полная версия

Various
Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 54, No. 333, July 1843

Полная версия

THE WHIPPIAD, A SATIRICAL POEM

BY REGINALD HEBER, BISHOP OF CALCUTTA

In offering this little poem to the public, some few words, by way of explanation, are deemed necessary. Most of the circumstances alluded to in it will be familiar to Oxford readers of Bishop Heber's standing, but especially to those of his own college, Brazenose. The origin of the poem was simply this:—A young friend of his, B——d P——t, went to call upon him at Brazenose, and, without being aware of the heinous crime he was committing, cracked a four-horse whip in the quadrangle. This moved the ire of a certain doctor, a fellow and tutor, and at that time also dean of the college, commonly called Dr Toe from a defect in one of his feet. The doctor had unfortunately made himself obnoxious to most of those of his own college, under-graduates as well as others, by his absurd conduct and regulations. On the following day Mr P——t cracked the whip in the quadrangle, when the doctor issued from his rooms in great wrath, and after remonstrating with Mr P——t, and endeavouring to take the whip from him, a scuffle ensued, in which the whip was broken, and the doctor overpowered and thrown down by the victorious P——t, who had fortunately taken his degree of Master of Arts. Heber, then an under-graduate of only a few terms' standing, wrote the first canto the same evening, and the intrinsic merit of the poem will recommend it to most readers. But it will be doubly interesting when considered as one of the first, if not the very first, of the poetical productions of that eminent and distinguished scholar. In it may be traced the dawnings of that genius which was afterwards to delight the world in an enlarged sphere of usefulness.

K.

CANTO FIRST

 
Where whiten'd Cain the curse of heaven defies,¹⁸
And leaden slumber seals his brother's eyes,
Where o'er the porch in brazen splendour glows
The vast projection of the mystic nose,
Triumph erewhile of Bacon's fabled arts,¹⁹
Now well-hung symbol of the student's parts;
'Midst those unhallow'd walls and gloomy cells
Where every thing but Contemplation dwells,
Dire was the feud our sculptured Alfred saw,²⁰
And thy grim-bearded bust, Erigena,
When scouts came flocking from the empty hall,
And porters trembled at the Doctor's call;
Ah! call'd in vain, with laugh supprest they stood
And bit their nails, a dirty-finger'd brood.
E'en Looker gloried in his master's plight,²¹
And John beheld, and chuckled at the sight.²²
Genius of discord! thou whose murky flight
With iron pennons more obscured the night—
Thou, too, of British birth, who dost reside
In Syms's or in Goodwin's blushing tide,²³
Say, spirit, say, for thy enlivening bowl
With fell ambition fired thy favourite's soul,
From what dread cause began the bloodless fray
Pregnant with shame, with laughter, and dismay?
Calm was the night, and all was sunk to rest,
Save Shawstone's party, and the Doctor's breast:
He saw with pain his ancient glory fled,
And thick oblivion gathering round his head.
Alas! no more his pupils crowding come,
To wait indignant in their tyrant's room,²⁴
No more in hall the fluttering theme he tears,
Or lolling, picks his teeth at morning prayers;
Unmark'd, unfear'd, on dogs he vents his hate,
And spurns the terrier from his guarded gate.
But now to listless indolence a prey,
Stretch'd on his couch, he sad and darkling lay;
As not unlike in venom and in size,
Close in his hole the hungry spider lies.
"And oh!" he cries, "am I so powerless grown,
That I am fear'd by cooks and scouts alone?
Oh! for some nobler strife, some senior foe,
To swell by his defeat the name of Toe!"
He spoke—the powers of mischief heard his cries,
And steep'd in sullen sleep his rheumy eyes.
He slept—but rested not, his guardian sprite
Rose to his view in visions of the night,
And thus, with many a tear and many a sigh,
He heard, or seem'd to hear, the mimic demon cry:—²⁵
"Is this a time for distant strife to pray,
When all my power is melting fast away,
Like mists dissolving at the beams of day,
When masters dare their ancient rights resume,
And bold intruders fill the common room,
Whilst thou, poor wretch, forsaken, shunn'd by all,
Must pick thy commons in the empty hall?
Nay more! regardless of thy hours and thee,
They scorn the ancient, frugal hour of three.²⁶
Good Heavens! at four their costly treat is spread,
And juniors lord it at the table's head;
See fellows' benches sleeveless striplings bear,²⁷
Whilst Smith and Sutton from the canvass stare.²⁸
Hear'st thou through all this consecrated ground,
The rattling thong's unwonted clangour sound?
Awake! arise! though many a danger lour,
By one bright deed to vindicate thy power."
He ceased; as loud the fatal whip resounds,
With throbbing heart the eager Doctor bounds.
So when some bear from Russia's clime convey'd,
Politer grown, has learnt the dancer's trade,
If weary with his toil perchance, he hears
His master's lash re-echoing in his ears,
Though loath, he lifts his paws, and bounds in air,
And hops and rages whilst the rabble stare.
 

CANTO THE SECOND

 
You the great foe of this Assembly!
I the great foe? Why the great foe?
In that being one of the meanest, barest, poorest,
——Thou goest foremost.—SHAKSPEARE'S Coriolanus.
 

 
Forth from his cell the wily warrior hies,
And swift to seize the unwary victim flies.
For sure he deem'd, since now declining day
Had dimn'd the brightness of his visual ray,
He deem'd on helpless under-graduate foes
To purge the bile that in his liver rose.
Fierce schemes of vengeance in his bosom swell,
Jobations dire, and Impositions fell.
And now a cross he'd meditate, and swear²⁹
Six ells of Virgil should the crime repair.³⁰
Along the grass with heedless haste he trod,³¹
And with unequal footsteps press'd the sod—
That hallow'd sod, that consecrated ground,
By eclogues, fines, and crosses fenced around.
When lo! he sees, yet scarcely can believe,
The destined victim wears a master's sleeve;
So when those heroes, Britain's pride and care,
In dark Batavian meadows urge the war;
Oft as they roam'd, in fogs and darkness lost,
They found a Frenchman what they deem'd a post.
The Doctor saw; and, filled with wild amaze,
He fix'd on P——t³² his quick convulsive gaze.
Thus shrunk the trembling thief, when first he saw,
Hung high in air, the waving Abershaw.³³
Thus the pale bawd, with agonizing heart,
Shrieks when she hears the beadle's rumbling cart.
"And oh! what noise," he cries, "what sounds unblest,
Presume to break a senior's holy rest?³⁴
Full well you know, who thus my anger dare,
To horse-whips what antipathy I bear.
Shall I, in vain, immersed in logic lore,
O'er Saunderson and Allrick try to pore—
I, who the major to the minor join,
And prove conclusively that seven's not nine?
With expectation big, and hope elate,
The critic world my learned labours wait:
And shall not Strabo then respect command,
And shall not Strabo stay thy insulting hand?
Strabo!³⁵ whose pages, eighteen years and more,
Have been my public shame, my private bore?
Hence, to thy room, audacious wretch! retire,
Nor think thy sleeves shall save thee from mine ire."
He spoke; such fury sparkled in his face,
The Buttery trembled to its tottering base,
The frighted rats in corners laid them down,
And all but P——t was daunted at his frown;
Firm and intrepid stood the reverend man,
As thrice he stroked his face, and thus began:
"And hopest thou then," the injured Bernard said,
"To launch thy thunders on a master's head?
O, wont to deal the trope and dart the fist,
Half-learn'd logician, half-form'd pugilist,
Censor impure, who dar'st, with slanderous aim,
And envy's dart, assault a H——r's name.
Senior, self-called, can I forget the day,
When titt'ring under-graduates mock'd thy sway,
And drove thee foaming from the Hall away?
Gods, with what raps the conscious tables rung,
From every form how shrill the cuckoo sung!³⁶
Oh! sounds unblest—Oh! notes of deadliest fear—
Harsh to the tutor's or the lover's ear,
The hint, perchance, thy warmest hopes may quell,
And cuckoo mingle with the thoughts of Bel."³⁷
At that loved name, with fury doubly keen,
Fierce on the Deacon rush'd the raging Dean;
Nor less the dauntless Deacon dare withstand
The brandish'd weight of Toe's uplifted hand.
The³⁸ ghost of themes departed, that, of yore,
Disgraced alike, the Doctor praised or tore,
On paper wings flit dimly through the night,
And, hovering low in air, beheld the fight.
Each ill-starr'd verse its filthy den forsakes,
Black from the spit, or reeking from the jakes;
The blot-stain'd troop their shadowy pages spread,
And call for vengeance on the murderer's head.
 

CANTO THE THIRD

digito male pertinaci.—Hor.

 

 

 
Shade³⁹ of Boileau! (who told in deathless lays
A choral pulpit's military praise,)
Thou, too, that dared'st a cloister'd warfare sing,
And dip thy bucket in Castalia's spring!
Forgive, blest bards, if, with unequal fire,
I feebly strike the imitative lyre;
Though strong to celebrate no vulgar fray,
Since P——t and conquest swell the exulting lay.
Not link'd, alas in friendship's sacred band,
With hands fast lock'd the furious parsons stand;
Each grasps the whip with unrelenting might—
The whip, the cause and guerdon of the fight—
But either warrior spends his strength in vain,
And panting draws his lengthen'd breath with pain,
Till now the Dean, with throat extended wide,
And faltering shout, for speedy succour cried
To⁴⁰ them who in yon grateful cell repose,
Where Greenland odours feast the stranger's nose—
"Scouts, porters, shoe-blacks, whatsoe'er your trade,
All, all, attend, your master's fist to aid!"
They heard his voice, and, trembling at the sound,
The half-breech'd legions swarm'd like moths around;
But, ah! the half-breech'd legions, call'd in vain,
Dismay'd and useless, fill'd the cumber'd plain;
And while for servile aid the Doctor calls,
By⁴¹ P——t subverted, prone to earth he sprawls.
E'en⁴² then were heard, so Brazenose students sing,
The grass-plot chains in boding notes to ring;
E'en then we mark'd, where, gleaming through the night,
Aerial crosses shed a lurid light.
Those wrestlers, too, whom naked we behold
Through many a summer's night and winter's cold,
Now changed appear'd, his pristine languor fled,
Expiring Abel raised his sinking head,
While with fix'd eyes his murderer seemed to stand,
The bone half dropping from his nerveless hand.
So, when of old, as Latian records tell,
At Pompey's base the laurel'd despot fell,
Reviving freedom mock'd her sinking foe,
And demons shriek'd as Brutus dealt the blow.
His trencher-bonnet tumbling from his crown,
Subdued by Bernard, sunk the Doctor down;
But yet, though breathless on the hostile plain,
The whip he could not seize he snapt in twain—
"Where now, base themester,"—P——t exulting said,
And waved the rattling fragments o'er his head—
"Where now thy threats? Yet learn from me to know
How glorious 'tis to spare a fallen foe.
Uncudgel'd, rise—yet hear my high command—
Hence⁴³ to thy room! or dread thy conqueror's hand."
His⁴⁴ hair all gravel, and all green his clothes,
In doleful dumps the downcast Doctor rose,
Then slunk unpitied from the hated plain,
And inly groaning sought his couch again;
Yet, as he went, he backward cast his view,
And bade his ancient power a last adieu.
So, when some sturdy swain through miry roads
A grunting porker to the market goads,
With twisted neck, splash'd hide, and progress slow,
Oft backward looks the swine, and half disdains to go.
"Ah me! how fallen," with choaking sobs he said,
And sunk exhausted on his welcome bed;
"Ere yet my shame, wide-circling through the town,
Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown,
Oh! be it mine, unknowing and unknown,
With⁴⁵ deans deceased, to sleep beneath the stone."
As tearful thus, and half convulsed with spite,
He lengthen'd out with plaints the livelong night,
At that still hour of night, when dreams are oft'nest true,
A well-known spectre rose before his view,
As in some lake, when hush'd in every breeze,
The bending ape his form reflected sees,⁴⁶
Such and so like the Doctor's angel shone,
And by his gait the guardian sprite was known,
Benignly bending o'er his aching head—
"Sleep, Henry, sleep, my best beloved," he said,⁴⁷
"Soft dreams of bliss shall soothe thy midnight hour;
Connubial transport and collegiate power.
Fly fast, ye months, till Henry shall receive
The joys a bride and benefice can give.
But first to sanction thy prophetic name,
In yon tall pile a doctor's honours claim;⁴⁸
E'en now methinks the awe-struck crowd behold
Thy powder'd caxon and thy cane of gold.
E'en now—but hark! the chimney sparrows sing,
St Mary's chimes their early matins ring—
I go—but thou——through many a festive night
Collegiate bards shall chant thy luckless fight—
Though many a jest shall spread the table round,
And many a bowl to B——r——d's health be crown'd—
O'er juniors still maintain thy dread command,
Still boast, my son, thy cross-compelling hand.⁴⁹
Adieu!"—His shadowy robes the phantom spread,
And o'er the Doctor drowsy influence shed;
Scared at the sound, far off his terrors flew,
And love and hope once more his curtains drew.
 

CHARLES EDWARD AT VERSAILLES

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF CULLODEN

 
Take away that star and garter—hide them from my loathing sight,
Neither king nor prince shall tempt me from my lonely room this night;
Fitting for the throneless exile is the atmosphere of pall,
And the gusty winds that shiver 'neath the tapestry on the wall.
When the taper faintly dwindles like the pulse within the vein,
That to gay and merry measure ne'er may hope to bound again,
Let the shadows gather round me while I sit in silence here,
Broken-hearted, as an orphan watching by his father's bier.
Let me hold my still communion far from every earthly sound—
Day of penance—day of passion—ever, as the year comes round.
Fatal day whereon the latest die was cast for me and mine—
Cruel day, that quell'd the fortunes of the hapless Stuart line!
Phantom-like, as in a mirror, rise the griesly scenes of death—
There before me, in its wildness, stretches bare Culloden's heath—
There the broken clans are scatter'd, gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed—
Hunger gnawing at their vitals—hope abandon'd—all but pride—
Pride—and that supreme devotion which the Southron never knew,
And the hatred, deeply rankling, 'gainst the Hanoverian crew.
Oh, my God! are these the remnants—these the wrecks of the array,
That around the royal standard gather'd on the glorious day,
When, in deep Glenfinnart's valley, thousands, on their bended knees,
Saw once more that stately banner waving in the northern breeze,
When the noble Tullibardine stood beneath its weltering fold,
With the ruddy lion ramping in the field of treasured gold!
When the mighty heart of Scotland, all too big to slumber more,
Burst in wrath and exultation, like a huge volcano's roar!
There they stand, the batter'd columns, underneath the murky sky,
In the hush of desperation, not to conquer but to die.
Hark! the bagpipe's fitful wailing—not the pibroch loud and shrill,
That, with hope of bloody banquet, lured the ravens from the hill—
But a dirge both low and solemn, fit for ears of dying men,
Marshall'd for their latest battle, never more to fight again.
Madness—madness! Why this shrinking? Were we less inured to war
When our reapers swept the harvest from the field of red Dunbar?
Fetch my horse, and blow the trumpet!—Call the riders of Fitz-James,
Let Lord Lewis bring the muster!—Valiant chiefs of mighty names—
Trusty Keppoch! stout Glengarry! gallant Gordon! wise Lochiel!
Bid the clansmen charge together, fast, and fell, and firm as steel.
Elcho, never look so gloomy! What avails a sadden'd brow?
Heart, man—heart! we need it sorely—never half so much as now.
Had we but a thousand troopers—had we but a thousand more!——
Noble Perth, I hear them coming!—Hark! the English cannons' roar.
God! how awful sounds that volley, bellowing through the mist and rain!
Was not that the Highland slogan? Let me hear that shout again!
Oh, for prophet eyes to witness how the desperate battle goes!
Cumberland! I would not fear thee, could my Camerons see their foe.
Sound, I say, the charge at venture—t'is not naked steel we fear;
Better perish in the mêlée than be shot like driven deer!
Hold! the mist begins to scatter. There in front 'tis rent asunder,
And the cloudy battery crumbles underneath the deafening thunder;
There I see the scarlet gleaming! Now, Macdonald—now or never!—
Woe is me, the clans are broken! Father, thou art lost for ever!
Chief and vassal, lord and yeoman, there they lie in heaps together,
Smitten by the deadly volley, rolled in blood upon the heather;
And the Hanoverian horsemen, fiercely riding to and fro,
Deal their murderous strokes at random.—
Ah my God! where am I now?
Will that baleful vision never vanish from my aching sight?
Must those scenes and sounds of terror haunt me still by day and night?
Yea, the earth hath no oblivion for the noblest chance it gave,
None, save in its latest refuge—seek it only in the grave.
Love may die, and hatred slumber, and their memory will decay,
As the water'd garden recks not of the drought of yesterday;
But the dream of power once broken, what shall give repose again?
What shall charm the serpent-furies coil'd around the maddening brain?
What kind draught can nature offer strong enough to lull their sting?
Better to be born a peasant than to live an exiled king!
Oh, these years of bitter anguish!—What is life to such as me,
With my very heart as palsied as a wasted cripple's knee!
Suppliant-like for alms depending on a false and foreign court,
Jostled by the flouting nobles, half their pity, half their sport.
Forced to hold a place in pageant, like a royal prize of war
Walking with dejected features close behind his victor's car,
Styled an equal—deem'd a servant—fed with hopes of future gain—
Worse by far is fancied freedom than the captive's clanking chain!
Could I change this gilded bondage even for the massy tower
Whence King James beheld his lady sitting in the castle bower—
Birds around her sweetly singing, fluttering on the kindled spray,
And the comely garden glowing in the light of rosy May.
Love descended to the window—Love removed the bolt and bar—
Love was warder to the lovers from the dawn to even-star.
Wherefore, Love, didst thou betray me? Where is now the tender glance?
Where the meaning looks once lavish'd by the dark-eyed Maid of France?
Where the words of hope she whisper'd, when around my neck she threw
That same scarf of broider'd tissue, bade me wear it and be true—
Bade me send it as a token when my banner waved once more
On the castled Keep of London, where my fathers' waved before?
And I went and did not conquer—but I brought it back again—
Brought it back from storm and battle—brought it back without stain;
And once more I knelt before her, and I laid it at her feet,
Saying, "Wilt thou own it, Princess? There at least is no defeat!"
Scornfully she look'd upon me with a measured eye and cold—
Scornfully she view'd the token, though her fingers wrought the gold,
And she answer'd, faintly flushing, "Hast thou kept it, then, so long?
Worthy matter for a minstrel to be told in knightly song!
Worthy of a bold Provençal, pacing through the peaceful plain,
Singing of his lady's favour, boasting of her silken chain,
Yet scarce worthy of a warrior sent to wrestle for a crown.
Is this all that thou hast brought me from thy field of high renown?
Is this all the trophy carried from the lands where thou hast been?
It was broider'd by a Princess, can'st thou give it to a Queen?"
Woman's love is writ in water! Woman's faith is traced in sand!
Backwards—backwards let me wander to the noble northern land;
Let me feel the breezes blowing fresh along the mountain side;
Let me see the purple heather, let me hear the thundering tide,
Be it hoarse as Corrievreckan spouting when the storm is high—
Give me but one hour of Scotland—let me see it ere I die!
Oh, my heart is sick and heavy—southern gales are not for me;
Though the glens are white with winter, place me there, and set me free;
Give me back my trusty comrades—give me back my Highland maid—
Nowhere beats the heart so kindly as beneath the tartan plaid!
Flora! when thou wert beside me, in the wilds of far Kintail—
When the cavern gave us shelter from the blinding sleet and hail—
When we lurk'd within the thicket, and, beneath the waning moon,
Saw the sentry's bayonet glimmer, heard him chant his listless tune—
When the howling storm o'ertook us drifting down the island's lee,
And our crazy bark was whirling like a nutshell on the sea—
When the nights were dark and dreary, and amidst the fern we lay
Faint and foodless, sore with travel, longing for the streaks of day;
When thou wert an angel to me, watching my exhausted sleep—
Never didst thou hear me murmur—couldst thou see how now I weep!
Bitter tears and sobs of anguish, unavailing though they be.
Oh the brave—the brave and noble—who have died in vain for me!
 

W.E.A.