THE

DESCRIPTION

OF

BATH

A POEM

HUMBLY INSCRIBED

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCESS AMELIA.

WITH SEVERAL OTHER POEMS.

By Mrs. MARY CHANDLER.

THE EIGHTH EDITION.

To which is added,

A TRUE TALE, by the same Author.

LONDON:

Printed for HENRY LEAKE, Bookseller in Bath;

And Sold by Messieurs HAWES, CLARKE, and

COLLINS, Booksellers in London.

MDCCLXVII.

​

A Description of Bath.

Humbly Inscribed to Her Royal Highness

the Princess Amelia.

 

Amelia, beauteous Princess, deign to view

What the muse sings: to you the song is due;

To you, in whom with joy we see combin’d

True royal greatness, and humble mind.

Deign you, bright maid, to hear my artless lays;

You’ll awe the snarling critics into praise.

If goodness can this bold address forgive,

Nurs’d by your smiles, my humble rhymes shall live.

​

To sing the town, where balmy waters flow,

To which Ameilia’s health the nations owe,

My muse aspires; while conscious blushes rise,

And her weak pinions tremble, ere she flies;

Till, drawing vigour from those living springs,

She dares to raise her voice, and stretch her wings.

Not the fam’d springs, which gave poetic fire,

Had nobler virtues, or could more inspire.

Too weak my voice; but great Amelia’s name

Shall raise my numbers, and defend my fame.

 

Long ere the Roman eagle hither flew,

Ere Albion’s sons their pow’rful virtues knew;

Brute’s great descendant rais’d them first to fame.

And, from their use, assign’d the town its name.

Pallas he chose protectress of the streams;

Pallas the city her protectress claims.

Thus he, who of man’s fall divinely sings,

Tells from old records, wrote of Gothic kings.

The Romans well this ancient story knew;

Minerva’s statues their devotion drew:

Of curious art her noble bust appears,

Safe from the ruin of a thousand years.

These salutary streams alone can boast

Their virtues not in thrice five ages lost.

The floating waters from their hidden source,

Thro’ the fame strata keeping unerring course;

The flowing sulphur meets dissolving steel,

And heat in combat till the waters boil:

United then, enrich the healing stream;

Health to the sick they give, and to the waters, fame.

 

Thus oft contending parties rage and hate,

Malignant both, and push each other’s fate;

At last, their fury spent, and cloy’d with blood,

They join in friendship for the public good.

 

Hither foul scurvy, odious to the sight;

And vapours, which, in ev’ry form, affright.

Sharp colic, groaning with a jaundice face;

White leprosy, of old Egyptian race;

The shaking palsy; rheumatism lame;

And meagre indigestion pining came;                       

With many dreadful ails, without a name.

​

Fatal effects of luxury and ease!

We drink our poison, and we eat disease;

Indulge our senses at our reason’s cost,

Till sense is pain, and reason’s hurt, or lost.

 

Not so, o temp’rance bland! When rul’d by thee,

The brute’s obedient, and the man is free:

Soft are his slumbers, balmy is his rest,

His veins not boiling from the midnight feast;

Touched by Aurora’s rosy hand, he wakes,

Peaceful and calm; and with the world partakes

The joyful dawnings of returning day;

For which their grateful thanks thanks the whole creation pay!

All but the human brute: ‘tis he alone

Whose deeds of darkness fly the rising sun.

 

‘Tis to thy rules, o temperance! We owe

All pleasures which from health and strength can flow:

Vigour of body, purity of mind,

Unclouded reason, sentiments refin’d,

Unmix’d, untainted joys, without remorse,

Th' intemp’rate sinner’s never-failing curse.

 

Our waters wash those num’rous ills away,

And grant the trembling wretch a longer day.

O may returning health more wisdom give!

Let death’s approaches teach us how to live.

 

If but one leper cur’d, makes Jordan’s stream

In sacred writ, a venerable theme,

What honour’s to thy sov’reign waters due,

Where sick, by thousands, do their health renew ?

 

The min’ral steams which from the baths arise,

From noxious vapours clear the neighb’ring skies:

When fevers bore an epidemic sway,

Unpeopled towns, swept villages away;

While death abroad dealt terror and despair,

The plague but gently touch’d within their sphere.

 

Blest source of health seated on rising ground,

With friendly hills by nature guarded round;

From eastern blasts, and sultry south secure;

The air’s balsamic, and the soil is pure.

​

What boundless prospects from yon tow’ring height

Of hills, and plains, and valleys, strike the sight!

Towns, rivers, villas, flocks, and herds appear,

And all the various products of the year.

Thence view the pendant rock’s majestic shade,

That speaks the ruins conqu’ring time has made:

Whether the egg was by the deluge broke,

Or nature since has felt some other shock;

Ingenious Burnet, thine’s a pleasing scheme,

A gay delusion, if it be a dream.

The shatter’d rocks and strata seem to say,

Nature is old, and tends to her decay:

Yet lovely in decay, and green in age,

Her beauty lasts her, to her latest stage.

Wisdom immense contriv’d the wond’rous ball,

And form sprung forth, obedient to his call.

He fix’d her date, and bade the planet run

Her annual race around the central sun:

He bade the seasons, days, and nights return,

Till the pent fires, which at the centre burn,

Shall the whole globe to one huge cinder turn.

Then, like a phoenix, she again shall rise,

And the new world be peopled from the skies;

Then vice, and all her train of ills shall cease,

And truth shall reign with righteousness and peace.

 

Surrounded by the Avon’s winding streams,

Beneath the hills, a peopled island seems;

An ancient abbey in its centre stands,

The labour’d work of superstitious hands;

When holy craft supreme did guide the helm,

And gothic darkness overspread the realm;

The artful priest amaz’d the gaping crowd,

And sacred truth was veil’d in mystic cloud;

When living saints for true devotion bled;

And rites profane were offer’d to the dead;

When idol images devotion drew,

And idol gods were worshipp'd as the true;

Witness yon front: how impiously design’d

In stone to represent th' eternal mind!

Witness the saints and angels on the wall!

Deaf to their vot’ries prayers, and silent to their call.

Welcome, fair liberty, and light divine!

Yet wider spread your wings, and brighter shine;

Dart livelier beams on ev’ry British soul,

And scatter slavish darkness to the Pole. 

Now for pure worship is the church design’d;

O that muse could say to that confin’d!

Ev’n there, by meaning looks, and cringing bows,

The female idol her adorer knows!

Fly hence, profane, nor taint this sacred place,

Mock not thy God, to flatter Celia’s face.

This sacred pile incloses honour’d dust,

And pompous monuments secure the trust:

There Montague, the noble Prelate, lies,

With pious hands up-lifted to the skies:

A virgin here enjoys eternal fame,

Join’d on the marble with great Dryden’s name.

 

The spacious portico demands my song,

Where beaux and belles appear, a shining throng!

To take a cordial draught, and chear the soul,

Like Homer’s gods, when nectar crown’d the bowl.

Correct the fabric, simple, neat, and plain,

Of Parian, nor Egyptian marble vain,

But innocently white, ‘tis proud to show,

In neigb’ring hills what beauteous pillars grow.

​

The baths adjoining from two ample squares,

Around the walls the Roman art appears;

Niches and arches there the bathers find,

A shelter from the rain, and blustering wind:

Bladud himself sits guardian of the streams,

Whose noble virtues give them royal names.

 

Not far from hence a bath of gentler heat,

The tender virgin finds a safe retreat

From sights indecent, and from speeches lewd,

Which dare not there, with satyr face, intrude.

Just in the midst a marble cross there stands,

Which popish minds with pious awe commands,

Devoid itself of pow'r to heal our woes,

Yet deck’d with monumental crutches, shows

What mighty cures this wond’rous pool has done,

And these the trophies from diseases won.

The sailor thus, on foaming billows tossed,

His ship and ship-mates in the tempest lost,

Did some kind god’s assisting pow’r implore,

And when, by aid divine, he reach’d the shore,

Straight to the temple of the god he flew;

His briny coat he thought the temple’s due:

And near the dropping garment, on the wall,

He wrote, with grateful praise, the moving tale.

 

Thro’ yon high arched gate on either hand

In comely order, rows of buildings stand;

See squares, and hospitals, and temples rise,

From whence let pure devotion pierce the skies.

A fountain flows, which stately walls surround,

And palaces o’erspread the verdant ground;

Where herds were wont to drink the cooling spring,

And birds on bending branches us’d to sing.

 

Leaving the west, I guide my view around,

And mark the city’s venerable bound.

Where the remains of many an hundred year,

In rev’rend ruins, on the walls appear,

A fury's head with snaky hair there stands;

Here Hercules th’ attentive eye demands,

And there a shepherd, and his youthful dame;

These monuments, more and more, are known to fame.

 

Hence view the grove; it forms a verdant square.

See the trees wanton in the eastern air;

Aurora gilds them whit temp’rate ray,

And lofty buildings shade in noon of day.

An obelisk doth now its centre grace,

The latest, proudest, honour of the place.

To future times this monument shall show,

How much all Britons and all Belgians owe,

To springs which sav’d from death the great Nassau.

From him and beauteous Anna, shall descend,

Heroes like William ready to defend

Fair liberty oppress’d, and trampled laws,

Or die with pleasure in the glorious cause.

What less than this can prophecy divine,

When William's blood is mix’d with George’s line?

 

Nor think, o Nash, the muse forgets thy praise:

Enough for thee this monument to raise;

What greater honour can thy pride receive,

Than that thy name with great Nassau shall live?

​

Where the smooth bowl was wont to skim the green,

Now stately rooms for pleasure change the scene;

Where music warbles, and the dancers bound,

Where the high roof re-echoes to the sound.

There blooming virgins kindle am’rous fires;

And there the god of wit with verse inspires.

The rattling dye inchants the miser’s heir,

The hoarded sums the sharking gamesters share:

The important bus’ness of the fair, quadrille,

Employs those hours which dancing cannot kill;

Or fav’rite ombre, sweetly sung by Pope,

Appals their cheeks with fear, or reddens them with hope.

There Miss soon learns the language of the eyes,

The witless beau looks soft, and swears he dies;

And who can think so fine a lover lyes?

There Pagan, Turk, the Papist, and the Jew,

And all mankind’s epitome you view.

But fly my muse, fly this inchanting place,

Nor man, thro’ all his pleasures, dare to trace.

 

But see thro’ yonder door a safe retreat;

There rest secure, amidst the wise, and great:

Heroes of ancient, and of modern song,

The bending shelves in comely order throng:

Hither, ye nymphs, attend the leading muse,

With her the labours of the wise peruse;

Their maxims learn, their precepts be your guide; 

Think virtuous knowledge woman’s truest pride:

One hour, thus spent, more solid joys shall give,

Than the gay idler knows, or fools conceive.

 

Now leave the terrace, and the extended scene

Of hills inclos’d, and meadows ever-green.

Descend to walks, ‘twixt limes in adverse rows,

And view the gay parterre, that ever blows.

This fair pavilion view; around its base

Observe the sporting of the scaly race.

A cool recess, the muses chosen seat,

From crouds, and empty noise, a blest retreat!

The lovely landscape, and the silent stream,

Inspire the poet, and present the theme.

Round the green walk the river glides away,

Where ‘midst espaliers balmy zephyrs play,

And fan the leaves, and cool the scorching ray:

View the brown shadows of yon pathless wood;

And craggy hills, irregular and rude!

Where nature sports romantic: hence is seen

The new-made road, and wonderful machine,

Self-moving downward from the mountain’s height,

A rock its burden, of a mountain’s weight.

 

Hail mighty genius! born for great designs,

T’ adorn your country, and to mend the times;

Virtue’s exemplar in degen’rate days,

All who love virtue, love to speak your praise.

You chide the muse that dares your virtues own,

And, veil’d with modesty, would live unknown;

An honest muse, no prostitute for gain,

Int’rest may court her, but shall court in vain:

But ever pleas’d to set true worth in view,

Yours shall be seen, and will, by all but you.

 

Prophetic here, the muse shall build thy seat,

Great, like thy soul, in ev’ry part complete:                       

On this fair eminence the fabric stands,

The finish’d labour of a thousand hands;

The hill, the dale, the river, groves, and fields,

Vary the landscape which thy prospect yields;

Whole vales of fruit-trees give our eyes delight,

Yet scorn alone to gratify the sight;

Beneath the load the tender branch shall bend,

And the rich juice regale its master’s friend.

Thy taste refin’d appears in yonder wood,

Not nature tortur’d, but by art improv’d: 

Where cover’d walks with open vistas meet,

An area here, and there a shady seat.

A thousand sweets in mingled odours flow

From blooming flow’rs which on borders grow.

In num’rous streams the mum’ring waters thrill,

Uniting all, obedient to thy will;

Till, by thy art, in one canal combin’d,

They thro’ the wood in various mazes wind;

From thence the foaming waves fall rapid down,

In bold cascades, and lash the rugged stone.

But here their fury lost, the calmer scene

Delights the softer muse, and soul serene;

An ample bason, centre of the place,

In lymph transparent holds the scaly race;

Its glassy face, from ev’ry ruffle free,

Reflects the image of each neigb’ring tree;

On which the feather’d choir, melodious, throng

By love inspir’d, unite tuneful song;

Their tuneful song the echoing woods refound,

And falling waters add a solemn sound:

Sure this the muses haunt; ‘tis hallow’d ground!

Here could the Muse forever spend her days,

And chant, in humble rhymes, the owners praise,

How, by his art, young Myra shall no more

Her Strephon’s letter lost, with sighs deplore,

Unjustly jealous of her faithful swain,

Whilst he expects the kind return in vein:

How from the mountain’s rocky sides he drew

A thousand shining places to view:

Temples and hospitals in every land,

From age to age, his monuments shall stand

Envy itself shall die, and fickle fame,

When he is dead, do justice to his name.

Had I or Pindar’s wing, or Homer’s lyre;

Could I, like tuneful Pope, command the nine;

Did my verse flow, and, as it flows, refine;

Thus would I sing: but o, with grief I find

My feeble pen but faintly paints my mind!

Myself unequal to the great design,

The task to abler poets I resign.