Lutrin/Canto 1
THE
Lutrin of Boileau.
A
MOCK-HEROIC.
CANTO I.
RMS and the PRIEST I sing, whose Martial Soul
No Toil cou'd terrify, no Fear controul;
Active it urg'd his Outward Man to dare
The num'rous Hazards of a Pious War:
Nor did th' Immortal Prelates Labours ceafe,
Till Victory had Crown'd 'em with Success;
Till his gay Eyes sparkling with fluid Fire,
Beheld the Desk reflourish in the Choir.
In Vain the Chanter and the Chapter strove;
Twice they essay'd the fatal Desk to move:
As oft the Prelate with unweary'd Pain,
Fix'd it to his proud Rival's Seat again.
Muse, let the Holy Warrior's Rage be sung;
Why Sacred Minds Infernal Furies stung:
What Spark inflam'd the zealots Rival's Heat,
How Heavenly Breasts with Human Passions beat!
And thou Illustrious [1]Hero, whose Command
Asswag'd the Fire, whose salutary Hand
With more than Æsculapian Art cou'd heal
The Schism sick Church, and stop the growing Ill.
Propitious o'er these Sacred Numbers shine,
With thy bright Influence aid the great Design;
And as you deign a willing Ear to lend,
Religiously th' important Tale attend.
'MId'st the soft Pleasures of Fraternal Peace,
In laughing Plenty and luxuriant Ease,
Paris beheld her [2]Ancient Chappel rise,
Florid in Years, delightful to her Eyes;
Her lusty Canons rosy Beauties grace,
And brilliant Health crimsons each ruddy Face;
Fatten'd with long and holy Luxury;
Deep sunk in Down, soft as their Furs they lie;
While there the sacred Sluggards waste the Day
In dull Repose———By Deputy they Pray.
They only watch'd that they might relish Rest,
And never fasted but to make a Feast.
Unhealthy Mattins wisely they decline,
And substitute a Journeyman-Divine.
When Discord rose a squalid guilty Shade,
Black as her Crimes, in sable Night array'd;
Soft Peace with Horror view'd the Ghastly Spright,
And trembling fled her inauspicious Sight:
The livid Fury her dire Course had run,
From Church to Church her Visitation gone;
Then at the noisy Hall's litigious Bar
She stop'd, and smil'd to see the pleasing War;
Contemplating her growing Power the stood,
And breath'd Contention on the jarring Croud.
In countless Shoals her faithful [3]Normans flow;
Normans whose Breasts perpetual Tempests blow:
Squadrons of Lawyers here, drive o'er the Plain,
And Clients there, the dreadful Charge sustain:
The Lord, Clown, Senator, Fop, Bully, Cit,
Mingling in one vexatious Jargon fight;
Round Themis every Standard they display,
And in the Wordy War consume the Day.
The Fury raising then her baleful Head,
O'er the Parisian Towers her Venom shed;
Unshaken yet beholds one Church alone,
But one, that Peaceful durst her Power disown.
Sacred to pious Ease this Temple stood
Unshook by Tempests in a raging Flood:
Of all her numerous Sisters only she
Enjoy'd an disturb'd Tranquillity.
The Fiend at Sight of this offensive Peace
Grins horrible, she howls, her Serpents hiss;
Then lashing her thin Form, strong Poison fills
Her Mouth; with Vengeance her lean Bosom swells;
Her Eyes in Streams of livid Lightning glow,
Distraction sits malignant on her Brow.
Have then[errata 1], said she (and as the Fury spoke
The trembling Windows jarr'd, the Houses shook)
Have my resistless Fires these Hundred Years
Inflam'd the Carmelites, the Cordeliers?
Did not the Celestines my Fury feel,
Cou'd great St. Austin's Order me repell?
Have I involv'd in Feuds the Ministry?
Have I made Convoc———ns disagree?
And shall this Church alone rebellious dare
Cherish eternal Peace, when I bid War?
And am I Discord? Then may Tumult cease,
If I've no Power to blast her boasted Peace:
To hated Quiet let Mankind return,
Nor on my sacred Altars Incense burn.
This said, she strait assum'd a Chanter's Dress;
Such was her Shape, so formal in her Pace:
Her Warlike Visage rich in Rubies shines,
Painted with the best Blood of generous Vines.
Thus dress'd, she to the sleeping Prelate flies,
In this dissembled Form deceives his Eyes.
Deep in the Covert of a dark Alcove,
Form'd for the idle Gods of Sleep and Love,
A Downy Couch appears with wond'rous Care,
At great Expence secur'd from noxious Air:
Curtains in double Folds around it run,
And bar all Entrance of the intruding Sun;
Artfully rais'd to lull each softer Sence,
Devoted to the Goddess Indolence.
In idle Riot there she keeps her Court,
There airy Visions, wanton Phantoms sport;
Here negligently Dreaming out the Day,
Dissolv'd in Ease the Holy Sluggard lay,
Strengthen'd with an immoderate Morning Meal,
The Glutton batten'd till the Dinner Bell:
Youth in its Flowry Bloom[errata 2] with vernal Grace,
Shone in his Eyes, and brighten'd on his Face;
His Chin enormous, overspreads his Chest,
In three deep Folds descending on his Breast:
There doz'd the leaden Lump of slumbring Fat,
While the press'd Cushions groan beneath the Weight.
The Fury entring saw the Table spread,
In artful Order elegantly laid;
She recogniz'd the Church, and thus address'd,
With her delusive Words, the sleeping Priest.
Prelate arise, quit this inglorious Down,
Or the proud Chanter will thy Power disown:
He sings Oremus, he Processions makes,
With his resounding Voice the Chappel shakes:
Without thy Leave thy Blessings he bestows;
His Mouth with endless Benedictions flows:
Do'st thou then wait till this Invader's Hand
Seizes thy Mitre, takes thy high Command.
Shake off these idle Bonds, or all you lose;
Renounce thy Bishoprick, or thy Repose.
She spoke, and her infectious Breath inspires
His troubled Bosom with contentious Fires.
The drowsy Prelate at her Words revives
Confus'd and frighten'd, but his Blessing gives.
So wounded by a Wasp have I beheld
A sturdy Bull, Lord of the flow'ry Field;
Unus'd to Pain till then in amorous Play,
He Lov'd and Eat, and Wanton'd out the Day:
But now impatient Loves and Feeds no more,
The Neighbouring Forests tremble at his Roar:
With deep fetch'd Bellowings the noble Beast
Exhales his Spirits, and torments his Breast
At the vile Insect that disturbs his Rest.
Thus the gall'd Prelate's Rage no Balm can heal,
The Servants first his rising Fury Feel;
His Rage grows high, and kindling by Degrees,
From his stung Bosom drives inactive Peace.
He dresses, and oh Horror! makes a Vow,
Tho' Dinner waits, he to the Choir will go.
Wise Gilotin his Chaplain vainly strove,
With sage Advice this rash Resolve to move;
Councell'd, Intreated, every Danger told;
That then 'twas Noon, that Dinner wou'd be cold.
What more than frantick Rage (said he) now Reigns?
What wild Capricio's hurry round your Brains?
Support your Lustre better, think at least
A rich laborious Prelate is a Jest:
Let a full Meal this useless rage expell;
Sharpen your Appetite, and blunt your Zeal;
This is no Ember-Week, the Church commands
No Fast; impose not then these rigid Bands.
Great Sir, resume your Senses and your Food,
A Dinner heated twice was never good.
Thus GilotinThen pointing shew'd his Lord
The smoaking Soup attending on the Board;
The Prelate struck with Reverence and Delight,
Stood silent conquer'd by the pleasing Sight.
Victorious Pottage stop'd his eager Haste,
Soften'd his Rage, and broke his three Hours Fast.
Yet the black Choler strugling with his Meat,
Oppos'd the Passage of each luscious Bit.
Good Gilotin express'd in Groans his Care,
And politickly spreads the growing Fear.
His Partizans the dreadful News receive,
And feeling own a sympathetic Grief:
In numerous Troops to their lov'd Patron flie,
And bravely swear to Conquer or to Die.
Thus when the fierce Pigmean Army crouds,
The Banks of Heber, or Strimonian Floods;
The haughty Cranes round their known Leader swarm,
And their invincible Battallions form.
Pleas'd with the Sight, the Prelate rowl'd his Eyes,
Confess'd his new-born Joy, and strove to rise:
His Colour grows again, his Voice receives
Its ancient Tone, and the whole Man revives;
The lusty Gammon reassumes its Place,
He scans and blesses every friendly Face.
Then to the general Health a Goblet swills;
Each Man the great Example takes, and fills:
The [4]Cruise bled pure Vermillion Nectar round,
And the Desert their Entertainment crown'd.
And now the Orator prepares to speak;
He groans as if his mighty Heart would break.
Then in a Voice to his Misfortunes bent,
Thus in a proper Tone began his Plaint.
Illustrious Partners of my long Fatigues,
You sole Supporters of my Pious Leagues;
By whose Assistance I at last am made
Of a Mad Chapter the exalted Head.
To your incessant Services I own
All the rich Honours that imboss my Gown;
And can you unconcern'd with equal Eyes,
Behold my Rival, and confirm his Joys?
Must I, the Creature of your Wisdom, fall
A Sacrifice to that proud Chanting Baal?
Will you my Cause, and your own Right deny?
Can you and angry Heaven stand Neuter by?
(This Morn a sacred Vision I beheld;
A Deity these fatal Truths reveal'd.)
Yes, he has seiz'd the Fruits of all my Toil,
And insolently glories in the Spoil:
He Daily blesses the unhallow'd Croud,
Pronounces Benedicat Vos aloud.
Horror on Horror! who can speak the rest!
Turns my own pointed Weapons on my Breast.
Here Tears and Sighs his faltring Language break;
His Tears and Sighs too eloquently speak:
Redoubled Sobs stopt the respiring Breath;
His Visage darken'd, Choler strove with Death:
But Gilotin the fierce Attack withstood,
And a full Bowl repell'd the rising Blood.
When Sidrac came, Age lengthen'd out his Way,
(The languid Limbs confessing their Decay.)
Four Ages in this peaceful Choir he told;
Knew Men and Manners well, was Wise and Bold;
And this rare Knowledge did his Merit raise,
From Sexton to the Vestry-Keeper's Place.
He saw the sinking Prelate, guess'd his Grief,
And with paternal Care brought swift Relief.
Then thus the Reverend SirePrelate revive;
To the dull 'Chanter useless Sorrow give:
Arise, resume thy Spirits, and thy Power;
I will thy injur'd Empire's Rights restore:
Collect your Judgment, and attend with Care,
What Heaven and Heavenly Powers inspire me, Hear.
Where now that supercilious Chanter rears
His harden'd Front, that Source of all thy Cares,
In ancient Days a well known Desk of Wood,
Fram'd of unequal Structure firmly stood;
There in the Choir, on thy Left-Hand 'twas plac'd,
And its large Sides a spacious Shadow cast.
Behind this Work the humble Chanter sat
In an obscure Invisible Retreat:
When forward to the radiant Day alone,
Attracting every Eye the Prelate shone;
Whether some Dæmon, to the Desk a Foe,
Or Nightly Force combin'd its Overthrow;
Or was it Destiny's unerring Hand
That Pre-ordain'd it should no longer stand.
One fatal Morning with surprizing Noise,
The great Machine fell down before our Eyes:
In Vain we at the Angry Heav'ns repin'd;
'Twas to the Vestry in our Sight confin'd;
There thirty Winters hid from open Day,
Forgotten in Ignoble Dust it lay.
Hear Prelate then———When nightly Mists arise,
And veil in dim suffusion prying Eyes,
Let Three elected from this Friendly Rout,
And favour'd by the growing Night, steal out,
With ready Zeal the broken Mass rejoin,
And to its pristine Seat the Desk confine:
If in the Morn the Chanter dares destroy
Our glorious Work, and damp the general Joy,
Actions on Actions, Suits on Suits shall tell
The Church's Spirit, and her Servants Zeal:
Then Authoriz'd by Heaven you may engage;
This is a War worthy a Prelate's Rage:
Wou'd you to Prayer alone that Heart confine?
Let your great Soul in ardent Action shine;
Let a dull Country Vicar be content
With a long Life in lazy Preaching spent.
At Paris, Sir, You flourishThen prepare,
Be Obstinate, Vexatious, rouse to War;
Be Active, Restless, Vigilant and Proud;
This raises you above the Vulgar Croud;
From common Crape discriminates a Lord,
And is a Prelate's Charter on Record:
Then throw your Benedictions boldly round:
Let every Place your Benedictions sound.
Bless in the Chanter's Sight, and never cease,
With uplift Palms the very Chanter Bless.
This warm Oration the Assembly fir'd,
And every Soul with God-like Rage inspir'd:
The Prelate with uncommon Ardor mov'd,
In a loud Out-cry Sidrac's Speech approv'd;
Let then (said he) a careful Choice be made
Of Three, Three worthy this Design to head.
Each pleads his Merit to the great Command;
Each Worthy seems in this illustrious Band.
Let Destiny, the Prelate then reply'd,
Let Fortune by decisive Lots provide.
They write; Each hopes his own Immortal Name
Will rise the Foremost in this Scroll of Fame.
Full thirty Names into small Billets made,
Are in a Cap's round sinuous Bottom laid;
And that no Fraud may their great Hopes destroy
Of a just Choice, they call a Singing Boy:
Young William strait the great Design attends;
Blushing, his Artless Novice-hand he lends.
The Prelate with his naked Hands and Eyes
Thrice blesses all the Tickets; stirs 'em thrice:
The Infant draws: First Brontin's Name appear'd;
They all approve the Lot with due Regard:
The Prelate hop'd a lucky Augury,
And smiling wish'd the happy Brontin Joy.
When instantly the Name, that glorious Name
Lamour was drawn, belov'd by Gods and Fame;
The beauteous Barber, whose long flaxen Hair
Curl'd o'er his Shoulders, as Adonis fair;
Nor was bright Cyrtherea's lovely Boy
More the soft Goddess's Delight and Joy:
Than he of [5]Barberissa; much she lov'd,
Much he, and each the others Flame approv'd;
For they were chain'd three Years by Love alone,
Before they clapp'd the Marriage Shackles on.
His cringing Neighbours servilely submit
To this Fastidious Hero of the Street,
While his hot Courage flashes o'er his Face,
And in his Eyes destructive Comets blaze.
One undetermin'd Lot did yet remain;
The Prelate mingles, shakes 'em well again.
All crowd and watch the Draught with eager Haste,
Each hopes his own great Name may be the last.
Oh Boirude! how shall I thy Joys relate,
When in the Prelate's Eyes thou readst thy Fate,
And saw in them thy faithful Name appear?
Such Transports, Mighty Sexton, who cou'd bear?
Then thy pale Face which never blush'd before,
'Tis said, with flushing Blood was purpled o'er;
Thy Gouty Limbs resum'd their Youthful Heat,
And every Pulse with Martial Ardor beat!
Boldly thy feeble Corps attempted thrice,
As oft alas! in Vain essay'd to rise.
Fate has determin'd, and the joyful Croud,
With dreadful Shouts, confirm that Choice aloud.
Th' Assembly rises, with applauding Noise
They slide away, and murmur out their Joys,
Leaving the Prelate with Fatigue oppress'd,
'Till a full Supper calm'd his moody Breast,
And laid his Anger, and his Limbs, to Rest.
Errata