 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
173
POETICAL PIECES FROM LIBERAL OPINIONS.
175
ELEGY OF A NIGHTINGALE,
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY HERSELF.
I
For Elusino lost, renew the strain,Pour the sad note upon the ev'ning gale;
And as the length'ning shades usurp the plain,
The silent moon shall listen to the tale.
II
Sore was the time, ill-fated was the hour,The thicket shook with many an omen dire!
When from the topmost twig of yonder bower,
I saw my husband, flutter and expire.
176
III
'Twas when the peasant sought his twilight rest,Beneath the brow of yonder breezy hill;
'Twas when the plumy nation sought the nest,
And all, but such as lov'd the night, were still,
IV
That, fondly sitting with a lover's pride,(My tender custom while the sun withdrew)
Dear Elusino, sudden left my side,
And the curs'd form of man appear'd in view.
V
For sport, the tube he levell'd at our head,And, curious to behold more near my race,
Low in the copse the artful robber laid,
Explor'd our haunt, and thunder'd at the place.
VI
Ingrateful wretch, he was our shepherd's son,The harmless, good old tenant of yon cot!
That shepherd would not such a deed have done;
For love of him first fix'd us to this spot.
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VII
Oft' as at eve his homeward steps he bent,When the laborious task of day was o'er,
Our mellowed warblings sooth'd him as he went,
'Till the charm'd hind forgot that he was poor.
VIII
Ah, could not this thy gratitude inspire?Could not our gentle visitations please?
Could not the blameless lessons of thy sire
Thy barb'rous hand restrain from crimes like these?
IX
Oh cruel boy, thou tyrant of the plain!Could'st thou but see the sorrows thou hast made,
O didst thou know the virtues thou hast slain,
And view the gloomy horrors of the shade:
X
Couldst thou, behold, my infant younglings lie,In the moss'd cradle by our bills prepar'd,
Babes as they were, unable yet to fly,
Their wings defenceless, and their bosoms bar'd;
178
XI
Surely, the mighty malice of thy kind,Thy power to wrong, and readiness to kill;
In common pity to the parent's mind,
Would cease the new-made father's blood to spill.
XII
Haply, the time may come, when heav'n shall giveTo thee the troubles thou hast heap'd on me.
Haply, ere well thy babes begin to live,
Death shall present the dart of misery.
XIII
Just as the tender hope begins to rise,As the fond mother hugs her darling boy;
As the big rapture trembles in the eyes,
And the breast throbs with all a parent's joy;
XIV
Then may some midnight robber, skill'd in guile,Resolv'd on plunder, and on deeds of death,
Thy fairy prospects, tender transports spoil,
And to the knife resign thy children's breath.
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XV
In that sad moment shall thy savage heart,Feel the sad anguish, desperate, and wild,
Conscience forlorn shall doubly point the smart;
And Justice whisper,—This is child for child.
XVI
'Reav'd of their sire, my babes, alas, must sigh;For grief obstructs the anxious widows care;
This wasted form, this ever-weeping eye,
And the deep note of destitute despair.
XVII
All load this bosom with a fraught so sore,Scarce can I cater for the daily food!
Where'er I search, my husband search'd before,
And soon my nest will hold an orphan brood!
XVIII
For Eleusino, lost, then pour the strain,Waft the sad note on ev'ry ev'ning gale;
And as the length'ning shades usurp the plain,
The silent moon shall listen to the tale.
180
EPITAPH ON A LAP-DOG.
To courts accustom'd yet to cringe asham'd,Of person lovely, as in life unblam'd;
Skill'd in those gentle and prevailing arts,
Which lead directly to soft female hearts;
A kind partaker of the quiet hour,
Friend of the parlour, partner of the bow'r,
In health, in sickness, ever faithful found,
Yet, by no ties, but ties of kindness bound,
Of instinct, nature, reason, what you will,
For to all duties he was constant still;
Such was the being underneath this shrine;
Study the character, and make it Thine.
181
ALMERIA;
OR, THE PENITENT.
Withdrawn from all temptations that entice,
The frauds of fashion, and the snares of vice,
From all that can inspire unchaste delight,
To my dear, bleeding family, I write;
But oh! my pen the tender task denies;
And all the daughter rushes to my eyes.
Oft as the paper to my hand I brought,
My hand still trembled from the shock of thought:
Sighs interrupt the story of my woe,
My blushes burn me, and my tears o'erflow;
But nature now insists upon her claim,
Strikes the fine nerve, and gives me up to shame.
No more the anxious wish can I restrain,
No longer silent can your child remain;
Write—write—I must, my hopes, my fears declare,
And try, once more, to win a father's care.
Ah! scorn not then, Almeria's mournful verse,
Bestow thy blessing, and revoke thy curse;
Give to a daughter's wrongs one parent's sigh,
Nor thou, my mother, her last prayer deny.
The frauds of fashion, and the snares of vice,
From all that can inspire unchaste delight,
To my dear, bleeding family, I write;
But oh! my pen the tender task denies;
And all the daughter rushes to my eyes.
Oft as the paper to my hand I brought,
My hand still trembled from the shock of thought:
Sighs interrupt the story of my woe,
My blushes burn me, and my tears o'erflow;
But nature now insists upon her claim,
Strikes the fine nerve, and gives me up to shame.
No more the anxious wish can I restrain,
No longer silent can your child remain;
182
And try, once more, to win a father's care.
Ah! scorn not then, Almeria's mournful verse,
Bestow thy blessing, and revoke thy curse;
Give to a daughter's wrongs one parent's sigh,
Nor thou, my mother, her last prayer deny.
Yet where, oh where, shall I the tale begin,
Oh! where conclude the narrative of sin?
How each dire circumstance of guilt disclose,
Unload my breast, and open all its woes?
How, to an injur'd parent, shall I tell
The arts by which I stray'd, by which I fell?
No common language can the scenes express,
Where every line should mark extreme distress;
Rotine of words, unequal all, we find
To paint the feelings of a wounded mind:
'Tis not the scribbler's vein, the songster's art,
Nor the wild genius of a vacant heart,
'Tis not the lines that musically flow
To mark the poet's visionary woe;
Nor all the frolics of the tuneful tribe,
Can such a mighty grief as mine describe.
Oh! where conclude the narrative of sin?
How each dire circumstance of guilt disclose,
Unload my breast, and open all its woes?
How, to an injur'd parent, shall I tell
The arts by which I stray'd, by which I fell?
No common language can the scenes express,
Where every line should mark extreme distress;
Rotine of words, unequal all, we find
To paint the feelings of a wounded mind:
'Tis not the scribbler's vein, the songster's art,
Nor the wild genius of a vacant heart,
'Tis not the lines that musically flow
To mark the poet's visionary woe;
183
Can such a mighty grief as mine describe.
Full oft hath scorpion fancy to my view
Imag'd each anguish that a parent knew;
At midnight's still and searching hour she came,
Glar'd round my bed, and chill'd my soul with shame,
Each black idea crouded in my sight,
And gloom'd a chaos on the balmy night.
Imag'd each anguish that a parent knew;
At midnight's still and searching hour she came,
Glar'd round my bed, and chill'd my soul with shame,
Each black idea crouded in my sight,
And gloom'd a chaos on the balmy night.
“Behold, she said, on the damp bed of earth,
Th' unhappy man behold, who gave thee birth;
Behold him roll in dust his silver hair,
While on each muscle sits intense despair;
See how the passions vary in his face,
Tear his old frame, and testify disgrace;
Retir'd from home, in silence to complain
To the pale moon, the veteran tells his pain;
Now sinks oppress'd, now sudden starts away,
Abhors the night, yet sickens at the day.
And see, thou guilty daughter! see, and mourn
The whelming grief that waits thy sire's return!
Beneath some black'ning yew's sepulchral gloom,
Where pensive Sorrow seems to court the tomb,
Where tenfold shades repel the light of day,
And ghostly footsteps seem to press the way.
Bent to the ground by mis'ry, and by years,
View thy pale bleeding mother bath'd in tears;
Her look disorder'd, and her air all wild,
She beats the breast that fed a worthless child;
And oh! she cries—
Oh had the fostering milk to poison turn'd,
Some ague shiver'd, or some fever burn'd;
Had death, cold death, befriended on the morn,
In which these eyes beheld a daughter born;
Or had th' Eternal, seal'd her eyes in night,
Ere she the barrier knew 'twixt wrong and right,
Ne'er had these curses then assail'd my head—
Why spring such torments from a lawful bed!
Now, melted, soften'd, gentler she complains,
Rage ebbs away, the tide of love remains:
Then how th' affecting tears each other trace,
Down the dear furrows of her matron face;
But still the anxious mother brings to light,
Scenes of past joy, and innocent delight;
Calls to remembrance each infantine bliss,
The cradle's rapture, and the baby's kiss;
Each throbbing hope, that caught th' embrace sincere,
With every joy that rose in every tear;
The beauteous prospect brightning every day,
The father's fondling, and the mother's play.
Yet soon she finds again the sad reverse,
Till harrass'd nature sinks beneath its curse;
Again more fierce—more mad she rends her frame,
And loudly brands Almeria with her shame!”
Here paus'd, and shrunk, the vision from my view,
But Conscience colour'd, as the shade withdrew:
Pierc'd to the heart, in agony I lay,
And, all confusion, rose with rising day,
Th' unhappy man behold, who gave thee birth;
Behold him roll in dust his silver hair,
While on each muscle sits intense despair;
See how the passions vary in his face,
Tear his old frame, and testify disgrace;
Retir'd from home, in silence to complain
To the pale moon, the veteran tells his pain;
Now sinks oppress'd, now sudden starts away,
Abhors the night, yet sickens at the day.
184
The whelming grief that waits thy sire's return!
Beneath some black'ning yew's sepulchral gloom,
Where pensive Sorrow seems to court the tomb,
Where tenfold shades repel the light of day,
And ghostly footsteps seem to press the way.
Bent to the ground by mis'ry, and by years,
View thy pale bleeding mother bath'd in tears;
Her look disorder'd, and her air all wild,
She beats the breast that fed a worthless child;
And oh! she cries—
Oh had the fostering milk to poison turn'd,
Some ague shiver'd, or some fever burn'd;
Had death, cold death, befriended on the morn,
In which these eyes beheld a daughter born;
Or had th' Eternal, seal'd her eyes in night,
Ere she the barrier knew 'twixt wrong and right,
Ne'er had these curses then assail'd my head—
Why spring such torments from a lawful bed!
Now, melted, soften'd, gentler she complains,
Rage ebbs away, the tide of love remains:
185
Down the dear furrows of her matron face;
But still the anxious mother brings to light,
Scenes of past joy, and innocent delight;
Calls to remembrance each infantine bliss,
The cradle's rapture, and the baby's kiss;
Each throbbing hope, that caught th' embrace sincere,
With every joy that rose in every tear;
The beauteous prospect brightning every day,
The father's fondling, and the mother's play.
Yet soon she finds again the sad reverse,
Till harrass'd nature sinks beneath its curse;
Again more fierce—more mad she rends her frame,
And loudly brands Almeria with her shame!”
Here paus'd, and shrunk, the vision from my view,
But Conscience colour'd, as the shade withdrew:
Pierc'd to the heart, in agony I lay,
And, all confusion, rose with rising day,
186
But ah! what hope could morning bring to me,
What, but the mournful privilege to see,
To view the pleasures which I could not share,
And waste the day in solitude and care?
The sun more clearly shone on my disgrace,
And mark'd more deep the blushes on my face.
What, but the mournful privilege to see,
To view the pleasures which I could not share,
And waste the day in solitude and care?
The sun more clearly shone on my disgrace,
And mark'd more deep the blushes on my face.
Then, all enrag'd I curs'd th' abandon'd hour,
When honour yielded to the traitor's pow'r,
When rash, I scorn'd the angel voice of Truth,
In all the mad simplicity of youth:
When from a father's arms forlorn I stray'd,
And left a mother's tenderness unpaid:
While nature, duty, precept, all combin'd
To fix obedience on a daughter's mind.
When honour yielded to the traitor's pow'r,
When rash, I scorn'd the angel voice of Truth,
In all the mad simplicity of youth:
When from a father's arms forlorn I stray'd,
And left a mother's tenderness unpaid:
While nature, duty, precept, all combin'd
To fix obedience on a daughter's mind.
Stung at the thought, each vengeance I design'd,
And weary'd heaven to desecrate mankind!
From room to room distractedly I ran,
The scorn of woman, and the dupe of man.
And weary'd heaven to desecrate mankind!
From room to room distractedly I ran,
The scorn of woman, and the dupe of man.
Alcanor, curst Alcanor! first I sought
(And, as I past, a fatal dagger caught)
My fury soon the smiling villain found,
Struck at his heart, and triumph'd in the wound:
“A ruin'd woman gives th' avenging stroke!”—
He reel'd, he fell, he fainted as I spoke.
But soon as human blood began to flow,
Soon as it gush'd, obedient to the blow,
Soon as the ruddy stream his cheek forsook,
And death sat struggling in the changing look,
Love, and the woman, all at once return'd;
I felt his anguish, and my rashness mourn'd;
O'er his pale form I heav'd the bursting sigh,
And watch'd the languors of his fading eye,
To stop the crimson tide my hair I tore,
Kiss'd the deep gash, and wash'd with tears the gore,
'Twas love,—'twas pity—call it what you will;
Where the heart feels,—we all are women still.
(And, as I past, a fatal dagger caught)
187
Struck at his heart, and triumph'd in the wound:
“A ruin'd woman gives th' avenging stroke!”—
He reel'd, he fell, he fainted as I spoke.
But soon as human blood began to flow,
Soon as it gush'd, obedient to the blow,
Soon as the ruddy stream his cheek forsook,
And death sat struggling in the changing look,
Love, and the woman, all at once return'd;
I felt his anguish, and my rashness mourn'd;
O'er his pale form I heav'd the bursting sigh,
And watch'd the languors of his fading eye,
To stop the crimson tide my hair I tore,
Kiss'd the deep gash, and wash'd with tears the gore,
'Twas love,—'twas pity—call it what you will;
Where the heart feels,—we all are women still.
But low I bend my knees to pitying heav'n,
For his recovery to my prayers was giv'n;
He liv'd—to all the rest I was resign'd,
And murder rack'd no more my tortur'd mind:
He liv'd—but soon with mean perfidious stealth,
Left his pale prey, and rioted in health.
For his recovery to my prayers was giv'n;
He liv'd—to all the rest I was resign'd,
And murder rack'd no more my tortur'd mind:
188
Left his pale prey, and rioted in health.
Yet think not now arriv'd the days of joy;
Alcanor flatter'd only to destroy;
Alike to blast my body, and my mind,
He robb'd me first, then left me to mankind;
Soon from his Janus face the mask he tore,
The charm was broke, Almeria pleas'd no more:
The dreadful cheat awhile to hide he strove,
By poor pretences of a partial love,
Awhile disguis'd the surfeits of his heart,
And top'd, full well, the warm admirer's part;
Till tir'd at last, with labouring to conceal,
And feigning transports which he could not feel,
He turn'd at once so civilly polite,
Whate'er I said, indifference made so right,
Such coldness mark'd his manners and his mien,
My guilt—my ruin—at a glance were seen.
Alcanor flatter'd only to destroy;
Alike to blast my body, and my mind,
He robb'd me first, then left me to mankind;
Soon from his Janus face the mask he tore,
The charm was broke, Almeria pleas'd no more:
The dreadful cheat awhile to hide he strove,
By poor pretences of a partial love,
Awhile disguis'd the surfeits of his heart,
And top'd, full well, the warm admirer's part;
Till tir'd at last, with labouring to conceal,
And feigning transports which he could not feel,
He turn'd at once so civilly polite,
Whate'er I said, indifference made so right,
Such coldness mark'd his manners and his mien,
My guilt—my ruin—at a glance were seen.
I now assum'd in vain a chaster part,
In vain I struggled with a breaking heart
Forlorn, I try'd to purify my stain,
Correct my life, and rise, reform'd, again:
Pleas'd at the hope, from savage man I flew,
And sought protection from each friend I knew;
Each friend, at my approach, shrunk back with dread,
Hide, hide, they cry'd, thy pestilential head!
Then for the meanest servitude I sought,
But nice suspicion at my figure caught;
Too flaunting was my dress, my air too free,
And deep reserve betok'ning mystery;
Some frailty rais'd a doubt, where'er I came,
And every question flush'd my cheeks with shame;
Conscious of guilt, overshadow'd by pretence:
'Twas hard to act the farce of innocence.
Oft as I begg'd the servant's lowest place,
The treach'rous colour shifted in my face;
The fatal secret glow'd in ev'ry look,
Trembling I stood, and stammering I spoke.
In vain I struggled with a breaking heart
189
Correct my life, and rise, reform'd, again:
Pleas'd at the hope, from savage man I flew,
And sought protection from each friend I knew;
Each friend, at my approach, shrunk back with dread,
Hide, hide, they cry'd, thy pestilential head!
Then for the meanest servitude I sought,
But nice suspicion at my figure caught;
Too flaunting was my dress, my air too free,
And deep reserve betok'ning mystery;
Some frailty rais'd a doubt, where'er I came,
And every question flush'd my cheeks with shame;
Conscious of guilt, overshadow'd by pretence:
'Twas hard to act the farce of innocence.
Oft as I begg'd the servant's lowest place,
The treach'rous colour shifted in my face;
The fatal secret glow'd in ev'ry look,
Trembling I stood, and stammering I spoke.
Next, came the views of home into my mind,
With each dear friend, and relative behind;
Pardon, and pleasure, started to my thought,
While hope inspir'd forgiveness of my fault:
But soon, too soon, those sweet ideas fled,
And left me begging at each door for bread.
Yet poor indeed was this support to me,
(Ah, had I starv'd on common charity!)
Far other woes and insults were in store,
My fame was lost, and I could lose no more;
Driven to the dreadful precipice of sin,
My brain swam round, and hurl'd me headlong in.
With each dear friend, and relative behind;
190
While hope inspir'd forgiveness of my fault:
But soon, too soon, those sweet ideas fled,
And left me begging at each door for bread.
Yet poor indeed was this support to me,
(Ah, had I starv'd on common charity!)
Far other woes and insults were in store,
My fame was lost, and I could lose no more;
Driven to the dreadful precipice of sin,
My brain swam round, and hurl'd me headlong in.
And now, no pen could picture my distress,
'Twas more, much more than simple wretchedness;
Famine, and guilt, and conscience tore my heart,
And urg'd me to pursue the wantons part.
Take then the truth, and learn, ah, learn my shame:
Such my hard fate—I welcom'd all that came.
'Twas more, much more than simple wretchedness;
Famine, and guilt, and conscience tore my heart,
And urg'd me to pursue the wantons part.
Take then the truth, and learn, ah, learn my shame:
Such my hard fate—I welcom'd all that came.
But oh! no transport mingled in my stains,
No guilty pleasure ever sooth'd my pains;
No vicious hope, indelicately gay,
Nor warmer passions lull'd my cares away;
The flattering compliment fatigu'd my ear,
While half afraid, I half conceal'd a tear:
Whole nights I pass'd insensible of bliss,
Lost to the loath'd embrace, and odious kiss;
Nor wine, nor mirth, the aching heart could fire,
Nor could the sprightly music ought inspire;
Alive to each reflection that oppress'd,
The more I gain'd, the more I was distress'd;
Ev'n in the moment of unblest desire,
Oft would the wretch complain I wanted fire;
Cold as a statue in his arms I lay,
Wept thro' the night, and blush'd along the day—
Ah think what terrors e'er could equal mine!
Ah think, and pity—for I once was thine!
The sweet society of friends was o'er,
For happier women dare invite no more;
And they, at noon, would meet me with alarms,
Who stole at midnight to my venal arms.
No guilty pleasure ever sooth'd my pains;
191
Nor warmer passions lull'd my cares away;
The flattering compliment fatigu'd my ear,
While half afraid, I half conceal'd a tear:
Whole nights I pass'd insensible of bliss,
Lost to the loath'd embrace, and odious kiss;
Nor wine, nor mirth, the aching heart could fire,
Nor could the sprightly music ought inspire;
Alive to each reflection that oppress'd,
The more I gain'd, the more I was distress'd;
Ev'n in the moment of unblest desire,
Oft would the wretch complain I wanted fire;
Cold as a statue in his arms I lay,
Wept thro' the night, and blush'd along the day—
Ah think what terrors e'er could equal mine!
Ah think, and pity—for I once was thine!
The sweet society of friends was o'er,
For happier women dare invite no more;
And they, at noon, would meet me with alarms,
Who stole at midnight to my venal arms.
My own companions no sweet comfort brought,
A shameful set, incapable of thought;
Their wanton passions ne'er could touch my heart,
For all was looseness, infamy, and art;
No modest maxims suited to improve,
No soft sensations of a chaster love,
No gen'rous prospects of a soul refin'd,
No worthy lessons of a noble mind,
E'er touch'd their bosoms, harden'd to their state:
Charm'd by their arts, and glorying in their fate;
Some stroke of frolic was their constant theme,
The dreadful oath, and blasphemy extreme,
Th' affected laugh, the rude-retorted lye,
Th' indecent question, and the bold reply;
Even in their dress, their business I could trace,
And broad was stamp'd the Harlot on each face;
O'er every part the shameful trade we spy,
The step audacious, and the rolling eye:
The smile insidious, the look obscene,
The air enticing, and the mincing mein.
A shameful set, incapable of thought;
192
For all was looseness, infamy, and art;
No modest maxims suited to improve,
No soft sensations of a chaster love,
No gen'rous prospects of a soul refin'd,
No worthy lessons of a noble mind,
E'er touch'd their bosoms, harden'd to their state:
Charm'd by their arts, and glorying in their fate;
Some stroke of frolic was their constant theme,
The dreadful oath, and blasphemy extreme,
Th' affected laugh, the rude-retorted lye,
Th' indecent question, and the bold reply;
Even in their dress, their business I could trace,
And broad was stamp'd the Harlot on each face;
O'er every part the shameful trade we spy,
The step audacious, and the rolling eye:
The smile insidious, the look obscene,
The air enticing, and the mincing mein.
With these, alas! a sacrifice I liv'd;
With these the wages of disgrace receiv'd:
But heav'n, at length, its vengeance to complete,
Drove me—distemper'd—to the public street.
For on a time, when light'ning fir'd the air,
And laid the sable breast of midnight bare;
When rain and wind assail'd th' unshelter'd head,
That sought in vain—the blessing of a bed;
Distress'd—diseas'd—I crawl'd to every door,
And beg'd, with tears, a shelter for the poor!
My knees, at length, unable to sustain
The force of hunger, and the weight of rain,
Fainting I fell, then stagg'ring rose again,
And wept, and sigh'd, and hop'd, and rav'd in vain,
With these the wages of disgrace receiv'd:
But heav'n, at length, its vengeance to complete,
Drove me—distemper'd—to the public street.
193
And laid the sable breast of midnight bare;
When rain and wind assail'd th' unshelter'd head,
That sought in vain—the blessing of a bed;
Distress'd—diseas'd—I crawl'd to every door,
And beg'd, with tears, a shelter for the poor!
My knees, at length, unable to sustain
The force of hunger, and the weight of rain,
Fainting I fell, then stagg'ring rose again,
And wept, and sigh'd, and hop'd, and rav'd in vain,
Then (nor till then) o'erwhelm'd by sore distress,
To my own hand I look'd for full redress;
All things were apt—no flatterer to beguile,
Twas night—'twas dark—occasion seem'd to smile:
Where'er I turn'd, destruction rose to view,
And, on reflection, rising frenzy grew.—
From foolish love, the knife, conceal'd, I wore,
Which, in my rage, Alcanor's bosom tore;
Thought press'd on thought—th' unsettled senses flew,
As from my breast the fatal blade I drew;
Still the stain'd point with crimson spots was dy'd,
“And this is well—'tis blood for blood,” I cry'd!
Then did I poise the instrument in air,
Bent to the stroke, and laid my bosom bare:
But ah! my crimes that instant rose to view,
Disarm'd my purpose—my resolves o'erthrew;
Fear shook my hand, I flung the weapon by,
Unfit to live—I was not fit to die!—
To my own hand I look'd for full redress;
All things were apt—no flatterer to beguile,
Twas night—'twas dark—occasion seem'd to smile:
Where'er I turn'd, destruction rose to view,
And, on reflection, rising frenzy grew.—
From foolish love, the knife, conceal'd, I wore,
Which, in my rage, Alcanor's bosom tore;
194
As from my breast the fatal blade I drew;
Still the stain'd point with crimson spots was dy'd,
“And this is well—'tis blood for blood,” I cry'd!
Then did I poise the instrument in air,
Bent to the stroke, and laid my bosom bare:
But ah! my crimes that instant rose to view,
Disarm'd my purpose—my resolves o'erthrew;
Fear shook my hand, I flung the weapon by,
Unfit to live—I was not fit to die!—
Ah! wretched woman, she, who strays for bread,
And sells the sacred pleasures of the bed;
Condemn'd to shifts, her reason must despise,
The scorn and pity of the good and wise;
Condemn'd each call of passion to obey,
And in despite of nature to be gay;
To force a simper, with a throbbing heart,
And call to aid the feeble helps of art;
Oblig'd to suffer each impure caress,
The slave of fancy, and the drudge of dress;
Compell'd to suit her temper to each taste,
Scorn'd if too wanton, hated if too chaste;
Forc'd with the public whimsy to comply,
As veers the gale of modern luxury;
And oft th' afflicted creature must sustain
Strokes more severe, yet tremble to complain:
The felon bawd, a dreadful beast of prey,
Rules o'er her subjects with despotic sway,
Trucks for the human form, with fatal pow'r,
And bargains for her beauties by the hour.
But should some female in her dang'rous train,
Attend the altar of her shame with pain,
Dispute at length the monster's base controul,
And dare assert the scruples of her soul;
Should she reluctant yield to the disgrace,
And shew the signs of sorrow in her face,
Th' imperious abbess frowns her into vice,
And hates the sinner that grows over-nice.
And sells the sacred pleasures of the bed;
Condemn'd to shifts, her reason must despise,
The scorn and pity of the good and wise;
Condemn'd each call of passion to obey,
And in despite of nature to be gay;
To force a simper, with a throbbing heart,
And call to aid the feeble helps of art;
195
The slave of fancy, and the drudge of dress;
Compell'd to suit her temper to each taste,
Scorn'd if too wanton, hated if too chaste;
Forc'd with the public whimsy to comply,
As veers the gale of modern luxury;
And oft th' afflicted creature must sustain
Strokes more severe, yet tremble to complain:
The felon bawd, a dreadful beast of prey,
Rules o'er her subjects with despotic sway,
Trucks for the human form, with fatal pow'r,
And bargains for her beauties by the hour.
But should some female in her dang'rous train,
Attend the altar of her shame with pain,
Dispute at length the monster's base controul,
And dare assert the scruples of her soul;
Should she reluctant yield to the disgrace,
And shew the signs of sorrow in her face,
Th' imperious abbess frowns her into vice,
And hates the sinner that grows over-nice.
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But hear, yet hear, your hapless daughter's plea,
Some little pity still is due to me.
If to have felt each agony of mind,
To bear the stings which conscience leaves behind;
If at each morn to shudder at the light,
Dread the fair day, and fear the coming night;
If, like the thief, of ev'ry eye afraid,
Anxious I sought the blush-concealing shade;
If my sad bosom, bursting with its weight,
Bled and bewail'd the hardships of my fate;
If to have known no joys, yet known all pains,
Can aught avail to purge my former stains,
Judge not your child,—your suppliant,—too severe,
But veil her frailties, and bestow a tear!—
Some little pity still is due to me.
If to have felt each agony of mind,
To bear the stings which conscience leaves behind;
If at each morn to shudder at the light,
Dread the fair day, and fear the coming night;
If, like the thief, of ev'ry eye afraid,
Anxious I sought the blush-concealing shade;
If my sad bosom, bursting with its weight,
Bled and bewail'd the hardships of my fate;
If to have known no joys, yet known all pains,
Can aught avail to purge my former stains,
Judge not your child,—your suppliant,—too severe,
But veil her frailties, and bestow a tear!—
Yet has Almeria now a juster claim
To seal her pardon, and to close her shame,
Nobler each early trespass to remove,
And hope again the sanction of your love.
These holy mansions, sacred to our woes,
Which screen from scorn, and hide us from our foes;
Which the fallen woman gradually retrieve,
Reform the manners, and the mind relieve;
Which shield from barbarous man his hapless prey;
Expunge the spot, and chace the blush away;
Sooth every sorrow by the pow'r of pray'r,
And half supply a parent's pious care;
Which lull the flutt'ring pulses to repose,
Each anguish soften, and each wish compose;
Wean us from scenes that fatally misguide,
And teach the breast to glow with nobler pride:
These holy mansions have receiv'd your child,
And here she mourns each passion that beguil'd.
Thrice has the sun his annual beams bestow'd,
And found me here, determin'd—to be good:
Already feels my heart a lighter grief,
And each white minute brings me fresh relief;
Or if by chance my sorrows I renew,
Half claim my crimes, and half belong to you;
Here then for ever, secret and resign'd,
Here for its God will I prepare my mind;
Here pass conceal'd, my penitential days,
And lead a life of piety and praise.
To seal her pardon, and to close her shame,
Nobler each early trespass to remove,
And hope again the sanction of your love.
197
Which screen from scorn, and hide us from our foes;
Which the fallen woman gradually retrieve,
Reform the manners, and the mind relieve;
Which shield from barbarous man his hapless prey;
Expunge the spot, and chace the blush away;
Sooth every sorrow by the pow'r of pray'r,
And half supply a parent's pious care;
Which lull the flutt'ring pulses to repose,
Each anguish soften, and each wish compose;
Wean us from scenes that fatally misguide,
And teach the breast to glow with nobler pride:
These holy mansions have receiv'd your child,
And here she mourns each passion that beguil'd.
Thrice has the sun his annual beams bestow'd,
And found me here, determin'd—to be good:
Already feels my heart a lighter grief,
And each white minute brings me fresh relief;
198
Half claim my crimes, and half belong to you;
Here then for ever, secret and resign'd,
Here for its God will I prepare my mind;
Here pass conceal'd, my penitential days,
And lead a life of piety and praise.
Come then, thou lovely patroness of Fame,
Thou bright restorer of a ruin'd name,
Come, fair Repentance, o'er each thought preside,
Patient I follow such a heav'nly guide;
To all thy laws implicitly I bend,
And call thee sister, saviour, genius, friend!
Oh! let me breathe the solemn vow sincere,
Oh! let Religion consecrate each tear!
Then, should long life be mercifully giv'n;
Again the soul may dare to think of heav'n;
Then, cleans'd from every dark and Ethiop stain,
Virtue, that dove of peace, shall come again,
With smoothest wings re-settle on my breast,
And open prospects of eternal rest.
Thou bright restorer of a ruin'd name,
Come, fair Repentance, o'er each thought preside,
Patient I follow such a heav'nly guide;
To all thy laws implicitly I bend,
And call thee sister, saviour, genius, friend!
Oh! let me breathe the solemn vow sincere,
Oh! let Religion consecrate each tear!
Then, should long life be mercifully giv'n;
Again the soul may dare to think of heav'n;
Then, cleans'd from every dark and Ethiop stain,
Virtue, that dove of peace, shall come again,
With smoothest wings re-settle on my breast,
And open prospects of eternal rest.
199
And yet, before that golden hour arrive,
Ah! would my injur'd relatives forgive!
Ah! could they see this happier turn of fate,
And view their poor Almeria's chaster state;
Then would they fondly close her fading eye,
Bless her last breath, and bid her peaceful die.
Ah! would my injur'd relatives forgive!
Ah! could they see this happier turn of fate,
And view their poor Almeria's chaster state;
Then would they fondly close her fading eye,
Bless her last breath, and bid her peaceful die.
Deep in her ward's most venerable gloom,
Late was a contrite sister, from her room,
Where long the blushing, pious vot'ress lay,
And sought a shelter from the shame of day,
In words half-smother'd by the heaving sigh,
And voice that spoke despair,—thus heard to cry:—
Late was a contrite sister, from her room,
Where long the blushing, pious vot'ress lay,
And sought a shelter from the shame of day,
In words half-smother'd by the heaving sigh,
And voice that spoke despair,—thus heard to cry:—
“Oh! injur'd Chastity, thou heav'nly dame,
Thou spotless guardian of the cherub Fame,
Who arm'st fair Virtue 'gainst th' insulting foe,
And in her cheeks commands the rose to blow:
Had I, oh! had I still thy rules obey'd,
Despis'd the treach'rous town, and walk'd the shade;
Had I each villain stratagem defy'd,
And scorn'd the flatterer with a decent pride;
Had I withstood his arrows at my heart,
Oppos'd each trick, and baffled ev'ry art,
Then lib'ral truth might ev'ry hour employ,
Each thought be rapture, and each hope be joy;
Then lov'd, rever'd, as mother and as wife,
Blest had I been, in the pure vale of life.
Haply my Edward—Oh! lamented name,
Once my high boast, before I plung'd in shame;
Haply my Edward, yielding to my charms,
(Oh! my smote bosom, whence these new alarms?
Why spring the conscious drops into my eye?
Why feels my heart the love-impassion'd sigh?)
I dare not speak my promis'd happiness—
Yet, Edward, couldst thou witness my distress,
Witness the firm unviolated mind,
Seduc'd by vice, but not to vice inclin'd:
Couldst thou behold the constant-falling tear,
My pray'rs attest, my self-reproaches hear;
Ah! couldst thou think how deeply I bewail,
How thick enshrowd me in the friendly veil;
How, in the sacred solitude of night,
The care of heav'n unceasing I invite,
Breathe the warm wish, and pour the fervent prayer;
Now dare to hope, and now expect despair:
Couldst thou but see these changes of my grief,
Surely thy pity would bestow relief.
My Edward's virtue, (for I know his heart,)
The balms of soft compassion would impart,
His breast would mitigate each stern decree,
And judgment yield to Mercy's milder plea;
But he is lost—fond wretch, thy plaint give o'er—
The dear, the injur'd Edward, is no more,
Or, if he lives—he recollects thy shame,
Scorns thy false vows, and hates th' unworthy flame.”—
Thou spotless guardian of the cherub Fame,
Who arm'st fair Virtue 'gainst th' insulting foe,
And in her cheeks commands the rose to blow:
Had I, oh! had I still thy rules obey'd,
Despis'd the treach'rous town, and walk'd the shade;
200
And scorn'd the flatterer with a decent pride;
Had I withstood his arrows at my heart,
Oppos'd each trick, and baffled ev'ry art,
Then lib'ral truth might ev'ry hour employ,
Each thought be rapture, and each hope be joy;
Then lov'd, rever'd, as mother and as wife,
Blest had I been, in the pure vale of life.
Haply my Edward—Oh! lamented name,
Once my high boast, before I plung'd in shame;
Haply my Edward, yielding to my charms,
(Oh! my smote bosom, whence these new alarms?
Why spring the conscious drops into my eye?
Why feels my heart the love-impassion'd sigh?)
I dare not speak my promis'd happiness—
Yet, Edward, couldst thou witness my distress,
Witness the firm unviolated mind,
Seduc'd by vice, but not to vice inclin'd:
Couldst thou behold the constant-falling tear,
My pray'rs attest, my self-reproaches hear;
201
How thick enshrowd me in the friendly veil;
How, in the sacred solitude of night,
The care of heav'n unceasing I invite,
Breathe the warm wish, and pour the fervent prayer;
Now dare to hope, and now expect despair:
Couldst thou but see these changes of my grief,
Surely thy pity would bestow relief.
My Edward's virtue, (for I know his heart,)
The balms of soft compassion would impart,
His breast would mitigate each stern decree,
And judgment yield to Mercy's milder plea;
But he is lost—fond wretch, thy plaint give o'er—
The dear, the injur'd Edward, is no more,
Or, if he lives—he recollects thy shame,
Scorns thy false vows, and hates th' unworthy flame.”—
Scarce had the pensive child of Sorrow spoke,
When from a neighbouring ward these accent broke:
“Tis she!—'tis she!—th' unfortunate is found,
My pulse beats quick—Ah! save me from the ground,
Support me—help me—some assistance lend,
And my faint footsteps to the mourner bend;
She lives!—she lives!”—The unhappy woman heard,
Shook in each nerve, and trembled at each word,
Then swooning sunk at length upon the floor,
Just as th' afflicted stranger reach'd the door:
Tottering he enter'd—caught th' afflicted fair,
And rais'd her flutt'ring frame, with tend'rest care.
When from a neighbouring ward these accent broke:
202
My pulse beats quick—Ah! save me from the ground,
Support me—help me—some assistance lend,
And my faint footsteps to the mourner bend;
She lives!—she lives!”—The unhappy woman heard,
Shook in each nerve, and trembled at each word,
Then swooning sunk at length upon the floor,
Just as th' afflicted stranger reach'd the door:
Tottering he enter'd—caught th' afflicted fair,
And rais'd her flutt'ring frame, with tend'rest care.
Ah drooping lily! rise to life and me,
And, in this faded form, thy Edward see;
Recall the lustre in the sparkling eye,
And bid for ever all thy sorrows fly;
Long have I sought thee with a lover's zeal,
For thee alone I weep, for thee I feel;
Come then, fair penitent, forget each woe,
And ev'ry pleasure, ev'ry transport know;
Lost be the mem'ry of thy former stain,
Thy pow'rful pray'rs have wash'd thee white again;
Bury'd be ev'ry anguish in this kiss,
Wake then, O wake, to virtue and to bliss!”
And, in this faded form, thy Edward see;
Recall the lustre in the sparkling eye,
And bid for ever all thy sorrows fly;
Long have I sought thee with a lover's zeal,
For thee alone I weep, for thee I feel;
Come then, fair penitent, forget each woe,
And ev'ry pleasure, ev'ry transport know;
203
Thy pow'rful pray'rs have wash'd thee white again;
Bury'd be ev'ry anguish in this kiss,
Wake then, O wake, to virtue and to bliss!”
He said, and press'd her in a soft embrace,
While the warm blood sprang flushing to her face,
Now pale retir'd, now ran a deeper red,
Till cheer'd at last, the sweet disorder fled;
A thousand tender questions now succeed,
They smile alternate, and alternate bleed.
Edward, the chaplain's long-try'd friend had been,
And hence arose the late propitious scene;
The sacred chaplain gave her to his care,
Join'd their kind fates, and left them with a pray'r.
While the warm blood sprang flushing to her face,
Now pale retir'd, now ran a deeper red,
Till cheer'd at last, the sweet disorder fled;
A thousand tender questions now succeed,
They smile alternate, and alternate bleed.
Edward, the chaplain's long-try'd friend had been,
And hence arose the late propitious scene;
The sacred chaplain gave her to his care,
Join'd their kind fates, and left them with a pray'r.
204
SOLILOQUIES OF A HIGHWAYMAN.
Ah! family forlorn!
The sport of fortune, famine, and mankind;
Compose thy griefs, Louisa—stop those tears;
Cry not so piteous—spare, oh spare, thy sire,
Nor quite distract thy mother,—hapless babes!
What shall I do?—which ever way I turn,
Scenes of incessant horror strike my eye:
Bare, barren walls gloom formidably round,
And not a ray of hope is left to chear;
Sorrowing and sick, the partner of my fate
Lies on her bed of straw,—beside her, sad
My children dear, cling to her breast, and weep;
Or prest by hunger, hunt each nook for food,
And quite exhausted, climb these knees—in vain.
How ev'ry asking eye appeals at once!
Ah looks too eloquent!—too plainly marked,
Ye ask for bread—I have no bread to give.
The wants of Nature, frugal as she is,
The little calls and comforts which support
From day to day the feeble life of man,
No more, alas! thy father, can supply!—
To me, the hand of heaven-born Charity
Hard, as the season, gripes—the neighbourhood,
Busy'd or pleas'd, o'erlook a stanger's woe;
Scarce knows the tenant of the adjoining house,
What thin partitions shield him from the room
Where Poverty hath fix'd her dread abode.
Oh fatal force of ill-tim'd delicacy,
Which bade me still conceal the want extreme,
While yet the decent dress remain'd in store,
To visit my Eugenius like myself;
Now shame, confusion, memory, unite
To drive me from his door.—
The sport of fortune, famine, and mankind;
Compose thy griefs, Louisa—stop those tears;
Cry not so piteous—spare, oh spare, thy sire,
Nor quite distract thy mother,—hapless babes!
What shall I do?—which ever way I turn,
Scenes of incessant horror strike my eye:
Bare, barren walls gloom formidably round,
And not a ray of hope is left to chear;
Sorrowing and sick, the partner of my fate
Lies on her bed of straw,—beside her, sad
My children dear, cling to her breast, and weep;
Or prest by hunger, hunt each nook for food,
And quite exhausted, climb these knees—in vain.
How ev'ry asking eye appeals at once!
Ah looks too eloquent!—too plainly marked,
Ye ask for bread—I have no bread to give.
The wants of Nature, frugal as she is,
205
From day to day the feeble life of man,
No more, alas! thy father, can supply!—
To me, the hand of heaven-born Charity
Hard, as the season, gripes—the neighbourhood,
Busy'd or pleas'd, o'erlook a stanger's woe;
Scarce knows the tenant of the adjoining house,
What thin partitions shield him from the room
Where Poverty hath fix'd her dread abode.
Oh fatal force of ill-tim'd delicacy,
Which bade me still conceal the want extreme,
While yet the decent dress remain'd in store,
To visit my Eugenius like myself;
Now shame, confusion, memory, unite
To drive me from his door.—
------ Ah cruel man!
Too barbarous Eugenius—this from thee?
Have I not screen'd thee from a parent's wrath,
Shar'd in thy transports, in thy sorrows shar'd?
Were not our friendships in the cradle form'd,
Gain'd they not strength and firmness as we grew,
And dost thou shift with fortune's veering gale?
Dost thou survey me with the critic's eye?
And shun thy friend, because—(oh blush to truth,
Oh stain, to human sensibility!)
Because his tatter'd garments to the wind
And every passenger, more deep betray
Th' extremity severe—then fare thee well!
Quick let me seek my homely shed again,
Fly from the wretch, who triumphs o'er my rags,
On my Louisa's faithful bosom fall,
Hug to my heart my famish'd fondlings round;
Together suffer—and together die.—
Too barbarous Eugenius—this from thee?
Have I not screen'd thee from a parent's wrath,
Shar'd in thy transports, in thy sorrows shar'd?
Were not our friendships in the cradle form'd,
Gain'd they not strength and firmness as we grew,
And dost thou shift with fortune's veering gale?
206
And shun thy friend, because—(oh blush to truth,
Oh stain, to human sensibility!)
Because his tatter'd garments to the wind
And every passenger, more deep betray
Th' extremity severe—then fare thee well!
Quick let me seek my homely shed again,
Fly from the wretch, who triumphs o'er my rags,
On my Louisa's faithful bosom fall,
Hug to my heart my famish'd fondlings round;
Together suffer—and together die.—
------ What piles of wealth,
What loads of riches glitter through each street?
How thick the toys of fashon croud the eye!
The lap of luxury can hold no more;
Fortune, so rapid, rolls the partial show'r,
That ev'ry passion sickens with excess,
And nauseates the banquet meant to charm—
Yet, what are all these golden scenes to me,
These splendid modish superfluities;
What are these bright temptations to the poor?
Sooner, alas, will Pride new gild her coach,
Than bid the warming faggot blaze around
The hearth where chill Necessity resides—
But must Louisa, then—our tender babes—
Must they untimely sink into the grave;
Must all be victims to a fate so sore?
The world will nothing give but barren frowns:
What then remains—There stands the wretched hut
I dare not enter—Heav'n befriend them all!
What then remains—The night steals on apace;
The sick moon labours thro' the mixing clouds:
Yes—that were well—O dire Necessity!—
It must be so—Despair, do what thou wilt!
What loads of riches glitter through each street?
How thick the toys of fashon croud the eye!
The lap of luxury can hold no more;
Fortune, so rapid, rolls the partial show'r,
That ev'ry passion sickens with excess,
And nauseates the banquet meant to charm—
Yet, what are all these golden scenes to me,
These splendid modish superfluities;
What are these bright temptations to the poor?
Sooner, alas, will Pride new gild her coach,
207
The hearth where chill Necessity resides—
But must Louisa, then—our tender babes—
Must they untimely sink into the grave;
Must all be victims to a fate so sore?
The world will nothing give but barren frowns:
What then remains—There stands the wretched hut
I dare not enter—Heav'n befriend them all!
What then remains—The night steals on apace;
The sick moon labours thro' the mixing clouds:
Yes—that were well—O dire Necessity!—
It must be so—Despair, do what thou wilt!
— I faint with fear,
With terror, and fatigue—This forest gloom,
Made gloomier by the deep'ning shades of night,
Suits well the sad disorders of my soul:
The passing owl shrieks horrible her wail,
And conscious broods o'er her prophetic note;
Light springs the hare upon the wither'd leaf,
The rabbit frolics—and the guilty mind
starts at the sound, as at a giant's tread—
Ah me!—I hear the horse along the road—
Forgive me, Providence—forgive me Man!
I tremble thro' the heart—The clatt'ring hoof
Re-echoes thro' the wood—the moon appears
And lights me to my prey—
With terror, and fatigue—This forest gloom,
Made gloomier by the deep'ning shades of night,
Suits well the sad disorders of my soul:
The passing owl shrieks horrible her wail,
And conscious broods o'er her prophetic note;
Light springs the hare upon the wither'd leaf,
The rabbit frolics—and the guilty mind
starts at the sound, as at a giant's tread—
208
Forgive me, Providence—forgive me Man!
I tremble thro' the heart—The clatt'ring hoof
Re-echoes thro' the wood—the moon appears
And lights me to my prey—
------ Stop traveller!
Behold a being born like thee to live,
And yet endow'd with fortitude to die,
Were his alone the pang of poverty;
But a dear wife, now starving far from hence,
Nine hapless hungry children at her side,
A frowning world, and an ungrateful friend,
Urge him to actions which his heart abhors:
Assist us—save us—pity our despair,
O'erlook my fault, and view me as a man.
A fellow-mortal sues to thee for bread,
Invites thy charity—invites thy heart:
Perhaps thou art an husband, and a father;
Think if thy babes, like mine, dejected lay
And held their little hands to thee for food,
What wouldst thou have me do, wer't thou like me,
Driven to distress like mine—oh! then befriend,
Make our sad cause your own—I ask no more,
Nor will I force what bounty cannot spare:
Let me not take assassin-like the boon,
Which, humbly bending at thy foot, I beg.
Ne'er till this night ------
Behold a being born like thee to live,
And yet endow'd with fortitude to die,
Were his alone the pang of poverty;
But a dear wife, now starving far from hence,
Nine hapless hungry children at her side,
A frowning world, and an ungrateful friend,
Urge him to actions which his heart abhors:
Assist us—save us—pity our despair,
O'erlook my fault, and view me as a man.
A fellow-mortal sues to thee for bread,
Invites thy charity—invites thy heart:
Perhaps thou art an husband, and a father;
Think if thy babes, like mine, dejected lay
And held their little hands to thee for food,
What wouldst thou have me do, wer't thou like me,
Driven to distress like mine—oh! then befriend,
209
Nor will I force what bounty cannot spare:
Let me not take assassin-like the boon,
Which, humbly bending at thy foot, I beg.
Ne'er till this night ------
------ God speed thee on thy way
May plenty ever sit within thy house!
If thou hast children, angels guard thy steps!
Health scatter roses round each little cheek,
And Heav'n at last reward thy soul with bliss!
May plenty ever sit within thy house!
If thou hast children, angels guard thy steps!
Health scatter roses round each little cheek,
And Heav'n at last reward thy soul with bliss!
He's gone—and left his purse within my hand;
Thou much-desir'd, thou often sought in vain,
Sought while the tears were swimming in my eye,
Sought, but not found—at length I hold thee fast.
Swift let me fly upon the wings of love,
And bear the blessing to my fainting babes,
Then, gently take Louisa in my arms,
And to the mourner whisper, happier tidings.
Thou much-desir'd, thou often sought in vain,
Sought while the tears were swimming in my eye,
Sought, but not found—at length I hold thee fast.
Swift let me fly upon the wings of love,
And bear the blessing to my fainting babes,
Then, gently take Louisa in my arms,
And to the mourner whisper, happier tidings.
— Hark! what noise was that?
'Twas the dull bittern, booming o'er my head;
The raven follows her—the dusky air,
Thickens each form upon the cheated sight:
Ha! something shot methought across the way,
'Tis but the shadow of this stripling tree,
That throws its baby-arms as blows the gale.
Each object terrifies Guilt's anxious heart!
The robbers trembles at —
'Twas the dull bittern, booming o'er my head;
The raven follows her—the dusky air,
210
Ha! something shot methought across the way,
'Tis but the shadow of this stripling tree,
That throws its baby-arms as blows the gale.
Each object terrifies Guilt's anxious heart!
The robbers trembles at —
— What have I said?
Robber!—well may I start—O Heav'n!
What have I done?
Robber!—well may I start—O Heav'n!
What have I done?
— Shall then Louisa live on spoil?
Shall my poor children eat the bread of theft?
And have I, at the peaceful hour of night,
Like some malignant thing that prowls the wood,
Have I—a very felon!—sought relief
By means like these? And yet the traveller
Gave what I ask'd, as if in charity:
Perhaps his heart compassionately kind,
Gave from an impulse it could not resist:
Perhaps—'twas fear—lest murder might ensue:
Alas, I bore no arms—no blood, I sought!
How knew he that?—yet sure he might perceive
The harden'd villain spoke not in my air;
Trembling and cold, my hand was join'd in his,
My knees shook hard, my feeble accents fail'd,
The father's—husband's—tears, bedew'd my face,
And virtue almost triumph'd o'er despair!
Yet strikes the thought severely on my heart,
The deed was foul!—soft—let me pause awhile!
Again, the moon-beam breaks upon the eye,
—Guilt bears me to the ground—I faint—I fall!
The means of food should still be honest means,
Else were it well to starve!—
Shall my poor children eat the bread of theft?
And have I, at the peaceful hour of night,
Like some malignant thing that prowls the wood,
Have I—a very felon!—sought relief
By means like these? And yet the traveller
Gave what I ask'd, as if in charity:
Perhaps his heart compassionately kind,
Gave from an impulse it could not resist:
Perhaps—'twas fear—lest murder might ensue:
Alas, I bore no arms—no blood, I sought!
How knew he that?—yet sure he might perceive
The harden'd villain spoke not in my air;
211
My knees shook hard, my feeble accents fail'd,
The father's—husband's—tears, bedew'd my face,
And virtue almost triumph'd o'er despair!
Yet strikes the thought severely on my heart,
The deed was foul!—soft—let me pause awhile!
Again, the moon-beam breaks upon the eye,
—Guilt bears me to the ground—I faint—I fall!
The means of food should still be honest means,
Else were it well to starve!—
ODE TO A SCHOOL-FELLOW.
Written at Falstead in Essex.
I.
Hail to the harmless seats of happy youth!To the smooth hours of genuine pleasure, hail!
All hail to transport—hail to truth,
When health blew fresh in every gale,
Life smil'd, and reckless pastime spread the frolic sail!—
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II.
Backwards, dear youth—a little cast thine eye,Let pregnant fancy paint each early scene,
And pencil fair our boyish days,
The lively hope that crown'd the revel reign:
Our thousand pleasures—thousand plays!—
If these thou hast forgot—forbear to sigh:
If thou these call'st to mind—Oh still bestow thy sympathy.
II.
Recall the hour that set us free,From gerunds, pronouns, prosody,
Recall the bliss that throbb'd the heart,
When the glad summons bade us freely start,
'Twas heaven, and holiday—
And every little soul was dancing in its May!
IV.
'Tis true, we dealt in trifles then,But trifles please more mighty men;
Cheap were the baby-toys we chose,
Blithe as the ruddy morn we rose,
And slept at night, with—all a boy's repose.
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Our wishes were the wishes of a child.
V.
What tho' (for we are heirs of pain,Even from cradle, sore we sigh,
And as the hill of life we gain,
More rugged is the road—more sharp the misery!)
VI.
What tho' some vexing troubles roseOur sports to discompose;
What tho' the light'ning of the master's eye,
The threat'ning tone, the brow austere,
Bespoke disaster near,
And pedagogal tyranny:
Tho' knotty points of learned lore distrest,
Puzzled the head, and throbb'd the breast;
Tho' the keen scourge—of dreadful size!
Acutely whipt to make us wise;
The fleeting grief ne'er reach'd the heart,
But the faint cries were transient as the smart.
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VII.
Soon as the passing pain was o'er,Suspended happiness return'd,
The passing tear was seen no more.
The tyrants sceptre lost its power,
For mirth resum'd the vacant hour,
And the gay stripling laughs at what he mourn'd before!
VIII.
The soldier thus, in heat of wars,Sunk by the sudden blow to ground,
Still cover'd o'er with various scars,
Ere well the anguish leaves the wound,
Soon as he gains the strand
That girds his native land,
With triumph he recounts the hardy fray,
Shews the deep mark, where many a bare bone lay;
And smiles, and hardy boasts the blood-shed of the day.
IX.
Can'st thou, my friend, recall these joys,Yet cease to wish we still were boys?
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Scheme under scheme, some arch exploit in view,
The merry moon-shine pranks we play'd,
The little thefts at evening's fall;
The truant rambles we and vet'rous made,
When bold we scal'd the orchard wall.
X.
Where, as we reach the ruddy bough,On which the fair temptations grow,
One plucks the golden fruit—and one receives below!
Ah miniature exact of man!
Nature's full length, is still on childhood's plan,
But brighter colours deck the youth,
Rapture and health, vivacity and truth,
Soft too are then the shades of care,
And all is blythe as light, all buxom as the air.
| Miscellanies (1785) | |