* As cits and courtiers ev'ry fashion hail, 
 So sad recluses, — those who take the veil ; 
 Each art they practise, ev'ry turn they know, 
 And various trappings to advantage show. 
 These wanton Graces oft, a numerous swarm, 
 
 (!> o Can give to simplest dress a powerful charm ; 
 
 That swarm which oft can leap o'er walls and towers, 
 
 And quit, at times, their closest, shadiest bowers ; 
 
 In fine, before they to the parlour go, 
 
 They twice survey themselves from top to toe. 
 
 Between ourselves I say it, you must learn, 
 
 And to our hero once again return. 
 
 In this abode of idleness and ease 
 Liv'd Polly, void of aught that could displease ; 
 Each heart he rul'd with undivided sway. 
 For him poor sister Susan, as they say, 
 Forgot the sparrows ; while beyond belief, 
 Four fine canaries pin'd away with grief ; 
 
THE PARROT. 
 
 And two tom-cats, who always favourites were, 
 Went off, at length, in envy and despair. 
 
 Who would have said, midst such a virtuous train, 
 In days so happy, he was taught in vain ; 
 That yet, however strange, a time would come 
 Of crime — of sad surprise — of grief to some, — 
 When Polly, now the idol of delight, 
 Would be regarded as a grievous sight ! 
 Hold, Muse, and stay the tear-drops ere they flow, 
 Nor let me antedate a scene of woe ; 
 Misfortunes dire, which only tend to prove 
 The sad effects of tender sisters' love. 
 
 END OF FIRST CANTO. 
 
CANTO SECOND. 
 
 A T such a school, — with those so apt to teach,- 
 This bird could never lack the gift of speech ; 
 Except at meals, so like a prattling nun, 
 His flippant member never ceas'd to run : 
 A speaking book, — he rambled unconfin'd 
 And always spoke like one who knew mankind. 
 Not like those parrots proud, which by its rules, 
 A trifling age has spoil'd and render'd fools, 
 And who by worldlings taught are known to be^ 
 And nothing know of human vanity. 
 A never-failing devotee was Poll, 
 Than whom was seldom seen a purer soul ; 
 No evil knew beyond a harmless joke, 
 And words immodest surely never spoke : 
 Yet he Oremuses could say or sing, 
 And ably talk of many a sacred thing ; 
 
10 THE PARROT. 
 
 He said full well his Benedicite, 
 Again, our mother and your charity ; 
 Some little of soliloquy he knew, 
 ./And mutter'd Mary out as striplings do : 
 nP In this learn'd mansion he possess'd indeed 
 All helps which on to useful learning lead. 
 Full many a maiden deeply skill'd was there 
 In christmas-carols, hymns, and forms of prayer. 
 Thus, well instructed, soon so much he knew, 
 ; The pupil wiser than his teachers grew ; 
 Apt mimic he of what was said and done, 
 And even well express'd their whining tone ; 
 In sisters' dove-like notes he took a part, 
 And knew, in fine, a mother's strains by heart. 
 
 Too close within a cloister's narrow hounds, — 
 Sure worth like this through every part resounds ; 
 From morn till night through Nevers naught was heard 
 But tales of happy sisters and their bird ; 
 So fond were they, so great was Polly's fame, 
 That e'en to see him some from Moulins came. 
 From the snug parlour Polly never stirr'd, 
 And lovely sister Martha bore the bird : 
 To all at first she shew'd his feathers fair, 
 And prais'd his meekness and his childish air ; 
 His beauteous plumage was admir'd by most, — 
 But beauty was the least he had to boast, 
 
CANTO SECOND. 11 
 
 For whensoe'er his charming voice was heard, 
 All fair outside attractions disappear'd. 
 Adorn'd was he with every holy grace, 
 
 : Taught by the best, — the youngest of the place ; 
 Soon as th'illustrious bird his tale began, 
 Unnumber'd beauties through the story ran ; 
 Each varied turn so novel and so fine, — 
 Good sense and skill pervaded every line : 
 
 ^o Encomium strange that one can scarce conceive, 
 And which few public speakers would believe, 
 Beneath him no one slept, — his powers were such, — 
 Tell me what orator can say as much ? 
 His speech they heard, nor fail'd to sound his fame : 
 
 s"> While he, the pupil of illustrious name, 
 So ably train'd, spoke lightly of renown, 
 Yet greater was by far, and loftier grown ; 
 But, still forsooth, withal he'd holier seem, 
 And ever triumph'd with a modest mien. 
 When thus at length his learned speech was done, 
 He closed his beak, and in a lower tone, 
 With head inclin'd and sanctimonious air, 
 He seem'd to whisper something like a prayer, 
 And, after so much needless form and rout, 
 c/The greater part were edified no doubt. 
 He'd nothing said amiss, that I'm aware, 
 Except a little slander here and there, 
 Such talk as he had in a convent heard, 
 Through iron bars from many a female bird ; 
 
 c2 
 
12 THE PARROT. 
 
 Or such as sisters of a certain feather 
 
 In secret use, whene'er they come together. 
 
 'Twas thus he liv'd in this delightful cage, 
 And justly rank'd as master, saint, and sage ; 
 Full many a Hebe lov'd the artful knave, 
 Fat as a lusty monk, and quite as grave ; 
 Was spruce, and abbot-like, was learn'd and jolly, 
 Belov'd and lovely too was Father Polly ; 
 Polite, perfum'd, sedate as many a one, 
 And happy too had he no farther gone. 
 
 e^ But Oh! at length the dreadful crisis came, 
 That fearful hour which tarnish'd all his fame. 
 Oh foul disgrace ! to all remembrance sad ! 
 A voyage fatal ! fraught with all that's bad ! 
 Why not such dark historic facts disguise, 
 And hide his hapless fate from future eyes ? 
 A noble name's expos'd to many a snare ! 
 An humble state was always happier far : 
 And on this head believe me, as you may, 
 Kind fortune's favours oft are thrown away. 
 
 Thy name, thy feats, thou noblest of thy kind, 
 (rreat bird, were to these regions ne'er confin'd ; 
 
CANTO SECOND. 13 
 
 Far off thy glitt'ring charms were borne by Fame, 
 
 And e'en to Nantes thy reputation came. 
 
 'Tis there, well known, and need not here be told, 
 
 The noted Visitation has its fold 
 
 Of reverend mothers, who, we always find 
 
 For news, as elsewhere, never are behind ; 
 
 They, therefore, were the very first to know 
 
 What others said of him they boasted so ; 
 
 Nor yet with this would they contented be, 
 
 But truth to learn the parrot wish'd to see. 
 
 A maiden's wishes oft like wild-fire run, 
 
 But worse by far the wishes of a nun. 
 
 Now Nevers is by every heart prefer'd ; 
 Some twenty heads turn'd crazy for a bird. 
 In Nevers dialect they next indite, 
 And quickly to the lady abbess write, 
 That she would shortly send them, by the Loire, 
 The charming bird, that on the Nantese shore 
 He might awhile his noted fame enjoy, 
 And softer pleasures share without alloy. 
 
 Off goes the letter. But the answer when ? 
 In twice six days : Oh, what an age till then ! 
 Now news runs swiftly, various letters fly ; 
 < All anxious were, and sleepless every eye. 
 
14 THE PARROT. 
 
 To Nevers now, at length, the letter came, 
 A serious subject; every saintly dame, 
 Without delay, in full assembly sat : 
 Alarm'd at first, — to do they knew not what. 
 "Lose Polly then indeed! (at once they cry) 
 Oh heavens ! than that should be we'd rather die ! 
 Within these grave-like cells, those gloomy towers, 
 If this dear bird depart, how pass the hours ? " 
 'Twas thus the young their coming fate bewail'd, 
 Whose roseate faces had been lately veil'd, 
 Whose sprightly hearts, too long in silence pent, 
 Were once again on harmless pleasure bent: 
 And, truth to tell, the closely cloister'd band 
 A smaller thing than this could ne'er demand ; 
 For since besides no other bird had they, 
 'Twas right at least this parrot here should stay. 
 Nathless a few of this assembly wise, 
 Whose hearts were less alive to love, advise 
 With one consent, and that with much ado, 
 The lovely ward for fifteen days should go ; 
 For, him they thought 'twere better far to send, 
 Lest they their Nantese sisters should offend : 
 The hooded council thus were all agreed 
 To send their favourite off, — and that with speed. 
 
 Scarce had the ladies of the order pass'd 
 This bill, than great disorder came at last : 
 
CANTO SECOND. 15 
 
 "What !" cried a half-despairing group, "can we 
 To such a serious loss as this agree?" 
 Said sister Seraphine, "and is it so? 
 \ A What ! we live here, and lovely Polly go ?" 
 The mother who the sacred vestments kept 
 Three times turn'd pale, and four times sigh'd and wept ; 
 She shudder'd, fainted, fell, — she lost her voice : 
 All mourn 'd at once the object of their choice. 
 • What dark forebodings here 'twere hard to say 
 Depict to them the dangers of the way ; 
 By night such horrid dreams disturb their rest, 
 By day with anxious fears are they distress'd. 
 In vain do they his luckless fate deplore ! 
 
 £ Now all is ready on the fatal shore ; 
 
 They all must now resolve to bid farewell, — 
 'Twas sad to part, — (nor must I fail to tell,) 
 Like some lone turtle-dove, in saddest mood, 
 Each sister mourns, e'en now, her widowhood. 
 
 * But yet, ere Polly leaves these sacred bowers, 
 What deep affection — kisses fall in showers ! 
 So hard to part — so great the sisters' fears ! — 
 All weep at once, and bathe the bird with tears: 
 The nearer his departure is, we find, 
 
 \^ More fair he seems in body and in mind; 
 
 'Tis thus they now their great attachment prove, 
 Yet off at length he goes, and with him love. 
 "Go thou my son, where honour calls thee go. 
 Return, be true to one who loves thee so j 
 
16 THE PARROT. 
 
 May gentle Zephyrs e'er be kind to thee, 
 
 While here I languish in obscurity; 
 
 On calm propitious wings may'st thou be borne, 
 
 While I with grief inconsolable mourn ; 
 
 Go Polly dear, the best of blessings share, 
 
 And be the first, the fairest of the fair ! " 
 
 'Twas thus a little nun breath'd out farewell, 
 
 Who, grief to mitigate, (as stories tell,) 
 
 Had very often, secretly in bed, 
 
 Instead of prayers, a page of Racine read, 
 
 And who, no doubt, if true what others say, 
 
 The chattering bird would follow far away. 
 
 'Tis done, — at length the little knave's on board! 
 Till now so virtuous, — both in deed and word. 
 Oh may that heart, till now a guarded thing, 
 One day return, and with it virtue bring! 
 However it may be, they work the oar, 
 The air re-echoes with the waters' roar ; 
 The wind is fair, — the needful work is done, — 
 The vessel sails, — she's going, — she is gone. 
 
 END OF SECOND CANTO. 
 
CANTO THIRD. 
 
 lyfOREOVER, this light wandering vessel bore, 
 
 Besides this holy bird, nine persons more; 
 
 Two nymphs, three swaggering soldiers, (wont to swear,) 
 
 A nurse, a monk, two cits, — a waggish pair : 
 
 To one who in a convent us'd to lead 
 
 A life recluse, such folks were strange indeed! 
 
 Thus Poll these people could not understand, 
 
 And seem'd a stranger in a foreign land; 
 
 Their lingo barbarous, and their lessons new 
 
 To this the wondering bird, nor aught he knew: 
 
 No gospel language here was e'er preferr'd, 
 
 Nor yet, as erst, was pious converse heard; 
 
 No prayers were said, no Bible-truths were told, 
 
 As he- was wont to hear with nuns of old ; 
 
 But words obscene, unchristian oaths, eftsoons, — • 
 
 For, such ungodly folks were these dragoons, 
 
 D 
 
18 THE PARROT. 
 
 They pot-house phrases utter'd undivine, 
 t° And incense offer'd to the god of wine ; 
 And thus, in their ungraceful style, did they 
 Their best to charm the tedium of the way : 
 The rest, forsooth, who never ceas'd to prate, 
 
 2 r Held converse loud, in terms of Billingsgate ; 
 
 Again, the noisy boatmen pass'd their time 
 In logic low, and songs of Grub-street rhyme ; 
 Their parts they sung in voices deep and strong, 
 
 3 ° Nor aught omitted as they sail'd along. 
 
 Midst all this bustle Polly silent sat 
 
 In fear, — to think, or say, he knew not what. 
 
 Now it was plann'd among them on the way 
 To make the thoughtful parrot something say. 
 i Then brother Lubin, with a blustering air, 
 At once put questions to the gloomy fair : 
 To whom the condescending bird replied 
 In language soft, — and as he spoke he sigh'd, — 
 As, Ave, sister ; like a pedant proud, — 
 And at this ave judge, — they laugh'd aloud ; 
 In chorus held him up to ridicule, 
 Poor wretch, as though they'd brand him for a fool. 
 Thus scorn'd, the interdicted novice thought 
 Perchance he had not spoken as he ought ; 
 Like brethren he must speak, as he'd been bid, 
 Or by the sisters he'd at length be chid : 
 
CANTO THIRD. 19 
 
 His noble heart the cutting insult felt, 
 
 And he, who erst had e'er midst flattery dwelt, 
 
 No longer could his even temper keep, — 
 
 In short he could not brook a wound so deep : 
 
 Then, patience fled, it was a fearful cost, 
 
 For Poll his pristine innocence had lost. 
 
 ** Ungrateful wight, since inwardly he curs'd 
 Those dearer sisters he had lov'd at first ; 
 Those mistresses who knew not how to teach 
 The French polite with all its turns of speech. 
 
 # Far readier now for learning than before,, 
 He little said, — but haply thought the more. 
 Besides the bird, who surely was no fool, 
 Must quite forget whate'er he'd learnt at school ; 
 
 ■ ' And all the fulsome trash that fill'd his head 
 Must ever lose for something in its stead : 
 With him those useless tropes had vanish'd soon, 
 So much he lov'd the speech of the dragoon; 
 
 7* In two short days 'tis even said, at most, 
 The well-known language of the nuns was lost ! 
 This apt disciple very soon, I say, 
 Was eloquent and learned in his way, 
 iS New lessons learnt, all others he forgot ; 
 
 (So apt are youth to learn what they should not !) 
 He soon knew how to hector, and at last 
 Would even swear, — few ever swore so fast. 
 
 f Strange epithets he'd readily apply 
 To what was good, and give to truth the lie ; 
 
 d2 
 
20 THE PARROT. 
 
 A perfect villain lie was known to be, 
 
 Not by degrees but taught at once was he. 
 
 Too soon he well perform'd the boatmen's part, 
 
 That stem the Loire, and knew their terms by heart ; 
 
 Whene'er a fellow dropt a blackguard name, 
 
 Direct the parrot echoed back the same ; 
 
 This all approv'd, with admiration seiz'd, — 
 
 And with himself the bird was proud and pleas'd ; 
 
 In shame he gloried, loving worldly talk, 
 
 And with an age corrupt he chose to walk ; 
 
 His speech no longer what it was before, — 
 
 A prating worldling he and nothing more : 
 
 And must temptation thus succeed so well 
 
 To change a youthful mind from heaven to hell! 
 
 In days like these, midst scenes so truly sad, — 
 Neglected cells, — in gloomy vesture clad 
 
 /r Ye nuns of Nevers, I appeal to you, — 
 What midst such sore privation did ye do ? 
 Alas ! to see return so great a cheat, 
 Nine days devotions doubtless you'd repeat 
 For one so fickle, so unworthy too, 
 For whom you car'd, yet nothing car'd for you. 
 You doubtless then abhorr'd your hapless fate, 
 And found the convent life a tedious state ; 
 
 / ' & The iron-grating was with mourning bound, 
 iVnd melancholy silence reign'd around, 
 
CANTO THIRD. 21 
 
 But stay, for Poll let no more prayers be heard, 
 
 Unworthy Poll, and not that reverend bird ; 
 
 That parrot noted for a temper kind, 
 »<A sympathizing heart and zealous mind: 
 
 What now is he — Oh shall I tell to you ? 
 
 A robber, turncoat, a blasphemer too ; 
 
 Light winds and water-nymphs have reap'd the spoil 
 -■ Of all your cares, — and all your useless toil. 
 
 No more his endless knowledge boast henceforth: 
 
 If virtue lack — pray what is genius worth ? 
 
 No more regard the knave, nor take his part, 
 'Who thus has sold his talents and his heart. 
 
 Howe'er already near to Nantes they come, 
 Where many a waiting sister pin'd at home ; 
 For them too late appear 'd the rising sun, 
 Too late for them had he his journey done. 
 
 " Midst such impatience, eager to believe, 
 (Since nattering hope is skilful to deceive,) 
 A cultivated spark they thought to see, 
 For such all hearsay promis'd him to be ; 
 
 i -> <In fact a parrot nobly born and bred, 
 
 With tongue right oily, — sound in heart and head, — 
 
 As wise as any of the learned clan, 
 
 To say no more, in short, a worthy man : 
 
 But after all, Alas ! 'twas grief and pain, — 
 
 He worthless prov'd, — and all their hopes were vain ! 
 
%% THE PARROT. 
 
 The vessel stops, they to the quay repair 
 In haste, — when lo, a waiting nun was there : 
 For every day, since first a letter went, 
 Sat there the anxious maid, with looks intent ; 
 And o'er the waves her eyes she seem'd to fling, 
 As though the vessel she would earlier bring. 
 By her exterior, as he nearer drew, 
 "The cunning bird full well the lady knew ; 
 Her eye discreet, through which she slily spoke, 
 Her monstrous head-dress and her flowing cloak, 
 Her milk-white gloves, her voice so clear and shrill, 
 And by her cross he knew her better still : 
 At her he trembled sore, — and what is worse 
 He breath'd out, soldier-like, full many a curse ; 
 He lov'd far better some dragoon who swears, 
 Than once more learning needless forms and prayers. 
 Though much against his mind, the rogue must go 
 To the drear quarters he detested so. 
 
 Forthwith the lady bore the bird away 
 f**Tn spite of all his cries : and, as they say, 
 Most sharply, on the road, he did her peck ; 
 As some affirm it was upon her neck, 
 Some say her arms, and others too declare 
 1 7 "'Twas surely somewhere, but they knew not where : 
 Besides, what matters it? At length the dame 
 With him in safety to the convent came ; 
 
CANTO THIRD. 23 
 
 At once the news she did not fail to tell, — 
 
 And what a rout, — and first they rang the bell : 
 i i ^To chapel then the sisters all were gone, 
 
 And soon in haste they left it — ev'ry one ; 
 
 They swiftly ran, as though on wings they flew, 
 
 So eager were they all the bird to view : 
 
 Then to each other they began to call, — 
 ,i0 "Oh sister, it is he ! he's in the hall !" 
 
 In crowds they came the wondrous bird to see ; 
 
 The elder dames were nimbler known to be, 
 
 And some, though strange to say, as it appears, 
 
 At once forgot the ponderous weight of years : 
 i s All younger grew, 'tis even said, and more, 
 
 One mother ran who never ran before. 
 
 END OF THIRD CANTO. 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 
 
 A T length they see this long-expected sight, 
 And gaze upon the bird with fond delight : 
 And right enough were they, I'm well aware, 
 For though so roguish he was not less fair ; 
 _That martial eye, that pretty smiling face, 
 To him afforded a superior grace. 
 Good heavens ! must he such soft attractions show, 
 Such beauties shine upon a traitor's brow ! 
 Why are not such as he distinctly shown, 
 And hearts perverse by ugly features known ? 
 To view his various charms the sisters meet, 
 And all at once unite in converse sweet : 
 To hear this swarm, — full many a whining strain, — 
 You'd think that Jove might thunder there in vain. 
 .But yet midst all this uproar mute was he, 
 Nor deign' d to drop one word of piety ; 
 
 E 
 
26 THE PARROT. 
 
 And then, as though in envy or in spite, 
 Roll'd round his eyes like some young Carmelite, 
 This the first grievance was, — that shameless face 
 ^ c Was quite offensive in this sacred place. 
 And secondly, when she who had the rule, 
 The lady prioress, reprov'd the fool, 
 The impious bird replied in words uncouth, 
 And vainly tagg'd each sentence with an oath : 
 Thus, nothing heeding, cried the thoughtless lad, 
 In language coxcomb-like, "These nuns are mad !" 
 And history tell us, other tales among, 
 He learnt this lingo as he came along. 
 At this a sister, Saint- Augustin call'd, 
 y Unus'd to words like these, was quite appal'd, 
 And then, in serious mood, the wily dame 
 Address'd him thus, "Dear brother, fy for shame !" 
 The brother dearly lov'd, on mischief bent, 
 Return'd her language rougher than she sent. 
 "'Tis surely past endurance" then said she, 
 "Indeed the rascal must a wizard be ! 
 Good heavens !" she cried, "'tis truly mighty fine ! 
 Is this the parrot said to be divine ?" 
 Poll haply heard, or seem'd to hear, the while, 
 Then cried "Deuce take ye !" quite in Newgate style. 
 Each lady came the grenadier to rate, 
 And each, as was her custom, 'gan to prate : 
 The formal young ones he began to joke, 
 And mimic'd every angry word they spok i 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 27 
 
 Still more the ancient grumblers he revil'd, 
 And at their nasal lectures only smil'd. 
 
 But worse than all, with so much cant done o'er, 
 He like a furious corsair 'gan to roar ; 
 "With wrath he foam'd, with madness he was fir'd, 
 And us'd such words as 'mong the boats acquir'd ; 
 Moreo'er, with voice, uprais'd, in oaths profuse, 
 He muster'd all the language blackguards use ; 
 With words obscene thus passing through his beak, 
 The younger sisters deem'd he dealt in Greek. 
 
 ■ "By Jove ! by all the gods ! plague take ye all !" 
 At these sad words they trembled, — great and small ; 
 The juniors started, — every speechless jade, — 
 And as they ran a thousand crosses made ; 
 Then straightway, thinking all things at an end, 
 Quick to the convent cellar they descend ; 
 And hapless mother Agnes fell, forsooth, 
 Upon her nose, and lost her only tooth. 
 Her grave-like organ opening then, beside, 
 "Oh mercy on us !" sister Sophy cried, 
 
 ? And said, "pray tell me now (nor ceas'd to storm,) 
 "Whence comes this demon cloth'd in human form ? 
 'Tis truly sad, — to me at once declare 
 "Why does he like a wretch abandon'd swear ? 
 Is this the wit and wisdom of the bird 
 So much belov'd, of which so much we've heard ? 
 
28 THE PARROT. 
 
 Oh banish'd let him be, — Oh send him back !" 
 And thns she clos'd her never-ceasing clack. 
 "Alas ! what language ! " sister Listener cried, 
 "'Tis surely past enduring, — and beside," 
 Continued she, "Oh tell me, I beseech, 
 Do Nevers' sisters use such froward speech ? 
 What ! really is it thus they teach their youth ? 
 What error ! what a wanderer from the truth ! 
 Oh send away this Lucifer with speed, — 
 With such an inmate 'twould be sad indeed ! " 
 
 'Tis done, and now at last resolv'd are they 
 That prating Poll be caged and sent away. 
 The pilgrim wish'd no more : condemn'd is he, 
 An ever-hateful outlaw doom'd to be, 
 Convicted clearly of a foul intent, — 
 On staining holy sisters' virtue bent. 
 To sign his sentence now as length they come, 
 Deplore his monstrous fault and weep his doom ; 
 'Twas sad that guilty of so great a crime 
 He e'er should be, — and only in his prime ; 
 That he, so fair, should play the sharper's part, 
 In looks a knave, — a reprobate at heart ! 
 
 Now by the waiting nun, without d-Au\ . 
 Directly to the port he's borne away ; 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 29 
 
 - - The scoundrel's with an awning covered o'er, 
 And, without grief, he quits the dreary shore. 
 
 Of his misfortunes such the Iliad was. 
 But what excessive sorrow ! (know the cause,) 
 For, in his first abode, as you shall learn, 
 
 » The self-same trick he play'd on his return ! 
 Amidst a tearful scene, — so sadly true, — 
 What next will these despairing sisters do ? 
 Nine venerable ladies, lank and tall, 
 Sat cloak'd and veil'd within the judgment-hall : 
 Or, (if my rough comparison will bear,) 
 Just think you see nine ages seated there. 
 There, at the bar, in hopeless, hapless mood, 
 Without one pleading sister, Polly stood, 
 Encag'd, with fetters bound of firmest sort, 
 
 ; Divest of glory and without support. 
 They vote : two sibyls now with features wry, 
 In darkest lines decree that he shall die ; 
 Two others less severe, his lot deplore, 
 Deem best to send him to a distant shore 
 
 f Where he receiv'd his birth, as stories tell, 
 With superstitious Indian priests to dwell ; 
 At last, with much ado, 'tis well to state, 
 The five remaining voices fix his fate : 
 To two months' fasting then consign'd is he, 
 To silence four, to close confinement three ; 
 
30 THE PARROT. 
 
 Then farewell gardens, dress, and snug alcoves, 
 They're all forbid, — with sweetmeats that he loves. 
 Nor is this all : as, what is still more hard, 
 They chose Alecto for his constant guard, 
 That noted ancient hag of ugly shape, 
 Of furious mien, and features like an ape ; 
 A hideous sight indeed, — and surely meant 
 To meet the eye of some poor penitent. 
 But, spite of this old unrelenting dame, 
 Though Argus-eyed, the sisters often came, 
 And though within a dreary prison pent, 
 They mourn'd his fate, and gave him some content. 
 Now sister Rose, who oft the prisoner sought, 
 As she from matins came, crisp almonds brought ; 
 But, bound in chains, depriv'd of freedom's wings, 
 The choicest dainties are but bitter things. 
 
 With shame o'erwhelm'd, and by misfortune taught, 
 The bird at length was to contrition brought : 
 Dragoons, and e'en the monk, he valued not, 
 And all their vain discourse he'd quite forgot ; 
 Now with the sisters just in tune and key, 
 Nor was a canon more devout than he. 
 Now justly they, of his conversion sure, 
 Resolve that he less punishment endure, 
 Of vengeance quite disarm'd the old divan 
 Abridg'd the penance of the exiled man. 
 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 31 
 
 Of his return, no doubt, the happy day 
 A day of joy shall be, — when all are gay ; 
 Each fleeting moment shall delightful prove, 
 ^And all shall own the helping hand of Love. 
 What say I ? Pleasure is a treacherous fair ! 
 Alas ! how vain such sweet attractions are ! 
 The dortures all were strew'd with fairest flowers, 
 Enjoyment ail, — and swiftly pass'd the hours ; 
 Unbounded mirth and freedom unrestrain'd, 
 And all declared that Pleasure only reign'd. 
 But Ah ! the sisters' bounty was too great ! 
 To pass too quickly from a low estate, 
 To drink too deep — in Pleasure's lap to roll — 
 To taste of sweetest things without control, 
 Too much for Polly prov'd, — and (sad to tell,) 
 Upon a heap of sugar-plums he fell ; 
 Thus, by this dire misfortune so derang'd, 
 His roses into cypresses were chang'd. 
 J?hen vainly did the anxious sisters try 
 To keep his wandering soul, — his latest sigh ; 
 But still such sweet excess could only tend 
 To teaze the favourite, — and to haste his end ; 
 Love's victim he, with kind attentions tir'd, 
 Quite overdone, in Pleasure's arms expir'd. 
 'Twas thus they duly watch'd their much-lov'd bird, 
 And his last words with admiration heard. 
 Now beauteous Venus kindly interpos'd, 
 And with a gentle hand his eyelids clos'd ; 
 
32 THE PARROT. 
 
 r And then this parrot, with convenient haste, 
 She bore away, — and lastly him she plac'd 
 Midst groves Elysian, hero-birds among, 
 Near him Corinna's lover wept and sung. 
 
 How lov'd and how lamented who can say 
 Was he who thus by death was snatch' d away ? 
 Of this enough the trusty sister said, 
 Whose office 'twas to write upon the dead. 
 'Twas from her printed letter that I got 
 Whatever I've recorded of his lot. 
 That generations yet to come might view 
 This famous bird, his picture next they drew ; 
 More hands than one, and Love amidst the train, 
 At once essay'd to give him life again ; 
 And many a striking likeness there, I ween, 
 In water, oil, and needlework was seen ; 
 Nor was this all, for Grief, as it appears, 
 His hand employ'd, and border'd each with tears. 
 To him they all funereal honours paid 
 That Helicon affords th' illustrious dead. 
 Beneath a myrtle fresh and green, was there 
 A costly mausoleum, new and fair : 
 There tender Artemisians, (as we're told,) 
 A tablet fix'd, with letters trac'd in gold 
 Upon a flower-deck'd urn, a gorgeous show, 
 And as you read you feel your tear-drops How : 
 
CANTO FOURTH. 
 
 Ye nuns who hither come, a prattling clan^ 
 Of whom our elder sisters nothing know, 
 Your warbling cease one moment, if you can i 
 'And hereby learn the cause of all our woe. 
 You cease ! yet still, if speaking give relief, 
 Speak on, but yet in sadness take your parts, 
 One word will tell the subject of our grief : 
 Here Polly lies, — and here lie all our hearts. 
 
 "Howe'er, 'tis said (I will not say by whom,) 
 This bird no longer slumbers in the tomb ; 
 In short, to end my tale, (as seemeth best,) 
 His spirit in the nuns is known to rest, 
 And still, by transmigration, as they say, 
 Th' immortal parrot ever shall convey 
 From nun to nun (and some affirm it true, 
 Though strange it seem,) his soul and prattle too. 
 
 END OF THE PARROT. 
 
LENT; 
 
 AN IMPROMPTU 
 
LENT; 
 
 AN IMPROMPTU. 
 
 ^€rMz^ 
 
 nPHERE is an island, said to lie 
 
 Beneath an ever angry sky, 
 
 Midst furious waves that ceaseless roar, 
 
 Hard by the flat Armoric shore ; 
 
 A marshy soil, a dreary place, 
 
 Half-peopled by a simple race, 
 
 Who, wretched creatures, seem to know 
 
 But little of the world below ; 
 
 So insulated (as I've shown) 
 
 As recognis'd by heaven alone. 
 
 Of news these people little know, 
 
 And what they have comes late and slow ; 
 
 For what they get from other men 
 
 Is just by chance, and now and then, 
 
 As who's at peace, and who's at war, 
 
 And who the dead and living are. 
 
38 LENT; AN IMPROMPTU. 
 
 The priest of this outlandish spot 
 Enjoys a very peaceful lot, 
 Sunk deep in ignorance and ease, 
 And lives upon his surplice" fees, 
 But, after all, he little knows 
 Of what he says or what he does. 
 Yet, by the greatest of the clan, 
 He's e'er esteem'd a knowing man 
 When he, forsooth, can sometimes say 
 Of any year the month and day. 
 Still some may think, I'm well aware, 
 In stating this I've gone too far. 
 "What ?" say they, "is there such a spot, 
 An isle so dreary and remote, 
 A race so void of reason found, 
 As not to know the seasons round ? 
 With this we surely can't agree, 
 Just such an isle there cannot be, 
 Except at once for truth we hold 
 A tale like that which Crusoe told." 
 
 But captious cavillers, I pray, 
 Be not too quickly led away ; 
 The very fact that I'm about 
 To tell, can never leave a doubt ; 
 The truth to say I'll do my best, 
 And leave you to conceive the rest. 
 

 LENT ; AN IMPROMPTU. 39 
 
 This reverend priest, I'll tell you then, 
 A good old soul, (no matter when) 
 From other regions, as they say, 
 Had quite forgot, ere New-year's-day, 
 For his own use, that needful thing 
 Yclept an almanack to bring : 
 Acknowledg'd it had scap'd his pate, 
 And thought at length — but thought too late. 
 
 Midst wintry weather — frost and hail — 
 To Gallia's shores he could not sail ; 
 The waves were rough, the wind was high, 
 A threatening storm, a frowning sky, 
 And sailing was a hopeless thing, 
 Till milder gales and genial spring 
 Should tempt to cross once more the main, 
 To see the continent again. 
 
 For three long months of frost and snow 
 No calendar, — what could he do ? 
 How fix the feasts — those days the best ? 
 How these distinguish from the rest ? 
 In such a case, a priest more school'd, 
 His church had surely never rul'd, 
 And more devout perhaps than he, 
 Had rashly brav'd the boisterous sea : 
 
40 LENT ; AN IMPROMPTU. 
 
 But our good priest, I here must tell, 
 Knew better, — lov'd his life too well : 
 A long-accustom'd hand beside, 
 Who had experience for his guide ; 
 Full well he understood his trade, 
 Of study ne'er a trouble made, 
 And, in his trite old-fashion'd way, 
 By heart could psalms and lessons say. 
 Thus acting without noise or rout, 
 And month the first he mumbled out, 
 And thrice his flock, 'mong other things, 
 He urg'd to keep the feast of Kings. 
 All this was easy, well he knew, 
 But there was something else to do ; 
 The feast-days moveable, full well 
 He knew at once he could not tell. 
 What must he do ? He little car'd, 
 As thinking they might well be spar'd, 
 And, knowing not when they might fall, 
 He would not keep those feasts at all ; 
 Or thought it best to wait, I ween, 
 Till he himself to France had been. 
 He deem'd he was divinely taught : 
 But no such thing, (excuse the thought,) 
 His chief advisers were, 'tis said, 
 His curate, and his servant-maid, 
 (The very trustiest of her race,) 
 And Matthew, wisest of the place. 
 
LENT ; AN IMPROMPTU. 41 
 
 Thus far, and January pass'd, 
 
 And February slipt o'er fast; 
 
 Then March, and still the north-wind blew : 
 
 The vernal season nearer drew, 
 
 (A month might better weather bring,) 
 
 So calmly waiting for the spring, 
 
 While days unknowingly he pass'd 
 
 And own'd he knew not when to fast, 
 
 But yet he would not be debarr'd 
 
 A capon from his poultry -yard : 
 
 Though all good catholics had spent 
 
 A month at least, in keeping Lent. 
 
 But thanks, this isle, unlike to some, 
 
 Had scap'd the rigid rules of Rome, 
 
 For all this while was freedom here, 
 
 And all around enjoy 'd good cheer ; 
 
 'Tis true they had not sumptuous fare^ 
 
 Yet every man, I'm well aware, 
 
 Half-countryman, half-cit, was able 
 
 To keep, at least, a decent table : 
 
 They liv'd on gammon, or on grouse, 
 
 And far'd as at the parsonage house ; 
 
 For us, while thus their ignorance lasted, 
 
 With joy they fed, — for them we fasted. 
 
 Yet Boreas cold was pleas'd to flee, 
 
 And then at length a calmer sea. 
 
 'Twas more than time, indeed, that they^ 
 
 Who thus had gone so far astray, 
 
 G 
 
42 LENT ; AN IMPROMPTU. 
 
 Should from their wanderings now come back 
 
 To walk in their accustom'd track ; 
 
 That spring, which had so tardy been, 
 
 In all its freshness should be seen. 
 
 Till now, 'twould seem, some Power inclin'd 
 
 To render adverse every wind, 
 
 As though, from sport or base intent, 
 
 Resolv'd to cheat them out of Lent. 
 
 At sea calm weather was restor'd, — 
 
 The priest, according to his word, 
 
 To see how people far away 
 
 Got on, embark'd without delay ; 
 
 But e'er he went, again we find, 
 
 With ham his monstrous belly lin'd. 
 
 ('Tis worthy of this hint of mine 
 
 That of the holy quarantine 
 
 The major part had now outrun, 
 
 As week the fifth had just begun.) 
 
 Arriv'd, — through all the country round, 
 
 To his no small surprise, he found, 
 
 Within the church's sacred sphere, 
 
 In ten days Easter would be here. 
 
 " Good Heaven be prais'd," cried he "for that ! " 
 
 (As he with joy threw down his hat ;) 
 
 "This journey I have ta'en in time 
 
 That, in that homely nook of mine, 
 
 With custom'd rites once more I may, 
 
 As I've been wont, keep Easter-day." 
 
lent; an impromptu. 43 
 
 Well-pleas'd, he straightway went on board, 
 With almanacks and glasses stor'd : 
 He sail'd, — and soon himself he found 
 At his lone dwelling, safe and sound. 
 Next day, Palm-sunday, he began 
 To preach away, and state his plan 
 To his poor flock, although 'twas late, 
 And told of Lent exact the date. 
 "But brethren never mind," he said, 
 "I've still a project in my head, 
 There's nothing lost, although we've pass'd 
 The time, we shall come up at last : 
 And first, ere fasting," then said he, 
 "Next tuesday shall Shrove-tuesday be, 
 Observing ancient customs all, 
 And Wednesday we'll xlsh- Wednesday call ; 
 Then three days' penance, and the while 
 We'll surely fast throughout the isle, 
 And Sunday, fearing no such thing 
 As error, — Hallelujah sing." 
 
 THE END OF LENT. 
 
 g2 
 
THE 
 
 LIVING LUTRIN. 
 
THE 
 
 LIVING LUTRIN 
 
 TO THE ABBE DE SEGONZAC. 
 
 QEGONZAC dear,— methinks thou'lt not refuse 
 
 This small production of my lonely Muse ; 
 
 Of sad satiety she breaks the chain, 
 
 And comes to thee for cheerfulness again. 
 
 I well remember — ne'er to be forgot — 
 
 When we together shar'd a happier lot, 
 
 In blissful fields where Tours displays her towers, 
 
 And pleasure's god luxuriates 'midst his bowers ; 
 
 In Fame's fair temple then I promis'd thee 
 
 A living Lutrin thou shouldst shortly see 
 
 (Or, better to explain, a desk by name,) 
 
 Of which I told the origin and fame. 
 
48 THE LIVING LUTRIN. 
 
 My word I gave, my promise I'll fulfil : 
 The truth to tell, I judge that many will 
 My modern tale a little playful deem, 
 I own it too, but still (howe'er it seem 
 To some indeed, as I may well suspect,) 
 I ask, is playfulness a sore defect ? 
 No, surely, this I never can conceive 
 Of mirthful rhyming, if it pleasure give. 
 What ! when in sad or melancholy mood, 
 To cheer, I ask again, is sadness good ? 
 A merry thought, or lively flash of wit, 
 Well-temper'd sprightliness, is far more fit, 
 And gives more comfort than a freezing strain 
 That reason tediously may preach in vain. 
 Howe'er, let my Minerva act her part 
 That she may soften down with dexterous art, 
 And veil these forms grotesque in vesture light, 
 And give but half the features to the sight. 
 Now to the point : to him who thinks it sin 
 Let evil be ! I've cough'd, and I begin. 
 
 Not far from where the Cher and Auron run, 
 (The place exactly here I'll name to none,) 
 There is an ancient town, and there, I ween, 
 A church with scarce a window to be seen ; 
 Its clergy (all must sure their lot deplore,) 
 A chapter truly wretched, — none so poor ; 
 
THE LIVING LUTRIN. 49 
 
 Not sleekly plump and rosy-fac'd are these, 
 As those who bask in idleness and ease, 
 From wasting study and from fasting free, 
 With naught but plenty and convivial glee : 
 There you behold a meager, sickly train, 
 Whose cheeks were never flush'd with fam'd champaign ; 
 There only lank and hungry clerks are seen, 
 Or canons, as diminutive as lean ; 
 No snowy bands nor triple chins they know, 
 As well their dress and base condition show ; 
 And forc'd are they, a set of hungry elves, 
 To church to go, and item, sing themselves. 
 To aid them in their labours, I should say, 
 A chaplain and four choristers have they ; 
 These youths are lodging with an ancient dame 
 Of manners homely, — Barbara by name : 
 Now she's their constant comfort and their stay, 
 A truly tender mother in her way, 
 And ever mindful of her youthful charge, 
 Their father is, 'tis said, the world at large. 
 
 Know then, this ancient dame, as it appears, 
 Has reach'd the goodly age of fourscore years ; 
 A lovely damsel once, — a dowager now, — 
 Who, at sixteen, was strictly studious how, 
 Her virtue to preserve, she might engage, 
 And shun the snares of a polluted age ; 
 
 H 
 
50 THE LIVING LUTRIN. 
 
 Worldlings, and even monks, she fear'd as well, 
 So with a canon deem'd it best to dwell : 
 At first she acted as an under-maid, 
 Then housekeeper, — so well her part she play'd. 
 Within the church (incredible and strange,) 
 From sire to son she'd seen a threefold change : 
 Thus Barbara, with the chapter, kept her station 
 Full many a year, — and eke her reputation. 
 
 Now, with the same, the story I shall tell, 
 Began last June, — th' adventure's known full well : 
 It chanc'd that Lucas then, a singing-boy, 
 Had worn quite bare (what will not time destroy !) 
 That garb which near his nether regions lay, 
 In other words his breeches, I should say, 
 And thus at length, betray'd a part so low, 
 As many a gaping aperture could show ; 
 Each day the breach increas'd, — already there 
 The town and suburbs quite dismantled were. 
 Now Barbara saw it, — and she felt it too, — 
 But still she hesitated what to do ! 
 Perhaps you ask me why, — the reason's clear, 
 As she was very poor, and cloth was dear ; 
 The chapter also, she was well aware, 
 Was beggarly enough, — had nought to spare ; 
 The boy was wretched, (as the story goes,) 
 Besides, from whom descended no one knows ; 
 
THE LIVING LUTRIN. 51 
 
 He neither friends nor smiling fortune knew, 
 
 Of earthly consolations had but few, 
 
 Nor aught to warm him in this barren spot 
 
 But his own cheerless, miserable lot. 
 
 'Twas thus he languish'd 'neath his hapless doom, 
 
 And, for a cogent reason, kept his room. 
 
 This matron, ne'ertheless, contriv'd ere long, 
 
 To forge a decent armour, neat and strong ; 
 
 ' Twas very cheap withal, to suit th' occasion, 
 
 And, better still, was in the newest fashion. 
 
 Need takes from all, — on this there's no dissension,— 
 
 Necessity's the mother of invention. 
 
 It chanc'd, as Barbara there was looking round. 
 An old neglected anthem-book she found ; 
 Of gothic parchment was the volume made, 
 In covers large and tatter'd shreds array'd ; 
 Its smooth and greasy leaves were hard and tough, 
 Which age had rendered like to varnished stuff. 
 The matron thought she might, a patch to make, 
 A leaf or two from this old volume take, — 
 With safety too, — four pages then she took, 
 And neatly sewed to bind a living book. 
 For since the sempstress, in whate'er concern'd 
 Such learned matters, was but little learn'd, 
 As needs must be, at once without a thought, 
 Those pages from the patron's mass she brought. 
 
 u c 2 
 
52 THE LIVING LUTRIN. 
 
 At length the work was done, — and thus she had 
 
 This little piece of human-nature clad : 
 
 Thus largely Lucas was bedizen'd o'er 
 
 With thorough base, — and fear'd the winds no more. 
 
 But now Saint Brice, a high and festal day, 
 They all must celebrate without delay ; 
 The chanter then his book of anthems took, 
 And through its tatter' d pages 'gan to look ; 
 With anxious eyes he sought th' accustom'd strain, 
 Each leaf he turn'd with care, but turn'd in vain ; 
 He found indeed it was a useless cost, — 
 A fruitless search, — his time and trouble lost : 
 He fum'd, he storm'd, (since he was fairly beaten.) 
 And deem'd the anthems by the rats were eaten : 
 As luck would have it, midst this dire affair, 
 His wandering eye-balls spied out Lucas there, 
 Who, to a rank of luckless schoolboys join'd, 
 Unknowingly the service bore behind. 
 The chanter o'er these pages 'gan to look, 
 And found his tunes upon this novel book : 
 Next, to the chapter he directly went, 
 On telling how the matter stood intent : 
 They judg'd that Lucas, without more ado, 
 Should henceforth serve as book and Lutrin too. 
 'Twas thus decreed,— and next the boy was taught, 
 And in four trials to perfection brought ; 
 

 THE LIVING LUTRIN. 53 
 
 With fearless step and face demure he goes. 
 And now himself upon the desk he throws ; 
 Thus, rightly plac'd, an open book he lies, 
 And fair to view, before the chanter's eyes, 
 Who, spectacled forsooth, gives out the sound, 
 When straight a group of youngsters crowd around, 
 With sober faces chant the drawling strain, 
 A song quite worthy of the priestly train. 
 
 All went on well, — and Lucas kept his place, 
 And still maintain'd an even, serious face, 
 And prouder than a Roman senator, 
 He promis'd firmness till the mass was o'er : 
 But lucklessly, just then, with piercing sting 
 A wasp came by, — a most uncivil thing, — 
 An open seam he quickly scrambled through, — > 
 The feeling Lutrin shew'd he felt it too. 
 At first he suffer'd sore, — a patient elf, — 
 Though vex'd, — awhile he overcame himself, 
 And thus held out most manfully, and long, 
 Yet silent was, — nor gave to grief a tongue. 
 But still the sting perform'd its poignant part, 
 WTien, to escape the insect, like a dart 
 The Lutrin fled, — (and lustily he cried,) 
 To heal himself, — and far from thence he hied 
 The leaf to turn ; a fact well known to be, — 
 Two braggadocios told the tale to me. 
 
54 THE LIVING LUTRIN. 
 
 For thee alone, my kind and valued friend, 
 The product of my lonely Muse I've penn'd ; 
 Far from thine eyes, in sad seclusion, she 
 Such work a recreation found to be ; 
 'Tis but a whim, — a hasty trifle, — so 
 From thee, oh let it never farther go. 
 
 Yet, if perchance this piece some others see, 
 Who'll deign to read it, — souls sincere and free, — 
 Not scrupulously nice, like those who halt 
 As though in every line they'd find a fault ; 
 These may peruse my humble work awhile, 
 And peradventure honour with a smile 
 This plain production, which from pleasure springs, 
 A relaxation light from weightier things. 
 But as for bigots blind, a tasteless race, 
 And formalists, — with smooth and double face, — 
 To whom (as they suppose) the task belongs, 
 With zeal intense, to criticise our songs, 
 To heap on everything their foul abuse, 
 While they themselves, 'tis certain, naught produce ; 
 From such all-censuring dolts, I'm bold to state, 
 I nothing /ear, and all their anger wait. 
 E'en now, methinks, I spy a pining three, 
 Within a dusty nook, intent on me, 
 My merely playful verse to brand with lies, 
 My work a dreadful monster in their i \ 
 
THE LIVING LUTEIN. 55 
 
 Again, methinks, I hear them gravely say 
 With whining tone, and in their artful way, 
 "And does he think so ? what a shameful thing ! 
 What loss of time ! for if to write or sing 
 He really must devote his talents, then 
 Why not a nobler subject for his pen, 
 Of pure morality, or lofty praise ?" 
 Yet, worthy Abbe, we without amaze 
 Their conduct see, their satire we disdain, 
 Nor e'en at them from laughing can refrain ; 
 Such dreamers spend more trouble and more time 
 In lashing me, than I in writing rhyme. 
 
 But thou in taste and mind art known to be 
 Unlike to them, — and from such fancies free ; 
 Like them thou wilt not stoically rail, 
 Nor weigh my works in peevish reason's scale ; 
 Or e'er, like them, unfeelingly refuse 
 The light productions of my playful Muse. 
 No, — reason, such as thou art wont to love, 
 Will smiles admit, and ever cheerful prove, 
 And leave to monks austere those faces long- 
 Which never yet were mov'd by sprightly song. 
 Thus thought Ducerceau, — very wise was he, 
 And truly virtuous, — full of harmless glee ; 
 Hypocrisy he shunn'd as void of sense, 
 Was gay, but seldom swerv'd from excellence ; 
 
56 THE LIVING LUTRIN. 
 
 Thus never-failing cheerfulness he shar'd, 
 Nor ever with his writings wisdom scar'd : 
 His happy pencil's touch shall pleasure give, 
 And with th' immortal Graces ever live ; 
 While formal censors act a stubborn part, 
 And soil with pedantry his favourite art ; 
 Low Latin, or insipid French they use , — 
 A style which future ages will refuse. 
 
 END OF THE LIVING LUTRIN. 
 
 'JUL 
 
 5