Pale Famine rear'd the head: her eager eyes, Pent in this barren corner of the isle, A mass till the last moment left behind, There, like the sons of Israel, having trod, For us, the earth shall bring forth her increase; SONG. THE PARTING KISS. ONE kind kiss before we part, Yet, yet weep not so, my love, All my soul will still be here. And every wish shall pant for you; ROBERT LLOYD. [Born, 1733. Died, 1764.] ROBERT LLOYD was the son of one of the masters of Westminster school. He studied at Cambridge, and was for some time usher at Westminster, but forsook that employment for the life of an author and the habits of a man of pleasure. His first publication that attracted any notice was the " Actor," the reputation of which stimulated Churchill to his " Rosciad." He contributed to several periodical works; but was unable by his literary efforts to support the dissipated life which he led with Colman, Thornton, and other gay associates. His debts brought him to the Fleet; and those companions left him to CHIT-CHAT. AN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS. Mrs. B. Is Mistress Scot at home, my dear? She fancied you would not come down, Mrs. S. Your servant, madam. Well, I swear I vow I'm almost dead with fear. There is such scrouging and such squeeging, So clog up all these narrow ways, And I was always short of breath. Mrs. S. Lard! ma'm, I left it all to him, Husbands, you know, will have their whim. He took this house.-This house! this den.-- Mrs. B. Hist! lower, pray, Mrs. S. Jacky, come here, There's a good boy, look up, my dear. -Surely he cannot find it out. Mrs. B. See how the urchin holds his hands! Upon my life he understands. -There's a sweet child, come, kiss me, come, Will Jacky have a sugar-plum! Mrs. S. This person, madam, (call him so [* To Lloyd and Churchill, Mr. Southey has given, in his Life of Cowper, an undue though interesting importance. Lloyd's best productions are his two Odes, to Obscurity and Oblivion, written in ridicule of Gray; and in which the elder Colman had au uncertain share. ] For at a tavern he will spend Mrs. S. Mrs. B. Lard! we've no time for talking now, Mrs. B. That clouded silk becomes you much, I wonder how you meet with such, But you've a charming taste in dress. What might it cost you, madam? Mrs. S. I'm glad you think so,—Kitty, here, -There, go to Kitty-there's a man. Madam, pray. Mrs. B. I can't indeed, now. Mrs. S. Mrs. B. Well then, for once, I'll lead the way. Mrs. S. Lard! what an uproar! what a throng! How shall we do to get along? What will become of us ?-look here, Here's all the king's horse-guards, my dear. Let us cross over-haste, be quick, -Pray, sir, take care-your horse will kick. He'll kill his rider-he's so wild. -I'm glad I did not bring the child. Mrs. B. Don't be afraid, my dear, come on; Why don't you see the guards are gone? Mrs. S. Well, I begin to draw my breath; Mrs. B. Come you from Palace-yard, old dame? Mrs. S. Can you direct us, dame ? Troy could not stand a siege for ever. Endeavour. Mrs. B. Go thy ways, Proverbs-well, she's Mrs. S. Perdigious! I can hardly stand, -Good God! my cardinal and sack Are almost torn from off my back. Lard, I shall faint-O lud-my breastI'm crush'd to atoms, I protest. God bless me-I have dropp'd my fan, -Pray did you see it, honest man? Man. I, madam, no !—indeed, I fear Mrs. S. You're very kind, sir; truly few Are half so complaisant as you. We shall be glad at any day This obligation to repay, And you'll be always sure to meet A welcome, sir, in-Lard! the street Man. No-don't you hear the people shout? "Tis Mr. Pitt, just going out. Mrs. B. Ay, there he goes, pray heaven bless him! Well may the people all caress him. -Lord, how my husband used to sit, And drink success to honest Pitt, And happy o'er his evening cheer, Cry, "you shall pledge this toast, my dear." Man. Hist-silence-don't you hear the drumming? Now, ladies, now, the king's a coming. There, don't you see the guards approach? Mrs. B. Which is the king? Scotchman. Which is the noble earl of Bute? Geud-faith, I'll gi him a salute. For he's the Laird of aw our clan, Troth, he's a bonny muckle man. Man. Here comes the coach, so very slow As if it ne'er was made to go, In all the gingerbread of state, Mrs. S. Upon my word, its monstrous fine! Mrs. B. So painted, gilded, and so large, Bless me! 'tis like my lord mayor's barge. And so it is-look how it reels? "Tis nothing else—a barge on wheels. Man. Large! it can't pass St. James's gate, Who'd undertake (and no rare thing) Mrs. S. Lard! what are those two ugly things With naked breasts, and faces swell'd? To put such things to fright the queen? you see, Of the Marine Society, Tritons, which in the ocean dwell, And only rise to blow their shell. Mrs. S. Gods d'ye call those filthy men! Why don't they go to sea again? Pray, tell me, sir, you understand, Mrs. B. And what are they? those hindmost things, Men, fish, and birds, with flesh, scales, wings? Man. Oh, they are gods too, like the others, All of one family and brothers; Creatures, which seldom come a-shore, Nor seen about the king before. For show, they wear the yellow hue, Mrs. S. Lord bless us ! what's this noise about, Lord, what a tumult and a rout! How the folks hollow, hiss, and hoot! I cannot stay, indeed, not I, If there's a riot I shall die. Let's make for any house we can, Do give us shelter, honest man. Mrs. B. I wonder'd where you was, my dear, I thought I should have died with fear. DAVID MALLET. [Born about 1700. Died, 1765.] Or Mallet's birth-place and family nothing is certainly known; but Dr. Johnson's account of his descent from the sanguinary clan of MacGregor is probably not much better founded than what he tells us of his being janitor to the highschool of Edinburgh. That officer has, from time immemorial, lived in a small house at the gate of the school, of which he sweeps the floors, and rings the bell*. Mallet, at the alleged time of his being thus employed, was private tutor in the family of Mr. Home, of Dreghorn, near Edinburgh. By a Mr. Scott he was recommended to be tutor to the sons of the Duke of Montrose, and after travelling on the Continent with his pupils, and returning to London, made his way, according to Dr. Johnson, into the society of wits, nobles, and statesmen, by the influence of the family in which he had livedt. Perhaps the mere situation of a nobleman's tutor would not have gained such access to a diffident man; but Mallet's manners and talents were peculiarly fitted to make their way in the world. His ballad of "William and Margaret," in 1724, first brought him into notice. He became intimate with Pope, and had so much celebrity in his day as to be praised in rhyme both by Savage and Lord Chesterfield. In time [June 1742] he was appointed under-secretary to the Prince of Wales. Some of his letters in the earlier part of his life express an interest and friendship for the poet Thomson, which do honour to his heart; but it cannot be disguised that his general history exhibits more address than principle, and his literary career is unimportant. Some years before his death he was appointed keeper of the book of entries for the port of London, and enjoyed a pension for an address to the public, which contributed to hasten the execution of Byng—a fact for which, if true, his supposed ancestors, the MacGregors, might have been ashamed to acknowledge him. WILLIAM AND MARGARET. "TWAS at the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet ||; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April-morn, That held her sable shroud. [* And is an office always entrusted, we believe, to men technically called up in years.] [ He had no fixed salary at Mr. Home's: at the Duke of Montrose's his encouragement was an allowance yearly of thirty pounds. He was educated at Aberdeen under Professor Ker, through whose influence Mr. Scott so successfully interested himself about him. Mallet left Edinburgh for London in August, 1723, and did not go abroad with the Montrose family. He had gained the friendship of Young in 1725, and in 1726 had changed his name from Malloch to Mallet, for he found no Englishman who could pronounce the original.] The two introductory lines, says Percy, (and one or two others elsewhere) had originally more of the ballad simplicity, viz: When all was wrapt in dark midnight, And all were fast asleep, &c. For a character of Mallet's ballads, see Scott's Essay on Imitations, Poet. Works, vol. iv. p. 27. The ballad before us Percy has called one of the most beautiful ballads in our own or any language. Rel. vol. iii. p. 165.] So shall the fairest face appear, When youth and years are flown : Such is the robe that kings must wear, When death has reft their crown. Her bloom was like the springing flower, The rose was budded in her cheek, But love had, like the canker-worm, The rose grew pale, and left her cheek; "Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls, Come from her midnight-grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid, Thy love refused to save. [This account is very meagre, and Mallet's life deserves to be written at some length; for it would afford a curious history, such as literary lives too seldom offer. The materials, though scattered, are various and ample. It was to Mallet's house that Gibbon the his torian went after his removal from College. Mallet is the only instance of an author who has written so much and so variedly, and at such different periods of life, whose first productions are still considered his best. William and Margaret is indeed a beautiful ballad, and the Banks of Endermay, another early attempt, very elegant and very pleasing.] |