Poor B

who could equal thee in the chase? Thou wert the faithful servant indeed; thou wert the only solace of thy master in all his afflictions: when he sees thee dead, how he will tear his hair, curse the day of his birth and wish to die! I must too, I think, sign the death-warrant; but seriously I would not have you kill the poor beast for the fault of his brutal PopishHuguenot master. I will, however, send the thing if you wish1. Indeed I am heartily sorry for poor Mr Noel, because I wished him well on the score of his innocence, and that nothing hinders but what we may be so, or worse, ourselves, one time or another; and I wonder that he should so entirely give himself over to despair for a thing that is noways out of the common road of life2.

To-morrow, my dear Dick, when you are performing that agreeable task of forming the hands of the fair to express in a pleasing manner by the pen the soft ideas of the heart3, think, I say, think (and forget your pleasure awhile as you let loose one friendly sigh) that I stand examination before a parcel of old fellows, whose business is to examine and cross-examine me: then pity, and let your pity draw one sigh, a tribute to your friend, which will cheer and animate my heart.

I will the next post after the receipt of your answer to this give you a full account of my manner of spending my life, because I have small time now-so conclude your sincere friend,

May 29, 1744.

E. B.

P.S. When you send the carman do not tell him what it is for, or send any here by him for I shall take care of everything.

In the poem sent in the following letter we seem to catch some echoes of Bishop Ken's "Awake my soul, and with the sun," and Addison's "The spacious firmament on high." It opens with a sketch of a morning walk among the hawthorns of the Phoenix Park, and closes with the description of an evening spent with his friend, Herbert, on the Sea Wall, near Ringsend, whence the prospect of the summer sunset to the west of Dublin, with the Liffey and the city in the foreground is still an "enchanting sight," as it was felt by Edmund Burke one hundred and seventy years ago, when he penned its praises in these verses.

Dear Dick,

E. Burke to R. Shackleton.

Dublin, June 9th, 1744.

You find me as good as my promise in sending some more of my rhymes to trouble you; and what I said to you in a former favour, that I am like the rest of my brother pettifoggers, you find now to be true. What ▲ Post p. 35.

2 Post P. 44.

3 Ante p. 23.

1 Poison. 5 The date is erroneously printed as 9th January, 1744, in the Fitzwilliam Edition of Burke's Correspondence. The date in the original is 9th June, 1744.

I send you here is a day of my life, after the manner I usually spend it. I have put it in verse for two reasons; the chief and principal of which is to engage you to answer it in like manner; and the other is, that the subject being in itself dry and barren, and, of course no pleasant reading, I have laid out what ornaments I could spare on it, in the small time I have to do anything for your amusement. Thus far by way of proem or preface; proceed we now to the matter in hand-and to begin:

Soon as Aurora from the blushing skies

Bids the great ruler of the day to rise,
No longer balmy sleep my limbs detains;
I hate its bondage and detest its chains.
Fly! Morpheus, fly! and leave the foul embrace,
Let nobler thoughts supply thy loathsome place;
Let every dream-each fancied joy-give way
To the more solid comforts of the day.
See through the lucid substance of yon glass,
Sol's radiant beams enlighten as they pass;
Dispel each gloomy thought, each care control,
And calm the rising tumults of the soul.
See, how its rays do every thought refine,
And fire the soul to raptures half divine,
Led and inspired by such a guide, I stray

Through fragrant gardens and the pride of May1.
Sweet month! but oh! what daring muse can give
Words worthy thee, and words so like to live!
While each harmonious warbler of the sky

Sends up its grateful notes to thank the high,
The mighty Ruler of the world below-

Parent of all, from whom our blessings flow.
Teach me, O lark! with thee to greatly rise,
T'exalt my soul and lift it to the skies;
To make each worldly joy as mean appear,

Unworthy care, when heavenly joys are near.
But Oh! my friend the muse has swell'd her song,
From business has detain'd you quite too long,
Avails my morn's description aught to you,

Who morn and even in perfection view?
And now the sun, with a more piercing ray,
Advises me I must no longer stay.
All dull with mournful heavy steps I go;

The unwilling town receives me entering slow,
Returning home, I nature's wants appease;

Then, to the College Fate your friend conveys.

1 Probably referring to walks in the Phoenix Park not far from Arran Quay which was then being laid out and beautified by Lord Chesterfield. The splendid and ancient hawthorn trees are still the pride of May.

But here the muse nor can nor will declare,
What is my work, and what my studies there—
('Tis not her theme-she still delights to sing
The gently rising mount and bubbling spring)2.
But oft amid the shady parks I rove,

Plunged in the deep recesses of the grove,
While oh! embroil'd beneath the trees I lie,
Fann'd by the gales you voluntary fly,
Oh! would some kinder genius me convey

To those fair banks where Griece's3 waters stray,
Where the tall firs o'er-shade his crystal floods,

Or hide me in the thickest gloom of woods;
To bear me hence, far from the City's noise,
And give me all I ask, the country's joys.
Now Sol's bright beams, grown fainter as he goes,
Invite the whole creation to repose;

Each bird gives o'er its note, the thrush alone
Fills the cool grove when all the rest are gone.
Harmonious bird! daring till night to stay
And glean the last remainder of the day.
The slowly moving hours bring on at last

The pleasing time (how tedious was the past!)
Which shows me Herbert-he since thou art gone
My sole companion, 'midst the throngs of town.
By the foul river's side we take our way,

Where Liffey rolls her dead dogs to the sea;
Arrived at length at our appointed stand,

By waves enclosed, the margin of the land,
Where once the sea with a triumphing roar,

Roll'd his huge billows to a distant shore,
There swam the dolphins, hid in waves unseen,
Where frisking lambs now crop the verdant green.
Secured by mounds of everlasting stone,

It stands for ever safe, unoverthrown,
Firm while it bears upon its flimsy [breast]

The force of warring storms and swelling [crest]*
Neptune indignant thus to be confined,

Swells in the waves, and bellows in the wind;
Raising in heaps his ponderous wat❜ry store,

Hangs like a mountain o'er the trembling shore,
Now! now, he bursts, and with a hideous sound,

That shakes the strong foundation of the ground;

1 "Alas it was beneath the dignity of verse to tell us what we should most gladly have known."-Lord Morley.

2 "Helicon and Parnassus." Note by Burke in original.

3 A stream near Ballitore, one of the tributaries of the Barrow in County Kildare. Ante p. 11.

Two words are missing in the original owing to the margin being torn.

Dreadful, with complicated terrors falls,

Discharging vengeance on the hated walls1.
The walls secured by well compacted stone,
Repel the monarch with a hollow groan,
'Tis here we sit, while in joint prospect rise,
The ocean, ships, and City to our eyes.
Enchanting sight! when beauteous Sol half way
Merges his radiant body in the sea;

And just withdrawing from our mortal sight,
Lengthens the quivering shadow of his light.
But now inspired-by what exalting muse-
What lofty song-what numbers shall I choose?
Or how adapt my verses to the theme,

Great as the subject, equal and the same?
Or how describe the horrors of the deep,

Lull'd into peace, and loftiest waves asleep?

Not e'en a breath moves o'er the boundless flood,
So calm, so peaceful, and so still it stood!

The sun withdrawn, and the clear night overspread,
In all its starry glories 'bove our head:

While moon, pale Empress, shines with borrowed light,
Fills the alternate throne and rules the night;
And other worlds, descrying earth afar,

Cry "See how little looks yon twinkling star!"

It is not mine the glorious view to sing,

These mighty wonders of the Almighty King;

But let my soul in still amazement lost,

From thought to thought, and maze to maze be tost,

The advent'rous task a muse like yours requires,

That warms your pen, and fills your breast with fires.

Thus far the muse has, in a feeble lay,

Shew'd how I spend the various hours of day:

The story placed in order by the Sun,

Shows where my labours ended,-where begun.

What rhymes again!

E. Burke to R. Shackleton.

Dublin, June 11th, 1744. 12 o'clock.

E. B.

Without knowing any of your astronomical devilments.

Returning yesterday from the College I met my father's clerk going to the post office, and thither with him I went, and with the utmost pleasure received your agreeable favours: so that without your calculations I can

1 This is a reference to the North Wall and embankment at Ringsend where the beginning of the South Wall which runs out to the Poolbeg Lighthouse had been just completed. In 1748 the South Wall had been carried out one mile and a half into the sea, and in 1764 the foundations of the Poolbeg Lighthouse were laid.

inform you that they blest my hands in due time; but unluckily (as such usually attends me) I opened your last one first, in which I perceived-but now let us omit it until its proper place, where we will treat more fully of it. I am pleased to hear that your Aunt and sister arrived safe at your Mansions. I had not the satisfaction of seeing 'em before they went, though I cant attribute it to myself, as I was at Fletchers to enquire for 'em, but the birds were flown. I therefore left the Cowshed with Slator1. But here since I mention him, it wont I hope be amiss to give you an account of those I met the day I went there, and by way of an appendix, the state of their affairs. But now I was just going to invoke some sacred Muse, who should, in a pompous style adopted to the greatness of the subject, describe the manner in which the state of your affairs lay: but wisely considered that you should think all I say spoke metaphorically, and so not believe a word of it: therefore I am resolved to confine myself to the strict truth of the narration.

As I came from Fletcher's, in Thomas Street, by the Market House, who should I meet? You would not guess it if you were thinking this hour? Guess, if you can without looking any further-Josey! What Josey? Why Josey Delaney! Him I met in that juncture with no better clothing than his old μaorups waistcoat which he wore so long in Ballitore, exactly in the same cu that he was there, in all things about him, except a basket full of some wooden things or other which he carried under his arm. Veterem agnovit amicum: we knew each other at first sight. After mutual salutations, questions about Ballitore &c, I asked him whether Dublin air agreed with him. These were his words "Very indifferently," replies Josey. "Why so Josey?" Here he answered nothing for a good while; at last out it came "Sure I'm marryid"! "To whom pray?" "To a girl of this town." "Where do you live?" "In Dolphin's Barn Lane." Thus we parted.

He looks very thin and melancholy, so it seems his affairs are but in a bad situation; the waistcoat he wore was at least five or six inches too wide. But now I come to what troubles me sincerely, and to him I think the most unfortunate of the two, though not in the poorest conditionI mean Slator. Poor Johnny! where is that liveliness, sprightliness or even madness that was so agreeable in all your sportive actions, which rendered so diverting your every thought, your every word? "Oh the Devil"! No. No, Not such a word to be got now from him, but a most dejected melancholy and sadness. I met him in the street where indeed I think he could scarcely walk; so pale, of a yellowish paleness, I scarcely ever thought he could be. I went with him to the shop; he spoke very little, and that exceedingly low and faint. I asked him was he sick? He answered No, but he did not speak his mind. I believe if his condition does not be speedily mended, he will not live half a year, for he is a mere hackleton (sic) and has a very sickly look; and this may be, I think, attributed to his devil of an Aunt, of whom I will give you, when I see you next, a full description of.

1 John Slator, a schoolfellow of Burke's at Ballitore, having joined the school in 1739. He graduated B.A. 1745, M.A. 1749, in Trinity College, Dublin.