THE RAPE OF THE WHISKER. That live-long wig, which Pallas' self might own, Eternal buckle takes in the Parian stone.
Pope's Moral Essays.-Epist. III.
Apollo's name adorns the dread Gazette,
The Muse is bankrupt, Helicon to let ;
Yet could they raise for my ennobling lyre
A little dividend of heav'nly fire;
Or if in some fair haunt they still retain
Sufficient sparks to light a poet's strain;
Then would my unchanged fancy gaily fling
A thousand beauties from its spotless wing,
Break into song and dim admiring eyes
With brightest tears of holiest sympathies;
Then would the classic wreath, and poet's fame,
To future ages consecrate my name;
To be remembered then my happy lot,
When Pope, fond flutterer, is remembered not.
Fond, foolish flutterer, whose ambitious rhyme Dared to anticipate my thoughts sublime,To sing the anger of Belinda fair,
Her injured dignity, and ravished hair;
To paint, in numbers soft, on gold-edged leaves,
Felonious wits, and fashionable thieves;
To seize the theme which Jove for me designed,
And not to think "a greater is behind."
Your dulcet verse green girls may learn by rote,
Lean bards may copy, and small wits may quote ;
But nobler, holier charms my muse inspire,
Elysian graces and Utopian fire;
"About my brain," oh! let me cast away
Each thought pathetic and each image gay,
And, stern in virtue, let my moral song
Wreak keenest vengeance for this dastard wrong:
Let phrases choice be left to meaner men,
Since honour prompts, and friendship arms, my pen;
And let me write, that, as the wretches read,
Their inmost thoughts may shudder at their deed:
A deed, which rule and social life o'erthrows,
Condemned by Students and abhorred by Pros.
Amid the College haunts, where letter A
Serenely holds its upretended sway,
There, where a thousand charms the chamber show,
By all respected, dwelt the young Le Beau,
Whose fair renown among the studious throng
Has beamed in legend, chronicle, and song.
His mingled grace what pen can truly tell?
A sage in lecture, and in hall a swell;
Gay, gallant, clever, affable and kind,'
His person elegant, enlarged his mind;
His genius shone in every varying hour,
Joy's festive board, or beauty's roseate bower;
No coarse, crude jests defaced his gentle fun,
Good humour own'd him as her wittiest son ;-
Such glowing traits can yet but faintly show
The Crichton of the age, unparalleled Le Beau.
Fanned by the breath of every scented gale,
Unhappy subject of my mournful tale,
Fringing his face, the wondering eye could see,
(Twin fruits of Nature and of Industry,)
A pair of Whiskers, glossy, dark and sleek,
The hirsute honours of his rose-hued cheek.
By all admired,-alas! yet not by all,
There was a faction, infamous but small,
Whose eyes invidious could not bear to trace
The budding beauties of that youthful face;
Whose hopes and feelings were devoid of taste,
Whose cheeks were sterile, and whose chins a waste:
Yet inconsistent (as we see so oft),
The mind was rugged, though the face was soft.
This faction now, by meanest envy fired,
To seize these whiskers impiously conspired;
Oh! that such dastard thoughts should ever rest
In Christian countries, or a human breast!
'Tis deepest night, the College lamps burn dim, The moon looks sleepy, and the watchmen grim; Le Beau consumes, in oriental toil,
His giant intellect, and midnight oil;
Pale and uneasy, weary and alone,
His listless limbs upon the sofa thrown,
His collar loosened shows the snowy skin,
The blue-veined throat, the moss-surrounded chin;.
He tries to study, but in vain he tries;
The letters dance before his swimming eyes:
With airy accents and with golden rod,
Some spirit tempts him to the land of Nod,
Nor leaves him, till within the ivory doors,
The luckless youth securely sleeps and snores.
He sleeps,-delicious dreams around him rise,
Sweet sprites sweep o'er him, rob'd in radiant guise,
In fairy lists he wields a sylvan lance;
In mystic measures treads the moonlight dance;
Ethereal music steals upon his ear;
Bright eyes beam kindly, and lov'd forms appear;
And air-drawn scenes around his vision swim,
Flitting and changing, shadowy and dim,
Yet link'd invisibly like rainbow hues :
A new existence his young spirit views.
O blessed slumber! which can alway bring
Hope, solace, joy, upon its downy wing;
Of mortal care the sweet, yet sad, relief,-
For calm and beautiful, alas! 'tis brief.
He sleeps and snores,-fond youth, he little knows His instant peril, and impending woes;
In rosy slumber bound, each wearied sense
Is mantled o'er with childlike innocence:
The door is opened, noiselessly and slow,
With whispered caution, and with muffled toe,
Two wretches, not-yet-executed, creep,
The craven villains who could" murder sleep :"
One bears a well-burnt cork,-the other rears,
With face like Atropos, a pair of shears.
And were there none, who in that hour of need,
Sought to avert the sacrilegious deed?
To stay the ruthless hand, and thus to save
The much-loved Whisker from an early grave;
Some guardian sprites which people earth and air,
And smile propitious upon beards and hair?
Oh yes, there were,-some unseen power
draws near,
And whispers loudly in the sleeper's ear,-
"Oh rise, my loved one, or for months you'll mourn,
"Awake, arise, or be most closely shorn."
He hears no voice, but still profoundly sleeps;
No chilling horror o'er his senses creeps;
The felons hasten with a cat-like tread,
One holds the weapon, one sustains the head;
Again the spirit calls, and yet again,
With frenzied eagerness, but calls in vain ;
The steel meets steel,-the guardian fairy shrieks,
The hairs fall heavy from the damask cheeks,
And quit for aye the soil which gave them birth,
To rot and moulder on the dark, drear earth.
Hast seen a country, where, with deadly blast,
Red war has swept, nor pitied as it past?
Hast seen the blacken'd cottages? hast seen
Uprooted trees deface the village green ?
Hast seen white ashes, where the golden corn-
Was wont to sparkle in the ruddy morn?
If these you've witness'd, you may faintly know
How dreary was the face of young Le Beau.
A whisker lost methinks I've seen before,
It is just possible I may see more;
But then, (another case you'll say, I hope,)
'Twas shaved with razors, and 'twas frothed with soap.*
The deed is done,-away the wretches run,
Their envy gratified, their vengeance won;
Le Beau starts up from sleep, and quick and bleak
The night wind sweeps upon his naked cheek.
He wildly cries,-"Why now, it cannot be ?
Why, what the devil?-why, it isn't me!
"Give me the glass,-oh! horrible!-oh! where
"Have fled the glories of my blooming hair?
"Oh! insupportable, oh! heavy hour,
"What foeman's envy, or what demon's power,
"Has o'er my senses cast this sad surprise?
"Curst be his malice, and condemned his eyes!
"Burst round me now, ye storms of darkest fate!
2 My whisker's gone, and I am desolate."
He spoke,-in vain his manly spirit tried
To veil his feelings with a stoic's pride;
Hide, blushing glory, hide him now, and save
From vulgar eyes the sorrows of the brave!
But hark! soft music through the chamber rings,
The breeze is rustled as with spirit's wings.
From atmospheric halls and castles fair,
The light battalions muster in the air,
Gold-helmed and azure-clad, and dimly bright,
They circle into form, and tremble into light.
And one before the rest advanced and said,-
(A wreath of halo round his reverend head)
"O grieve no more, loved youth, with mien forlorn,
Thy graces ravished, and thy whisker torn;
"Think not, the outrage of this evil night
Thy youthful beauties will for ever blight.
"This shadowy band upon your cheek will toil,
"Will sow the seed, and cultivate the soil:
"The verdant down shall quickly find increase,
"If daily rubbed with Truefit's ursine grease :
"And while you flourish in a rosy youth,
"The craven dogs who played this-
"Shall rue this deed, for soon their heads shall seem
"Bald as the style of any schoolboy's theme.
"But these bright hairs, loved youth, shall aye exist
"In cloud built palaces and groves of mist."
He spoke, and slowly through the balmy air,
Each spirit takes an individual hair;
Le Beau, with outstretched hands and streaming eyes,
Still to behold the bright battalion tries,
But fluttering, fading, beautifully less,
They melt in air, and fade in nothingness.
* Some critical persons may think this line and the three preceding, similar to some lines in Lord Byron's Corsair. If they read this poem with due attention, they will conclude, I fancy, that I need not fear a comparison with his lordship.
Born of discord, born of flame,
A word of magic is my name.
I mock at mortals' feeble power,
Surpass their ages in an hour;
Nor yet to serve them I disdain.
But still amidst their menials reign:
And oft, impatient of their sway,
From out my bonds I burst away.
Of many a varied use and form,
I ride triumphant o'er the storm;
Dare with the foaming billows sport,
And steer the seaman to his port.
I swim, I dive, or if there's need,
Can swifter than the whirlwind speed;
Can pierce the earth, and bring to light
Treasures which else were lost to sight;
Or point the bolt with deadly art
Against the warrior's fearless heart;
Can weave the web, and turn the mill,
Or crush through iron at my will ;
And roaming, oft, with giant hand,
I change the aspect of the land,
And level rock and forest old,
Or rear a city on the wold.
Formed with the world, long time I lay
Hid from the glorious light of day.
Till modern science saw my worth,
And genius gave me second birth.
'Neath the shade of the myrtle I love to recline,
And drink sweet draughts of the generous wine,
While Love, his bright tunic girded up,
Refills each moment the gladdening cup.
This life is gliding, day by day,
Like the wheel of the rolling car, away,
Soon shall its dim light no longer burn,
Soon shall this body to dust return.
Why scatter rich ointments a cold stone round,
And pour the bright wine to the thankless ground?
Oh! give to me now the rights of the dead,
NOTICES TO CORRESPONDENTS.
On consideration we decline "A. B."'s essay.
"Vigil"'s parody is good, and should have been inserted had we not been favoured
with a poem on the same subject from another correspondent.
We do not wish to have any more Impromptus from "A."
The conclusion of "The Dilemma" is once again unavoidably postponed.
PUBLISHED BY ST. AUSTIN & SON, HERTFORD, AND BY J. MADDEN & Co. LEADENHALL STREET, LONDON.
ST. AUSTIN AND SON, PRINTERS, HErtford.
Dixero quid, si forte jocosius, hoc mihi juris
Cum veniâ dabis.
Hor. Lib. 1. Sat. iv. 103.
No. 6.] WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1839. [PRICE ls.
CUSTOM, which renders exertion easy, robs pleasure of its charms. It is, therefore, a capital art in education so to establish habits, as that they shall neither be shaken by the sudden and capricious assaults of passion, nor refuse to bend to the authority of enlightened reason, and to be accommodated to the fluctuations of circumstances. To be constantly forming projects, and abandoning them as soon as they are formed, to be so fondly attached to a particular routine of affairs, as to be pained by an occasional deviation from it,-are equally proofs of moral imbecility, and sources of misery. Without firmness of purpose, a man is despicable; without an easy temper, he is wretched in himself, and disagreeable to others.
As nothing is more pitiable than the fickle disposition spawned by a greedy lust of variety, which frets at itself, and is flouted by mankind; so it is not possible sufficiently to admire or commend a zeal untiring in the pursuit of its objects, joined with a courage that never flinches from encountering the difficulties which stand in the way of their attainment. In the same manner, as the sourness, which a
timorous aversion to change is apt to breed, deserves to be condemned as antisocial; so a readiness to be pleased, and a good.. natured compliance with the tastes and wishes of others, is to be considered as a pre-eminent ornament and grace of character.
It is demanded of those who conduct public works, that they should possess a vigour of mind, not liable to fits of depression, from weariness or despondency. On the other hand, those who labour for the improvement or amusement of others, have a just claim to a favorable prepossession, and an indulgent judgment.
The Editors of the Haileybury Observer, when they presided at its birth, were tremblingly alive to the perils by which it was compassed. They could not but apprehend, that the curiosity which its first appearance might excite would quickly be appeased: that the stimulus which it applied to indolence would soon cease to operate, or would operate but feebly; that, as it lost the attraction of novelty, it would not gain more of intrinsic worth to recommend it; and that, after a
|