Regional punk fanzines were also prevalent indicating a robust and active music community. There were no new records at all for Flesh D-Vice in Typically he stopped cold.
The punk scene mover was now free to manage the up and coming hard rock band, Shihad, and later Head Like a Hole, and run his poster distribution business. After dropping Shihad off at the festival site, Gerald Dwyer left at 7. His girlfriend returned to their Grey Lynn motel room at about midnight and found him. Dwyer, one of the most respected men in the music industry died that evening of a morphine overdose. He was known to have experimented with drugs, the inquest heard.
Members of Shihad had once joked he was way more of a rock n roll animal than any of the band. At only thirty-five, it was a tragic loss.
Shihad drummer Tom Larkin recalled Gerald Dwyer approaching them early on and telling the group he knew what they wanted and how to get it. Murnui, March 30, Who could, ye gods! She taught the child to read, and taught so well, That she herself, by teaching, learned to spell. An adept next in penmanship she grows, As many a nameless slander deftly shows : "What she had made the pupil of her art, None know — but that high Soul secured the heart, And panted for the truth it could not hear, With longing breast and undeluded ear.
Poil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, Which Mattery fool'd not, Baseness could not blind, Deceit infect not, near Contagion soil, Indulgence weaken, nor Example spoil, Nor mastered Science tempt her to look down On humbler talents with a pitying frown, Nor Genius swell, nor Beauty render vain, Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain, Nor Fortune change, Pride raise, nor Passion bow, Nor Virtue teacli austerity — till now. Serenely purest of her sex that live, But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive, Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, She deems that all could be like her below : Poe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, Por Virtue pardons those she would amend.
But to the theme, now laid aside too long, The baleful burthen of this honest song, Though all her former functions are no more, She rules the circle which she served before. If mothers — none know why — before her quake ; If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake ; If early habits — those false links, which bind At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — Have given her power too deeply to instil The angry essence of her deadly will ; If like a snake she steal within your walls, Till the black slime betray her as she crawls; DOMESTIC PIECES.
Skill' d by a touch to deepen scandal's tints With all the kind mendacity of hints, While mingling truth with falsehood, snee'rs with smiles, A thread of candour with a web of wiles ; A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming ; A lip of lies ; a face form'd to conceal, And, without feeling, mock at all avIio feel : With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown, — A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone.
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale — For drawn from reptiles only may we trace Congenial colours in that soul or face — Look on her features!
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light Back on thy bosom with reflected blight! And make thee in thy leprosy of mind As loathsome to thyself as to mankind! Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, Black — as thy will for others would create : Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer, Look on thine earthly victims — and despair! Down to the dust! But for the love I bore, and still must bear, To her thy malice from all ties would tear — Thy name— r-thy human name — to every eye The climax of all scorn should hang on high, Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers — xVnd festering 2 in the infamy of years.
March 29, When all around grew drear and dark, And reason half withheld her ray — And hope but shed a dying spark Which more misled my lonely way ; In that deep midnight of the mind, And that internal strife of heart, "When dreading to be deem'd too kind, The weak despair — the cold depart ; 2 [In first draught — "weltering. In the mean time, I have put ' festering ;' which, perhaps, in any case is the best word of the two.
Shakspeare has it often, and I do not think it too strong for the figure in this thing. Murray, April 2. When fortune changed — and love fled far, And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star Which rose and set not to the last.
That watch' d me as a seraph's eye, And stood between me and the night, For ever shining sweetly nigh. And when the cloud upon us came, Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray Then purer spread its gentle flame, And dash'd the darkness all awav.
Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, That still unbroke, though gently bent, Still waves with fond fidelity Its boughs above a monument. The winds might rend — the skies might pour, But there thou wert — and still wouldst be Devoted in the stormiest hour To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
But thou and thine shall know no blight, Whatever fate on me may fall ; For heaven in sunshine will requite The kind— and thee the most of all. Then let the ties of baffled love Be broken — thine will never break ; Thy heart can feel — but will not move ; Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.
And these, when all was lost beside, Were found and still are fix'd in thee ;- And bearing still a breast so tried, Earth is no desert — ev'n to me. Then when nature around me is smiling, The last smile which answers to mine, I do not believe it beguiling, Because it reminds me of thine ; And when winds are at war with the ocean. As the breasts I believed in with me, If their billows excite an emotion, It is that they bear me from thee. There is many a pang to pursue me : They may crush, but they shall not contemn ; They may torture but shall not subdue me ; 'Tis of thee that I think — not of them.
Prom the wreck of the past, which hath perish' Thus much I at least may recall, It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd Deserved to be dearest of all : [Originally thus : — ' ' There is many a pang to pursue me, And many a peril to stem ; They may torture, but shall not subdue me ; They may crush, but they shall not contemn. In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : Go where I will, to me thou art the same — A loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny, — A world to roam through, and a home with thee. The first were nothing — had I still the last, It were the haven of my happiness ; But other claims and other ties thou hast, And mine is not the wish to make them less. A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; Reversed for him our grandsireV fate of yore, — He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.
Leigh should consent. She decided the other way, and the epistle was not printed till He was known to the sailors by the facetious name of "Foul-weather Jack. Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. My whole life was a contest, since the day That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray ; And I at times have found the struggle hard, And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay : But now I fain would for a time survive, If but to see what next can well arrive.
Kingdoms and empires in my little day I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; And when I look on this, the petty spray Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : Something — I know not what — does still uphold A spirit of slight patience ; — not in vain, Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.
Perhaps the workings of defiance stir Within me — or perhaps a cold despair, Brought on when ills habitually recur, — Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, For even to this may change of soul refer, And with light armour we may learn to bear, Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not The chief companion of a calmer lot. I feel almost at times as I have felt In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks, "Which do remember me of where I dwelt Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, Come as of yore upon me, and can melt My heart with recognition of their looks ; And even at moments 1 could think I see Some living thing to love — but none like thee.
Here are the Alpine landscapes which create A fund for contemplation ; — to admire Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; But something worthier do such scenes inspire : Here to be lonely is not desolate, Tor much I view which I could most desire, And, above all, a lake I can behold Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. Oh that thou wert but with me! I did remind thee of our own dear Lake, 1 By the old Hall which may be mine no more. Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; Though, like all things which I have loved, they are Resigned for ever, or divided far.
She was my early friend, and now shall be My sister — till I look again on thee. I can reduce all feelings but this one ; And that I would not; — for at length I see Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. With false Ambition what had I to do? Little with Love, and least of all with Fame ; And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, And made me all which they can make — a name.
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. But all is over — I am one the more To baffled millions which have c;one before. And for the future, this world's future may Prom me demand but little of my care ; I have outlived myself by many a day ; Having survived so many things that were ; My years have been no slumber, but the prey Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share Of life which might have fill'd a century, Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. And for the remnant which may be to come I am content ; and for the past I feel Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, And for the present, I would not benumb My feelings farther.
For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; We were and are — I am, even as thou art — Eeings who ne'er each other can resign ; It is the same, together or apart, From life's commencement to its slow decline We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, The tie which bound the first endures the last!
And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee ; And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near ; Methought that joy and health alone could be Where I Avas not — and pain and sorrow here! And is it thus? It is not in the storm nor in the strife We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more, But in the after-silence on the shore, When all is lost, except a little life.
I am too well avenged! Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep! The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better life Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, And found a nobler duty than to part. And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, The early truth, which was thy proper praise, Did not still walk beside thee — but at times, And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, Deceit, averments incompatible, Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell In Janus-spirits — the significant eye Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext Of prudence, with advantages annex' d — The acquiescence in all things which tend, 54 DOMESTIC PIECES.
No matter how, to the desired end — All found a place in thy philosophy. The means were worthy, and the end is won — I would not do by thee as thou hast done! On the contrary, he saw himself, ere any fact but the one undisguised and tangible one was or could be known, held up everywhere, and by every art of malice, as the most infamous of men, — because he had parted from his wife.
He was exquisitely sensitive : he was wounded at once by a thousand arrows ; and all this with the most perfect and indignant knowledge, that of all who were assailing him not one knew anything of the real merits of the case. Did he right, then, in publishing those squibs and tirades? No, certainly : it would have been nobler, better, wiser far, to have utterly scorned the assaults of such enemies, and taken no notice, of any kind, of them. But, because this young, hot-blooded, proud, patrician poet did not, amidst the exacerbation ot feelings which he could not control, act in precisely the most dignified and wisest of all possible manners of action, — are we entitled, is the world at large entitled, to issue a broad sentence of vituperative condemnation?
Do we know all that he had suffered? We tell him, in every possible form and shape, that the great and distinguishing merit of his poetry is the intense truth with which that poetry expresses his own personal feelings. We encourage him in every possible way to dissect his own heart for our entertain- ment — we tempt him by every bribe most likely to act powerfully on a young and imaginative man, to plunge into the darkest depths of self-knowledge ; to madden his brain with eternal self-scrutinies, to find his pride and his pleasure in what others shrink from as torture — we tempt him to indulge in these dangerous exercises, until they obviously acquire the power of leading him to the very brink of frenzy — we tempt him to find, and to see in this perilous vocation, the staple of his existence, the food of his ambition, the very essence of his glory, — and the moment that, by habits of our own creating, at least of our own encouraging and confirming, he is carried one single step beyond what we happen to approve of, we turn round with all the bitter- ness of spleen, and reproach him with the unmanliness of entertaining the public with his feelings in regard to his separation from his wife.
This was truly the conduct of a fail- and liberal public! To our view of the matter, Lord Byron, treated as he had been, tempted as he had been, and tortured and insulted as he was at the moment, did no more forfeit his character by writing what he did write upon that unhappy occasion, than another man, under circumstances of the same nature, would have done, by telling something of his mind about it to an intimate friend across the fire.
The public had forced him into the habits of familiarity, and they received his con- fidence with nothing but anger and scorn. When the last sunshine of expiring day In summer's twilight weeps itself away, Who hath not felt the softness of the hour Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes While Nature makes that melancholy pause, Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, Who hath not shared that calm, so still and deep, The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep, A holy concord, and a bright regret, A glorious sympathy with suns that set?
Sheridan died tlie 7th of July, 3, and this monody was written at Diodati on the 17th, at the request of Air. Douglas Kiunaird. Even as the tenderness that hour instils When Summer's day declines along the hills, So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes "When all of Genius which can perish dies.
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose hour Of light no likeness is bequeath' d — no name, Focus at once of all the rays of Fame! The flash of Wit, the bright Intelligence, The beam of Song, the blaze of Eloquence, Set with their Sun, but still have left behind The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; Eruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, A deathless part of him who died too soon.
But small that portion of the wondrous whole, These sparkling segments of that circling soul, Which all embraced, and lighten'' d over all, To cheer, to pierce, to please, or to appal. When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, His was the thunder, his the avenging rod, The wrath — the delegated voice of God! Which shook the nations through his lips, and blazed Till vanquished senates trembled as they praised.
But, however dazzling at the moment, his best speeches lost much of their effect upon a calm perusal. But should there be to whom the fatal blight Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone Jar in the music which was born their own, Still let them pause — ah!
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise ; Repose denies her requiem to his name, And Folly loves the martyrdom of Tame. The secret enemy whose sleepless eye Stands sentinel, accuser, judge, and spy.
The foe, the fool, the jealous, and the vain, The envious who but breathe in other's pain, Behold the host! These are his portion — but if joined to these Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, If the high Spirit must forget to soar, And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 3 To soothe Indignity — and face to face Meet sordid Rage, and wrestle with Disgrace, To find in Hope but the renewed caress, The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness : — 3 [This was not fiction.
Only a few days before his death, Sheridan wrote thus to Mr. Rogers : — "I am absolutely undone and broken-hearted. They are going to put the carpets out of window, and break into Mrs.
For God's sake let me see you! Moore was the immediate bearer of the required sum. Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from Heaven, Black with, the rude collision, inly torn, By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder — scorch, and burst.
But far from us and from our mimic scene Such things should be — if such have ever been ; Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, To give the tribute Glory need not ask, To mourn the vanished beam, and add our mite Of praise in payment of a long delight.
Ye Orators! The worthy rival of the wondrous Three! Ye Bards! He is the only one of them I ever wished to hear at greater length. Diary, He was superb! I have seen him cut up Whitbread, quiz Madame de Sjael, annihilate Colman, and do little less by some others of good fame and ability. I have met him at all places and parties, and always found him convivial and delightful.
He has written the best comedy School for Scandal , the best drama in my mind, far beyond that St. Giles's lampoon, the Beggars' Opera , the best farce the Critic, — it is only too good for a farce , and the best address Monologue on Garriek , and, to crown all, delivered the very best oration the famous Begum speech ever conceived or heard in this country. Diary, Dec. The misery of his marriage led him to revert to his early passion for Miss Chaworth, whose union had proved no happier than his own, and, amid many tears, he traced their respective fates in verse which is the rarest combination of historical simplicity with poetic beauty.
The attachment to Miss Chaworth began in his childhood, and reached its height in his sixteenth year, when he spent the summer holidays of at Nottingham, and was a constant guest at Annesley Hall. She was two years his senior at a period when the difference made her a woman, and left him a boy.
He had nothing beyond his rank to compensate for the disadvantage — his genius was not so much as in the bud, his beauty unde- veloped, his manners rough, and his temper ungovernable. The succeeding year he bade her farewell on the hill which is celebrated in "The Dream. Chaworth," — for her husband originally took her name, — and she answered "I hope so. In she was united to Mr. Musters, a gentleman of a noble appearance and of an ancient family.
There was no sympathy between their characters, and his conduct to her was reported to be harsh and capricious. He never relished Lord Byron's allusions to her, and after the publication of ' ' The Dream " he cut down the celebrated "diadem of trees" which grew on his estate.
His beautiful and accomplished bride became the victim of her cares, and she sunk into lunacy. In she closed her tragic life by a mournful death. A party of Nottingham rioters sacked Colwick Hall, and she and her daughter took refuge in the shrubbery, where her constitution received a fatal shock from the combined effects of cold and terror.
Lord Byron always kept the conviction that the lady of Annesley would have averted his destiny. In having called her in his Diary "my M. C," be suddenly exclaims, " Alas! Our union would have healed feuds in which blood had been shed by our fathers, — it would have joined lands broad and rich, it would have joined at least one heart, and two persons not ill-matched in years, and — and — and — what has been the result 1 " The consideration of his character leads us to think that the residt would not have been widely different if he had prospered in his suit ; and the romance that must always linger round the name of Miss Chaworth is probably none the less that it comes to us invested with the hues of imagination instead of the light of experience.
Stella, thither let us stray Lightly o'er the dewy way! Still she lights the conscious flame, is Still her charms appear the same ; If she strikes the vocal strings, If she 's silent, speaks, or sings, If she sit, or if she move, Still we love, and still approve.
Vain the casual transient glance, Which alone can please by chance 20 Beauty, which depends on art, Changing with the changing heart, Which demands the toilet's aid, Pendent gems, and rich brocade.
I those charms alone can prize Which from constant Nature rise, Which nor circumstance, nor dress, E'er can make, or more, or less. No more thus brooding o'er yon heap, With Avarice painful vigils keep ; Still unenjoy'd the present store, Still endless sighs are breathed for more.
To purchase Heaven, has gold the power? Cease, then, on trash thy hopes to bind, Let nobler views engage thy mind. I boast whatever for man was meant, In health, in Stella, and content ; And scorn, oh!
THIS tributary verse receive, my fair, Warm with an ardent lover's fondest prayer. May this returning day for ever find Thy form more lovely, more adorn'd thy mind ; All pains, all cares, may favouring Heaven remove, All but the sweet solicitudes of love! May powerful Nature join with grateful Art, To point each glance, and force it to the heart! Oh then, when conquered crowds confess thy sway, When even proud Wealth and prouder Wit obey, 10 My fair, be mindful of the mighty trust, Alas!
With his own form acquaint the forward fool, 15 Shown in the faithful glass of Ridicule ; Teach mimic Censure her own faults to find, No more let coquettes to themselves be blind, So shall Belinda's charms improve mankind.
I quit the gloomy plains, 10 Where sable Night in all her horror reigns ; No fragrant bowers, no delightful glades, Receive the unhappy ghosts of scornful maids. But cruel virgins meet severer fates ; Expell'd and exiled from the blissful seats, To dismal realms, and regions void of peace, 30 Where furies ever howl, and serpents hiss, O'er the sad plains perpetual tempests sigh, And poisonous vapours, blackening all the sky, "With livid hue the fairest face o'ercast, And every beauty withers at the blast : Where'er they fly, their lovers' ghosts pursue, Inflicting all those ills which once they knew ; Vexation, fury, jealousy, despair, Vex every eye, and every bosom tear ; Their foul deformities by all descried, 40 No maid to flatter, and no paint to hide.
Then melt, ye fair, while crowds around you sigh, Nor let disdain sit lowering in your eye ; With pity soften every awful grace, And beauty smile auspicious in each face ; To ease their pain exert your milder power ; So shall you guiltless reign, and all mankind adore.
Then dances jocund o'er the watery way, 5 While the breeze whispers, and the streamers play : Unbounded prospects in his bosom roll, And future millions lift his rising soul ; In blissful dreams he digs the golden mine, And raptured sees the new-found ruby shine. So the young author, panting after fame, And the long honours of a lasting name, Intrusts his happiness to human kind, More false, more cruel than the seas or wind!
And let the tortures of mistrust On selfish bosoms only prey. Only dirt, or wet, or dry. Oh, just beheld, and lost! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd, Blest in each science, blest in every strain, Dear to the Muse, to Harley dear in vain!
For him, thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend ; For Swift and him, despised the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great ; Dexterous the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleased to 'scape from flattery to wit.
Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear, A sigh the absent claims the dead, a tear Recall those nights that closed thy toilsome days, Still hear thy Parnell in his living la 7 s : Who careless, now, of interest, fame, or fate, Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great ; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall. And sure if ought below the seats divine Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine : A soul supreme, in each hard instance triecl, Above all pain, all anger, and all pride, The rage of power, the blast of public breath, The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deserts thy retreat is made ; The Muse attends thee to the silent shade : 'Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace, Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace. When Interest calls off all her sneaking train, When all the obliged desert, and all the vain, She waits ; or, to the scaffold, or the cell, When the last lingering friend has bid farewell.
Even now she shades thy evening walk with bays, No hireling she, no prostitute to praise Even now, observant of the parting ray, Eyes the calm sunset of thy various day, Through fortune's cloud one truly great can see, Nor fears to tell that MORTIMER is he.
Septemler 25, Bowles, Churchill, and Parnell were all clergymen, and all poets ; but in other respects differed materially from each other. In Bowles, the clerical and the poetical characters were on the whole well attuned and harmonised. In Churchill, they came to an open rupture. In Parnell, they were neither ruptured nor reconciled, but maintained an am biguous relation, till his premature death settled the moot point for ever.
The life of this poet has been written by Goldsmith, by Johnson, by the Rev. John Mitford, and others ; but, after all, very little is known about him. Thomas Parnell was the descendant of an ancient family, which had been settled for some hundreds of years at Congleton, Cheshire. His father, whose name also was Thomas, took the side of the Common wealth, and at the Restoration went over to Ireland, where he purchased a considerable property. This, along with his estate in Cheshire, devolved to the poet.
His father had a second son, John, whose descendants were created baronets. The late Sir Henry Parnell, for some years the respected member of Parliament for the town of Dundee, where we now write, was the great-great-grandson of the poet's father. Parnell was born in Dublin, in the year He was sent to a school taught by one Dr Jones. It is a proof of the prematurity of his powers, that he entered Trinity College, Dublin, at the age ; of thirteen, where his compositions attracted attention from, the extent of classical lore which they discovered.
He took the degree of M. Three years after, he was j ordained priest; and in , he was made Archdeacon of] Clogher, by Sir George Ashe, bishop of that see.
So soon as he received the archdeanery, he married Miss Ann Minchin, who is described as a young lady of great beauty, and of an amiable character, by whom he had two sons, who died young, and a daughter, who long survived both her parents. Up to the triumph of the Tories, at the end of Queen Anne's reign, Parnell appears to have been, like his father, a keen Whig. He was at that time, however, induced, for motives which his biographers call obscure, but which to us seem obvious enough, on the well-known principle of the popu larity of the rising sun, to change his party ; and he was hailed by the Tories as a valuable accession to their ranks.
This proves that his talents were even then known; a fact corrobor ated by Johnson's statement, that while he was waiting in the outer-room at Lord Oxford's levee, the prime minister, when told he was there, went out, at the persuasion of Swift, with his treasurer's staff in his hand, and saluted him in the most flattering manner. He became, either before or immediately after this, intimate with Pope, Swift, Gay, and the rest of that brilliant set, who all appear to have loved him for his social qualities, to have admired his genius, and to have pitied his infirmities.
He was a member of the Scriblerus Club, and contributed some trifles to their transactions. He was, at the same time, intimate with Addison and Steele, and wrote a few papers in the " Spectator. He gratified Pope's malicious spirit still more by writing, under the guise of a " Life of Zoilus," a bitter attack on Dennis the great object of the poet's fear and mortal abhorrence.
For these and other services, Pope rewarded him, after his usual manner, with large offerings of that sweet and suffocating incense, by which he delighted, now to gain his enemies, and now to gratify his friends. With Gay, also, Parnell was intimate; and the latter, himself independent by his fortune, is said to have bestowed on this needy and improvident genius the price of the copyright of his works.
Pamell first visited London in ; and from that period till his death, scarcely a year elapsed without his spending some time in the metropolis. He seems to have had as intense a relish of London life as Johnson and Boswell ex hibited in the next age. So soon as he had collected his rents, he hied to the capital, and there enjoyed himself to the top of his bent. He jested with the Scriblerus Club.
He quaffed now and then with Lord Oxford. He varied his round of amusements by occasional professional exhibitions in the pulpits of Southwark and elsewhere, made, we fear, more from a desire to display himself, than to benefit his hearers. Still his sermons were popular; and he entertained at one time the hope, a hope blasted by the death of Queen Anne, of being preferred to a city charge.
So soon as each London furlough was expired, he returned to Ireland, jaded and dispirited, and there took delight in nursing his melancholy ; in pining for the amusements of the metropolis ; in shunning and sneering at the society around him ; and in abusing his native bogs and his fellow-countrymen in verse. This was not manly, far less Christian conduct. He ought to have drowned his recollections of London in active duty, or in diligent study ; and if he found society coarse or corrupt, he should have set himself to refine and to purify it.
But he seems to have been a lazy, luxurious person his life a round of selfish rapture and selfish anguish, in fact, ruined by his independent fortune. Had he been a poorer, he had probably been a happier man. He was not, moreover, of that self-contained cast of character, which can live on its own resources, create its own world, and say, " My mind to me a kingdom is. This blow deepened his melancholy, and drove him, it is said, to an excessive and habitual use of wine.
In the same year we find him in London, brought out once more under the " special patronage " of Dean Swift, who had quite a penchant for Parnell, and who wished, through his side, to mortify certain persons in Ireland, who did not appreciate, he says, the Archdeacon ; and who, we suspect, besides, did not thoroughly appreciate the Dean.
Swift, partly in pity for the " poor lad," as he calls him, whom he saw to be in such imminent danger of losing caste and char acter, and partly in the true patronising spirit, introduced Parnell to Lord Bolingbroke, who received him kindly, enter tained him at dinner, and encouraged him in his poetical studies.
The con sequences of dissipation began, at this time, too, to appear in Parriell's constitution ; and we find Swift saying of him, " His head is out of order, like mine, but more constant, poor boy.
Yet Swift continued his friend, and it was at his instance that, in , Archbishop King presented Parnell with a prebend. In , his hope of London promotion died with Queen Anne; but in , the same generous Archbishop bestowed on him the vicarage of Finglass, in the diocese of Dublin, worth a-year. His estates passed to his nephew, Sir John Parnell. He had, in the course of his life, composed a great deal of poetry ; much of it, indeed, invita Minerva. After his death, Pope collected the best pieces, and published them, with a dedica tion to Lord Oxford.
Goldsmith, in his edition, added two or three ; and other editors, a good many poems, of which we have only inserted one, deeming the rest unworthy of his memory.
Parnell, containing poems moral and divine. Johnson says of them, " I know not whence they came, nor have ever inquired whither they are going. We trust that he will long and religiously refrain from disturbing their MS. The whole tenor of Parnell's history convinces us that he was an easy-tempered, kind-hearted, yet querulous and self-indul gent man, who had no higher motive or object than to gratify himself.
His very ambition aspired not to very lofty altitudes. His utmost wish was to attain a metropolitan pulpit, where he could have added the reputation of a popular preacher to that of being the prottge of Swift, and the pet of the Scriblerus Club. The character of his poetry is in keeping with the temperament of the man. It is slipshod, easy, and pleasing. If the distinguishing quality of poetiy be to give pleasure, then Parnell is a poet.
You never thrill under his power, but you read him with a quiet, constant, subdued gratification. If never eminently original, he has the art of enunciating common places with felicity and grace. The stories he relates are almost all old, but his manner of telling them is new. His thoughts and images are mostly selected from his common place book ; but he utters them with such a natural ease of manner, that you are tempted to think them his own.
He knows the compass of his poetical powers, and never attempts anything very lofty or arduous. His "Hymn to Contentment" is animated, as the subject required, by a kind of sober rap ture. His " Faery Tale " is a good imitation of that old style of composition. His " Hesiod " catches the classical tone and spirit with considerable success.
His " Flies," and " Elegy to the Old Beauty," are ingenious trifles. His " Nightpiece on Death " has fine touches, but is slight for such a theme, and must not be named beside Blair's " Grave," and Gray's " Elegy written in a Country Churchyard. By far his most popular poem is the " Hermit. Of course, the story not being Parnell's, it is not his fault that it casts no light upon the dread problems of Providence it professed to explain.
But the incidents are recorded with ease and liveli ness ; the characters are rapidly depicted, and strikingly con trasted ; and many touches of true poetry occur. How vivic this couplet, for instance " Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, And half he welcomes in the shivering pair! The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, And moves in all the majesty of light.
WHAT ancient times, those times we fancy wise, Have left on long record of woman's rise, What morals teach it, and what fables hide, What author wrote it, how that author died, All these I sing, In Greece they framed the tale ; In Greece, 'twas thought a woman might be frail ; Ye modern beauties! In days of yore, no matter where or when, 'Twas ere the low creation swarm'd with men, That one Prometheus, sprung of heavenly birth Our author's song can witness , lived on earth.
He carved the turf to mould a manly frame, And stole from Jove his animating flame. Enjoy thy glory past, that gift was thine ; The next thy creature meets, be fairly mine : And such a gift, a vengeance so designed, As suits the counsel of a God to find ; A pleasing bosom cheatp a specious ill, Which, felt, they curse, yet covet still to feel. Minerva, skilful goddess, train'd the maid To twirl the spindle by the twisting thread, To fix the loom, instruct the reeds to part, Cross the long weft, and close the web with art : An useful gift ; but what profuse expense, What world of fashions, took its rise from hence!
Young Hermes next, a close-contriving god, Her brows encircled with his serpent rod ; 70 Then plots, and fair excuses, fill'd her brain, The views of breaking amorous vows for gain, The price of favours, the designing arts That aim at riches in contempt of hearts ; And for a comfort in the marriage life, The little, pilfering temper of a wife. Full on the fair his beams Apollo flung, And fond persuasion tipp'd her easy tongue ; He gave her words, where oily flattery lays The pleasing colours of the art of praise ; so And wit, to scandal exquisitely prone, Which frets another's spleen to cure its own.
Those sacred virgins whom the bards revere, Tuned all her voice, and shed a sweetness there, To make her sense with double charms abound, Or make her lively nonsense please by sound.
Then spread those implements that Vulcan's art 91 Had framed to merit Cytherea's heart ; The wire to curl, the close-indented comb, To call the locks that lightly wander, home ; And chief, the mirror, where the ravish'd maid Beholds and loves her own reflected shade. Fair Flora lent her stores, the purpled hours Confined her tresses with a wreath of flowers ; Within the wreath arose a radiant crown ; A veil pellucid hung depending down ; Back roll'd her azure veil with serpent fold, The purfled border deck'd the flower with gold.
Her robe which, closely by the girdle braced, Reveal'd the beauties of a slender waist Flow'd to the feet ; to copy Venus' air, When Venus' statues have a robe to wear. The new-sprung creature finish'd thus for harms, Adjusts her habit, practises her charms. A finer flax than what they wrought before, Through Time's deep cave the sister Fates explore, Then fix the loom, their fingers nimbly weave, And thus their toil prophetic songs deceive : 'Flow from the rock, my flax!
A creature fond and changing, fair and vain, The creature Woman, rises now to reign. Yet here and there we grant a gentle bride, Whose temper betters by the father's side ; Unlike the rest, that double human care, Fond to relieve, or resolute to share : HO Happy the man whom thus his stars advance!
Her gay descent the man perceived afar, Wondering he ran to catch the falling star ; But so surprised, as uone but he can tell, Who loved so quickly, and who loved so well. O'er all his veins the wandering passion burns, He calls her nymph, and every nymph by turns.
Her form to lovely Venus he prefers, Or swears that Venus must be such as hers. She, proud to rule, yet strangely framed to tease, Neglects his offers while her airs she plays, Shoots scornful glances from the bended frown, In brisk disorder trips it up and down, Then hums a careless tune to lay the storm, And sits and blushes, smiles, and yields in form.
Unhappy man! The winds were silent, all the waves asleep, And heaven was traced upon the flattering deep ; But whilst he looks, unmindful of a storm, And thinks the water wears a stable form, What dreadful din around his ears shall rise! What frowns confuse his picture of the skies! For him the Nymphs in green forsook the woods, For him the Nymphs in blue forsook the floods ; In vain the Satyrs rage, the Tritons rave ; They bore him heroes in the secret cave. No care destroyed, no sick disorder prey'd, No bending age his sprightly form decayed, No wars were known, no females heard to rage, And poets tell us, 'twas a golden age.
The days of whining, and of wild intrigues, Commenced, or finished, with the breach of leagues ; The mean designs of well-dissembled love ; The sordid matches never join'd above ; Abroad, the labour, and at home the noise, Man's double sufferings for domestic joys The curse of jealousy; expense, and strife ; Divorce, the public brand of shameful life ; The rival's sword ; the qualm that takes the fair ; Disdain for passion, passion in despair These, and a thousand yet unnamed, we find ; Ah, fear the thousand yet unnamed behind!
Ye fair offended, hear your friend relate What heavy judgment proved the writer's fate, Though when it happened, no relation clears ; 'Tis thought in five, or five and twenty years.
A Locrian youth, the gentle Troilus he, A fair Milesian, kind Evanthe she : But swelling Nature, in a fatal hour, Betray'd the secrets of the conscious bower ; The dire disgrace her brothers count their own, And track her steps, to make its author known. I'm Not Lisa Jesse Colter Conquistador Procol Harum Cinnamon Girl Neil Young Sweet Home Alabama Lynyrd Skynyrd I Saw the Light Hank Williams Unbelievable EMF Nasty Janet Jackson When the Levee Breaks Led Zeppelin Disco Inferno Trammps The first time I saw Killdozer, '88 or '89 at Khyber Pass in Philly, they did American Pie , and in the middle of the song Michael Gerald leans over the audience and drops a big stringy loogie over some girl's head then sucks it back up at the last second!
Better than what happened to my friend Jesse at a Cows show: the bassist hocked a big loogie right onto his cheek. The next time I saw them, also at Khyber, '94, they opened with Unbelievable. The mic stand was set like eight feet high with a step ladder to it so Micheal would step on and off to sing his lines! Even then it was high, so he had to do the Lemmy-thing where you crane your throat up and open to it.
F-ing hilarious! More vids I shot on my profile page! Or just click on something at the end of this vid Posted by Peter at PM 11 comments:. Newer Posts Older Posts Home. Subscribe to: Posts Atom. Blogs With Cool Shit. A Dashing Blade. Allegory of Allergies. America Salutes the Carter Family. It's done! Anthems from the Alleyways. Discharge Megapost 9 years ago. Audiobook Corner. Awesome Tapes from Africa. Biannual Haircut. Big Blood.
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Beastwars - IV 1 year ago. Sonora Aurora. Sons of the Dolls. Tampoco Manuel. Neither did Manuel. Most of Victor Jara's songs are like Te Recuerdo Amanda in that they are concerned with justice and the people who struggle for justice. Most promote progressive change. And most evince compassion for workers and the poor. The song makes fun of those who sympathized with Allende but refused to actively support him. A rough translation of the excerpted lyrics above is: Come closer.. You, you are nothing..
You're neither hard cider nor lemonade.. His only weapon in the struggle for justice was his guitar. His brutal murder therefore is seen by many as emblematic of the lengths the U.
The military junta in Chile was not out just to kill a man. Rather, acting as an agent of the Nixon White house and the most reactionary force within Chile, it was out to kill the idea that democratic socialism was a possibility.
But as the popular progressive singer, actress and songwriter Holly Near points out in her song entitled It Could Have Been Me it failed: The junta broke the fingers on Victor Jara's hands They said to the gentle poet "play your guitar now if you can" Victor started singing but they brought his body down You can kill that man but not his song When it's sung the whole world round.
It could have been me, but instead it was you So I'll keep doing the work you were doing as if I were two I'll be a student of life, a singer of songs A farmer of food and a righter of wrong It could have been me, but instead it was you And it may be me dear sisters and brother Before we are through But if you can sing for freedom Freedom, freedom, freedom If you can sing for freedom I can too That, of course, is the sentiment echoed at political rallies and other events when someone yells, "Victor Jara!
Those interested in familiarizing themselves with the history of the U. Navia's account of the singer's final hour can be found on numerous web sites. Victor raised his head but did not respond. Then as Victor reached for the cigarette butt the officer stomped on his hand. However, since Navia was not with Victor when the incident he describes took place his story is based on hearsay.
Nevertheless, given the manner in which Victor was treated from the moment he arrived at the stadium it would not be surprising if at some point an incident similar to the one described by Navia actually did take place. That certainly would be consistent with Joan Jara's report that when she saw Victor's body in the morgue in Santiago: "His eyes were open and they seemed still to look ahead with intensity and defiance, in spite of a wound on his head and terrible bruises on his cheek.
His clothes were torn, trousers round his ankles, sweater rucked up under his armpits, his blue underpants hanging in tatters round his hips as though cut by a knife or bayonet…his chest riddled with holes and a gaping wound in his abdomen. His hands seemed to be hanging from his arms at a strange angle as though his wrists were broken. Pete Seeger set it to music. Joan Jara, Op. See footnote 4 for Joan Jara's description of the condition of Victor's body when she saw it in the morgue.
Found on the web at: www. In his wife and five sons were arrested on related charges. This question is similar to questions that South Africa, Cambodia, Rwanda and many other countries are confronted with today. Joan Jara, Ob. On you tube you can listen to Mercedes Sosa singing the lullaby. Posted by Peter at PM 1 comment:. Wednesday, August 20, Lydia Lunch - " While I'm on LL here's another hard-to-find one.
It even took them ages to re-release Gun Club's "Fire of Love", a bona-fide classic. And when they did it was with a neutered cover from their art department flunkies. God it was awful: 2-tone baby shit colored with zig-zag triangles on the bottom FIRE get it? Fucking stupid. At least when they put it out on CD they restored the voodoo cover. But this ain't a Gun Club post, it's about Lydia and her howling stomping lumbering caterwauling album that is This was pretty radical sounding in '82 and paved the way for the even more awesome sound of Swans.
Anyway, it's not a great album, but I like it. Just can't listen to it every day, like "Queen of Siam". Stares to Nowhere This Side of Nowhere Snakepit Breakdown Dance of the Dead Children Suicide Ocean Lock Your Door Afraid of Your Company.
I first saw them at in DC in the early 90's while visiting a friend and just going to the club as a tourist attraction. They verily blew me away, the band jumping and whirling around creating a cacophonous din for the singer's angelic vocals to soar incongruously above.
Though they never quite disappointed on subsequent shows I saw, they were never as awesome again. Maybe it was the shock of seeing a band out of the blue and being blown away. Anyway, they were a cool band and this is a great single; the A-side especially which I like better than New Order's original.
Your Silent Face You're So Good To Me. OK, here's the second TM post I promised. This is a bit rawer than "Chartreuse Toulouse" and features their monstrous cover of Whole Lotta Love. They totally do it justice which is no big thing in my opinion really cos I've never liked Led Zeppelin much. She's a Ho Fist of the Fleet Hardcore Bigot Scum Get Stabbed I Say The Hat Whole Lotta Love Mr Cheese The Sheriff of Weed Ok Baby Ok Freddy Safeway Potato Wine Sexy Money Monkey Boy The Part Time Christians post got me thinking of another classic on Alternative Tentacles that's been lost to oblivion; this one.
On RateYourMusic there's a horrendously bad photo of the cover, as well as incorrect info in the comments identifying the singer alternately as Flatula or Fistula. If you have any useless trivia to add, please do so in the comments. All I know about 'em is that Flagella was a big girl, they had a tuba in the band, were from Frisco and they rocked balls. I have another release that's a comp of their first 2 records I'll post later this weekend cos it's fucking great as well.
This record, featuring a green Toulouse Lautrec on the cover and here I'll go off on a tangent and recommend you rent John Houston's 50's film "Moulin Rouge" which is great for Jose Ferrer playing the drunk with the little legs by walking on his knees and for the wicked Parisian prostitutes cruelly abusing him It's considerably more restrained and, um, tuneful than their earlier work.
This is their last album and is a fine note to go out on. It opens with a great Slade! Nice, clean for a change vinyl rip HERE. I Don't Mind Stinking Corpse Lily Debbie My Mother Rhythm of Barcelona Bathroom at Amelia's Scabs on Lori's Arm Farm Man With a Tan Posted by Peter at PM 8 comments:. Very hard to find anywhere these days. This was a 45rpm 12" mini-album, half of which concerns Hysterically so. As a reaction reaction to all the skate punk releases at the time, PTC came up with a great tongue-in-cheek alternative.
I loved all this back then cos all that skate-this-skate-that shit was boring me to tears, much as I loved JFA. At least they had a sense of humor as well as chops. But most of those bands were, to me, hopelessly earnest. And this isn't straight edge tedious hardcore, but screaming, screeching loud-ass Rock with a capital R. My favorite off the bowling-tip here is Bonique , with the line "Every time I phone her, I pop a big huge boner".
Something I think we can all relate to, haha. Religion On A Stick Bonique Case Strength Thru Bowling Bowling Pin Massacre Orthopedic Bowling Shoes Gutterball Salisbury House. Labels: Alternative Tentacles. Thursday, August 14, The Jam - "Live! EP" Here's a quick little one since I just realized it's been several days since I've posted.
Busy, busy, time flies Worked, too, as you can see. I remember I tagged this onto a C of that album for my cruising-around wasting-gas listening pleasure, and as that record was culled from different performances throughout their career, it flowed more-or-less seamlessly.
Since then, Move On Up has appeared on a posthumous live album, but the other three songs are unavailable live elsewhere. Nice cover, too! Move On Up Get Yourself Together The Great Depression Newer Posts Older Posts Home. Subscribe to: Posts Atom. Blogs With Cool Shit. A Dashing Blade. Allegory of Allergies. America Salutes the Carter Family. It's done! Anthems from the Alleyways. Discharge Megapost 9 years ago. Audiobook Corner. Awesome Tapes from Africa.
Biannual Haircut. Big Blood. Bleeding Panda. Bravo Juju. Bruunski Beats. Buffalo Tones. Jonn Serrie - Sunday Morning Peace 2 months ago.
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Experimental etc. Goodbye - Hei vain 8 years ago. FM Shades. France Musik. Freedom Has No Bounds. Three Foot Acid 2 days ago. From The Garage. Fruitier Than Thou. Glowing Raw. Andy Stott - Luxury Problems 7 years ago. Hangover Heartattack.
Happy New Wave. Higher Than The Sun. Hot Sauce Lounge. I Love Total Destruction. Upcoming Nostalgium Directive Release preview: Nostalgist 5 years ago. Japan Underground. Empress Michiko celebrates 80th birthday 5 years ago.
Kick to Kill. Folk horror 3 years ago. Kogar's Jungle Juice. Let's Go Down in the Congo!Sep 28, · Flesh D-Vice – Flaming Soul () The Warners – Night Of The Iguana () Sticky Filth – Maybe A Lover () This album also features The Moles' fiercest rocker, When the Levee Breaks (Led Zeppelin) Aquarius/Let the Sun Sine In (from the Broadway musical "Hair").