The Irish Poet and the Natural World: An Anthology of Verse in English from the Tudors to the Romantics

Matthew Pilkington (1701–1731–1774)

171 ‘The subject of my labour a small one …’ Virgil, Georgics IV, 6. This section of the 1 Georgics is about bees. Zephyr was the west wind in classical mythology. 2 MATTHEW PILKINGTON (1701–1731–1774) The diminutive Matthew Pilkington is better known today as the estranged husband of the fast-living poet Laetitia Pilkington than for his own substantial accomplishments as classical scholar, poet and art historian. He was born in County Offaly and, after graduating from Trinity College, was ordained into the Church of Ireland and married Laetitia in 1725. The Pilkingtons were aspiring poets and early in their married life were valued members of the circle surrounding Dean Swift – a circle which included Mary Barber, Constantia Grierson and Patrick Delany. Within a few years, however, Matthew offended both Swift and Pope, and when he and Laetitia involved themselves in a very public and very acrimonious divorce, fashionable society shunned them both. Laetitia went on to compose a risqué three-volume memoir while Matthew redeemed himself by writing what became the standard work on the lives of the world’s painters, The Gentleman’s and Connoisseur’s Dictionary of Painters (1770). He was also a poet of considerable skill as his Poems on Several Occasions (1731) demonstrates. The Bee In tenui Labor. Virg.1 To yonder newly-open’d Rose, Whose Leaves the Morning’s Blush disclose, How swift that prudent Insect flies, Who oft in Beds of Fragrance lies; And now the dewy Drop devours That soft Impearls the blowing Flow’rs! He now on Wings of Zephyrs2 rides, Then, smooth in airy Circles glides, And tastes whatever Nature yields In fragrant Gardens, Groves or Fields. 10 That Vi’let Bank—, how sweet it smells! How long on ev’ry Bloom he dwells—! The Primrose now he makes his Prey, And steals the Cowslip’s Sweets away. Cease —, artful Plund’rer —, spoil no more These Blossoms of their balmy Store, 172 Which Nature taught them to produce, For nobler Man’s Delight and Use: Nay —, rather Plunder — since we find No Traces of the Theft behind. 20 But now, why nimbly do’st thou rise, And lightly Skim before my Eyes? And why thy Tender Pinions spread, To humm, and wanton round my Head? What swells thy little Heart to Rage? Rash Fool! what prompts thee to engage With Man, so far surpassing thee? Why do’st thou whet thy Sting at me? When thou in Woodbine3 Bow’rs did’st play, Or in the Rose embosom’d lay, 30 Or thro’ the scented Allys flew Where Vi’lets breathed, or Lillies grew, Did I thy harmless Joys molest? Did I with Terror fill thy Breast? Did e’er I chace thee round the Bow’r For sweets, the Spoils of many a Flow’r? And wilt thou, vain, ungrateful Thing! At me direct thy poison’d Sting? Fly hence—to lonely Desarts fly—, And wilt thou still persist—, then die—. 40 And now, thy silken Wings I seize, These silken Wings no more shall teize, Nor shall they, smooth, thy Body bear Along the Bosom of the Air; But thus—, torn off—, thro’ Tempests go, The Sport of all the Winds that blow: And next, thy Head shall cease to cleave To thee, so indiscreetly brave: The Sting, that wont to give us Pain, I thus —, for ever render vain, 50 And thou a nameless Carcase art, honeysuckle. 3 173 Matthew Pilkington Despoil’d of ev’ry harmful Part. ’Tis done —, and now methinks I find Compassion working in my Mind; A tender Pity swells my Breast, Too late, alas! to thee exprest: These Eyes, which Death’s cold Hand hath seal’d, How dim they seem! with Darkness veil’d! These Limbs, which knew to form so well, With curious Art the waxen Cell, 60 And there reserve its Treasures rare, That might with Hybla4 Sweets compare, Now stiff —, there, piteous Object, lie, O Life! How swiftly do’st thou fly! A Moment since, and thou coud’st Rove Thro’ Orchard, Meadow, Lawn, or Grove, Delighted in the Sunshine play, And Float along the lucid Ray; Or skim the dimply Stream, and roam Far distant from thy Straw-built Home; 70 Yet now thy little Spirit’s fled, And thou art number’d with the Dead; Alas! how small a space supplies The Insect, and the King that dies! By so severe, so...