William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Restoration Verse. 1910.
Mr. Pope’s Welcome from GreeceJohn Gay (1685–1732)
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Like patient Ithacus at siege of Troy;
I have been witness of thy six years’ toil,
Thy daily labours and thy night’s annoy,
Lost to thy native land with great turmoil,
On the wide sea, oft threatening to destroy:
Methinks with thee I’ve trod Sigæan ground,
And heard the shores of Hellespont resound.
To seek adventures fair in Homer’s land?
Did I not see thy sinking spirits fail
And wish thy bark had never left the strand?
Even in mid ocean often didst thou quail
And oft lift up thy holy eye and hand,
Praying the virgin dear and saintly choir,
Back to the port to bring thy bark entire.
Methinks—nay, sure the rising coasts appear;
Hark how the guns salute from either shore
As thy trim vessel cuts the Thames so fair:
Shouts answering shouts from Kent and Essex roar,
And bells break loud from ev’ry gust of air:
Bonfires do blaze, and bones and cleavers ring,
As at the coming of some mighty king.
And Tilbury’s white fort, and long Blackwall;
Greenwich where dwells the friend of human kind,
More visited than either park or hall.
Withers the good, and (with him ever join’d)
Facetious Disney greet thee first of all:
I see his chimney smoke, and hear him say:
‘Duke! that’s the room for Pope, and that for Gay.’
And here shall breakfast and here dine again,
And sup and breakfast on (if ye comply)
For I have still some dozens of champagne:’
His voice still lessens as the ship sails by;
He waves his hand to bring us back in vain;
For now I see, I see proud London’s spires;
Greenwich is lost, and Deptford Dock retires:
The sky re-echoes with new shouts of joy!
By all this show, I ween, ’tis Lord Mayor’s Day;
I hear the voice of trumpet and hautboy.
No, now I see them near—oh, these are they
Who come in crowds to welcome thee from Troy.
Hail to the bard whom long as lost we mourn’d,
From siege, from battle, and from storm return’d.
The silken petticoat and broider’d vest;
Yea, peers and mighty dukes, with ribbands blue
(True blue, fair emblem of unstained breast).
Others I see as noble and more true,
By no court badge distinguish’d from the rest:
First see I Methuen of sincerest mind,
As Arthur grave, as soft as womankind.
Who knows not her? Ah, those are Wortley’s eyes.
How art thou honour’d, number’d with her friends;
For she distinguishes the good and wise.
The sweet-tongued Murray near her side attends:
Now to my heart the glance of Howard flies;
Now Hervey, fair of face, I mark full well
With thee, youth’s youngest daughter, sweet Lepell.
The fair-hair’d Martha and Teresa brown;
Madge Belleden, the tallest of the land;
And smiling Mary soft and fair as down.
Yonder I see the cheerful Duchess stand,
For friendship, zeal, and blithesome humours known:
Whence that loud shout in such a hearty strain?
Why, all the Hamiltons are in her train.
With Winchilsea, still meditating song,
With her perhaps Miss Howe came there by chance,
Nor knows with whom, nor why she comes along.
Far off from these see Santlow famed for dance,
And frolic Bicknell, and her sister young,
With other names by me not to be named,
Much loved in private, not in public famed.
And the shrill music of their voice is still’d!
Methinks I see famed Buckingham admire,
That in Troy’s ruins thou hast not been kill’d.
Sheffield who knows to strike the living lyre
With hand judicious like thy Homer skill’d:
Bathurst impetuous, hastens to the coast,
Whom you and I strive who shall love the most.
(But Bruce comes wafted in a soft Sedan),
Dan Prior next, beloved by every muse,
And friendly Congreve, unreproachful man!
Oxford by Cunningham hath sent excuse),
See hearty Watkins come with cup and can;
And Lewis who has never friend forsaken;
And Laughton whispering asks—Is Troy Town taken?
Bold, generous Craggs whose heart was ne’er disguised,
Ah, why, sweet St. John cannot I thee find?
St. John for every social virtue prized—
Alas! to foreign climates he’s confined,
Or else to see thee here I well surmised;
Thou too, my Swift, dost breathe Bœotian air,
When wilt thou bring back wit and humour here?
The mouth of justice, oracle of law!
Another Simon is beside him found,
Another Simon like as straw to straw.
How Lansdown smiles with lasting laurel crown’d!
What mitred prelate there commands our awe?
See Rochester approving nods the head,
And ranks one modern with the mighty dead.
Hanmer whose eloquence the unbias’d sways;
Harley, whose goodness opens in his face
And shows his heart the seat where virtue stays.
Ned Blount advances next with hasty pace,
In haste, yet sauntering, hearty in his ways.
I see the friendly Carylls come by dozens,
Their wives, their uncles, daughters, sons, and cousins.
As Galen learnèd or famed Hippocrate;
Whose company drives sorrow from the heart
As all disease his med’cines dissipate:
Kneller amid the triumph bears his part
Who could (were mankind lost) anew create;
What can th’ extent of his vast soul confine?
A painter, critic, engineer, divine!
‘Now have we conquer’d Homer, friends!’ he cries;
Dartneuf, gay joker, joyous Ford is there,
And wondering Maine so fat, with laughing eyes,
(Gay, Maine, and Cheney, boon companions dear,
Gay fat, Maine fatter, Cheney huge of size),
Yea, Dennis, Gildon (hearing thou hast riches)?
And honest hatless Cromwell with red breeches.
And visage from thy shelves with dust besprent?
‘Forsooth (quoth he) from placing Homer there,
As ancients to compyle is mine intent;
Of ancients only hath Lord Harley care,
But hither me hath my meeke lady sent:—
In manuscript of Greek rede we thilke same,
But book reprint best plesyth my gude dame.’
Evans with laugh jocose and Tragic Young;
High buskin’d Booth, grave Mawbert, wandering Frowde
And Titcombe’s belly waddles slow along.
See Digby faints at Southern talking loud,
Yea, Steele and Tickell mingle in the throng,
Tickell, whose skiff (in partnership they say)
Set forth for Greece, but founder’d on the way.
Lo, Bickford, Fortescue of Devon land!
Lo, Tooker, Echershall, Sykes, Rawlinson!
See hearty Morley take thee by the hand!
Ayers, Graham, Buckridge, joy thy voyage done;
But who can count the leaves, the stars, the sand?
Lo, Stoner, Fenton, Caldwell, Ward, and Broome;
Lo, thousands more, but I want rhyme and room!
And sure thou art not, for I hear thee say—
‘All this, my friends, I owe to Homer’s strain,
On whose strong pinions I exalt my lay.
What from contending cities did he gain?
And what rewards his grateful country pay?
None, none were paid—why then all this for me?
These honours, Homer, had been just to thee.’