The winds are hushed; the dews distil; and sleep To rocks and woods pour forth my fruitless moan. TO 1727. How would the crook beseem thy lily hand! How would my younglings round thee gazing stand! Ah, witless younglings! gaze not on her eye: Thence all my sorrow; thence the death I die. Oh, killing beauty! and oh, sore desire! Must then my sufferings but with life expire! Though blossoms every year the trees adorn, Spring after spring I wither, nipt with scorn: Nor trow I when this bitter blast will end, Or if yon stars will e'er my vows befriend. Sleep, sleep, my flock; for happy ye may take Sweet nightly rest, though still your master wake.' Now to the waning moon the nightingale, In slender warblings, tuned her piteous tale. The love-sick shepherd, listening, felt relief, Pleased with so sweet a partner in his grief, Till, by degrees, her notes and silent night To slumbers soft his heavy heart invite. JOHN GAY. The Italian opera and English pastorals-both sources of fashionable and poetical affectation-were driven out of the field at this time by the easy, indolent, good-humoured JOHN GAY, who seems to have Though not so fair, she would have proved more kind. been the most artless and the best-beloved of all the O think, unwitting maid, while yet is time, And flowers, though left ungathered, will decay: My words are wind! She, deaf to all my cries, No cruel purpose in my speed I bear; "Tis only love; and love why should'st thou fear? What idle fears a maiden breast alarm! Stay, simple girl; a lover cannot harm; Two sportive kidlings, both fair-flecked, I rear, Whose shooting horns like tender buds appear: A lambkin too, of spotless fleece, I breed, And teach the fondling from my hand to feed: Nor will I cease betimes to cull the fields Of every dewy sweet the morning yields: From early spring to autumn late shalt thou Receive gay girlonds, blooming o'er thy brow: And when-but why these unavailing pains? The gifts alike, and giver, she disdains; And now, left heiress of the glen, she'll deem Me, landless lad, unworthy her esteem; Yet was she born, like me, of shepherd-sire, And I may fields and lowing herds acquire. O! would my gifts but win her wanton heart, Or could I half the warmth I feel impart, How would I wander, every day, to find The choice of wildings, blushing through the rind ! For glossy plums how lightsome climb the tree, How risk the vengeance of the thrifty bee. Or, if thou deign to live a shepherdess, Thou Lobbin's flock, and Lobbin shall possess ; And fair my flock, nor yet uncomely I, If liquid fountains flatter not; and why Should liquid fountains flatter us, yet show The bordering flowers less beauteous than they grow? O come, my love! nor think the employment mean, The dams to milk, and little lambkins wean; To drive afield, by morn, the fattening ewes, Ere the warm sun drink up the coolly dews; While with my pipe, and with my voice, I cheer Each hour, and through the day detain thine ear. Pope and Swift circle of wits and poets. Gay was May. born at Barnstaple, in Devonshire, in 1688. He was But I, who ne'er was blessed by Fortune's hand, Fatigued at last, a calm retreat I chose, Next year, Gay obtained the appointment of domestic secretary to the Duchess of Monmouth, on which he was cordially congratulated by Pope, who took a warm interest in his fortunes. His next work was his Shepherd's Week, in Six Pastorals, written to throw ridicule on those of Ambrose Philips; but containing so much genuine comic humour, and entertaining pictures of country life, that they became popular, not as satires, but on account of their intrinsic merits, as affording a prospect of his own country.' In an address to the courteous reader,' Gay says, 'Thou wilt not find my shepherdesses idly piping on oaten reeds, but milking the kine, tying up the sheaves; or, if the hogs are astray, driving them to their styes. My shepherd gathereth none other nosegays but what are the growth of our own fields; he sleepeth not under myrtle shades, but under a hedge; nor doth he vigilantly defend his flock from wolves, because there are none.' This matter-of-fact view of rural life has been admirably followed by Crabbe, with a moral aim and effect to which Gay never aspired. About this time the poet also produced his Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London, and The Fan, a poem in three books. The former of these is in the mock-heroic style, in which he was assisted by Swift, and gives a graphic account of the dangers and impediments then encountered in traversing the narrow, crowded, ill-lighted, and vice-infested thoroughfares of the metropolis. His paintings of city life are in the Dutch style, low and familiar, but correctly and forcibly drawn. The following sketch of the frequenters of book-stalls in the streets may still be verified: Volumes on sheltered stalls expanded lie, The poet gives a lively and picturesque account of the great frost in London, when a fair was held on the river Thames : O, roving muse! recall that wondrous year * Squirt is the name of an apothecary's boy in Garth's Dispensary.' So, when a general bids the martial train In 1713, Gay brought out a comedy entitled The Wife of Bath; but it failed of success. His friends were anxious in his behalf, and next year (July 1714), he writes with joy to Pope-Since you went out of the town, my Lord Clarendon was appointed envoy-extraordinary to Hanover, in the room of Lord Paget; and by making use of those friends, which I entirely owe to you, he has accepted me for his secretary.' The poet accordingly quitted his situation in the Monmouth family, and accompanied Lord Clarendon on his embassy. He seems, however, to have held it only for about two months; for on the 23d of September of the same year, Pope welcomes him to his native soil, and counsels him, now that the queen was dead, to write something on the king, or prince, or princess. Gay was an anxious expectant of court favour, and he complied with Pope's request. He wrote a poem on the princess, and the royal family went to see his play of What D'ye Call It? produced shortly after his return from Hanover, in 1714. The piece was eminently successful; and Gay was stimulated to another dramatic attempt of a similar nature, entitled Three Hours After Marriage. Some personal satire and indecent dialogues in this piece, together with the improbability of the plot, sealed its fate with the public. It soon fell into disgrace; and its author being afraid that Pope and Arbuthnot would suffer injury from their supposed connexion with it, took all the shame on himself.' Gay was silent and dejected for some time; but in 1720 he published his poems by subscription, and realised a sum of £1000. He received, also, a present of South-Sea stock, and was supposed to be worth £20,000, all of which he lost by the explosion of that famous delusion. This serious calamity to one fond of finery in dress and living only prompted to farther literary exertion. In 1724, Gay brought out another drama, The Captives, which was acted with moderate success; and in 1726 he wrote a volume of fables, designed for the special improvement of the Duke of Cumberland, who certainly did not learn mercy or humanity from them. The accession of the prince and princess to the throne seemed to augur well for the fortunes of Gay; but he was only offered the situation of gentleman usher to one of the young princesses, and considering this an insult, he rejected it. His genius proved his best patron. In 1726, Swift came to England, and resided two months with Pope at Twickenham. Among other plans, the dean of St Patrick suggested to Gay the idea of a Newgate pastoral, in which the characters should be thieves and highwaymen, and the Beggar's Opera was the result. When finished, the two friends were doubtful of the success of the piece, but it was received with unbounded applause. The songs and music aided greatly its popularity, and there was also the recommendation of political satire; for the quarrel between Peachum and Lockit was an allusion to a personal collision between Walpole and his colleague, Lord Townsend. The spirit and variety of the piece, in which song and sentiment are so happily intermixed with vice and roguery, still render the Beggar's Opera' a favourite with the public; but as Gay has succeeded in making highwaymen agreeable, and even attractive, it cannot be commended for its moral tendency. Of this we suspect the Epicurean author thought little. The opera had a run of sixty-three nights, and became the rage of town and country. Its success had also the effect of giving rise to the English opera, a species of light comedy enlivened by songs and music, which for a time supplanted the Italian opera, with all its exotic and elaborate graces. Gay tried a sequel to the Beggar's Opera,' under the title of Polly; but as it was supposed to contain sarcasms on the court, the lord chamberlain prohibited its representation. The poet had recourse to publication; and such was the zeal of his friends, and the effect of party spirit, that while the 'Beggar's Opera' realised for him only about £400, Polly' produced a profit of £1100 or £1200. The Duchess of Marlborough gave £100 as her subscription for a copy. Gay had now amassed £3000 by his writings, which he resolved to keep entire and sacred.' He was at the same time received into the house of his kind patrons the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry, with whom he spent the remainder of his life. His only literary occupation was composing additional fables, and corresponding occasionally with Pope and Swift. A sudden attack of inflammatory fever hurried him out of life in three days. He died on the 4th of December 1732. Pope's letter to Swift announcing the event was indorsed by the latter: 'On my dear friend Mr Gay's death. Received, December 15th, but not read till the 20th, by an impulse foreboding some misfortune.' The friendship of these eminent men seems to have been sincere and tender; and nothing in the life of Swift is more touching or honourable to his memory, than those passages in his letters where the recollection of Gay melted his haughty stoicism, and awakened his deep though unavailing sorrow. Pope, always more affectionate, was equally grieved by the loss of him whom he has characterised as Of manners gentle, of affections mild; Gay was buried in Westminster abbey, where a handsome monument was erected to his memory by the Duke and Duchess of Queensberry. The works of this easy and loveable son of the muses have lost much of their popularity. He has the licentiousness, without the elegance, of Prior. His fables are still, however, the best we possess; and if they have not the nationality or rich humour and archness of La Fontaine's, the subjects of them are light and pleasing, and the versification always smooth and correct. The Hare with Many Friends is doubtless drawn from Gay's own experience. In the Court of Death, he aims at a higher order of poetry, and marshals his diseases dire' with a strong and gloomy power. His song of Black-Eyed Susan, and the ballad beginning Twas when the seas were roaring,' are full of characteristic tenderness and lyrical melody. The latter is said by Cowper to have been the joint production of Arbuthnot, Swift, and Gay. [The Country Ballad Singer.] [From The Shepherd's Week."] Sublimer strains, O rustic muse! prepare; When fast asleep they Bowzybeus spied, That Bowzybeus who could sweetly sing, Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long! Cicely, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout, And kissed with smacking lip the snoring lout (For custom says, Whoe'er this venture proves, For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves'). By her example Dorcas bolder grows, And plays a tickling straw within his nose. He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke The sneering strains with stammering speech bespoke: To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er; As for the maids, I've something else in store. No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song, But lads and lasses round about him throng. Not ballad singer placed above the crowd Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud; Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear, Like Bowzybeus soothes the attentive ear. Of nature's laws his carols first begun, Why the grave owl can never face the sun. For 'Buxom Joan' he sung the doubtful strife, How the sly sailor made the maid a wife. To louder strains he raised his voice, to tell Ah, Witherington! more years thy life had crowned, All in the land of Essex' next he chaunts, Then he was seized with a religious qualm, Why should I tell of Bateman' or of 'Shore,' [Walking the Streets of London.] [From 'Trivia."] Through winter streets to steer your course aright, To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways, When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice, The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound, Now in thy trunk thy D'Oily habit fold, Be thine of kersey firm, though small the cost, If the strong cane support thy walking hand, While softer chairs the tawdry load convey Song. Sweet woman is like the fair flower in its lustre, But when once plucked, 'tis no longer alluring, [The Poet and the Rose.] [From the Fables."] I hate the man who builds his name A poet sought the sweets of May, 1 A town in Oxfordshire. 2 A Joseph, wrap-rascal, &c. 3 A chocolate-house in St James's Street. 'Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace; How happy should I prove, Might I supply that envied place With never-fading love! There, Phenix-like, beneath her eye, Know, hapless flower! that thou shalt find I see thy withering head reclined With envy and despair! One common fate we both must prove; 'Spare your comparisons,' replied An angry Rose, who grew beside. "Of all mankind, you should not flout us; The Court of Death. Death, on a solemn night of state, Crowd the vast court. With hollow tone, All, at the word, stretched forth their hand. Let those express my fervent zeal; Next Gout appears with limping pace, A haggard spectre from the crew Stone urged his overgrowing force; All spoke their claim, and hoped the wand. Now expectation hushed the band, When thus the monarch from the throne: 'Merit was ever modest known. What, no physician speak his right! None here! but fees their toils requite. Let then Intemperance take the wand, Who fills with gold their zealous hand. You, Fever, Gout, and all the rest (Whom wary men as foes detest), Forego your claim. No more pretend; Intemperance is esteemed a friend; He shares their mirth, their social joys, The Hare and Many Friends. A Hare, who in a civil way, As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies: She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round; Till, fainting in the public way, Half dead with fear she gasping lay; What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appeared in view! Let me, says she, your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight, To friendship every burden's light. The Horse replied: Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus; Be comforted, relief is near, For all your friends are in the rear. She next the stately Bull implored, The Goat remarked her pulse was high, The Sheep was feeble, and complained The Lion, the Tiger, and the Traveller. |