University of Virginia Library

Sprightly and gay as love, as pure as truth,
The soul of beauty, and the pride of youth,
Demands my song; while my infantine muse
On waving wing, the heaven-born theme pursues.
No tuneful choir, who haunt Pieria's shade,
Do I invoke to lend their sacred aid;
My muse would beg alone Maria's smile,
To inspire her numbers and reward her toil,
And proud I'll feel, if Mary's hand bestow
Her favourite myrtle on my honoured brow.

When first mankind obeyed tyrannick sway,
The softer virtues in oblivion lay;
Then pale Affliction with her iron rod,
And Carnage dire around the nations strode.
Man sunk to vile debasement's lowest grade,
And lived “with beasts joint tenants of the shade.”
That fond endearing love which Nature formed,
Which one each breast to social friendship warmed,
Which once to generous deeds the world inspired,
To deeds which listening ages have admired,
No more prevailed, but lust, revenge and ire,
With brutal fury set the world on fire.
Tyrants and kings their lawless empire spread,
And from the sanguine earth the Virtues fled.
Though whelmed in woe and misery severe,
Such as e'en Nero must have wept to hear;
Though torn from all the objects of their love,
By dread seclusion, by a long remove;
Yet such was man's degenerate groveling state,
He added torture to the wounds of fate.
The generous fervour of the social flame
Was now unknown, or only known in name.
Pale-eyed Despair now raised her ebon throne,
And Pity knew no sorrows but her own.
Without a friend to calm his throbbing heart,
And from his breast to wrench Misfortune's dart,
Each in himself beheld his last resort,
Too weak, too frail his sorrow to support;
No generous tear bemoaned another's grief,
No friendly sympathy bestowed relief;
Tyrants beheld their easy victims fall,
And one wide common grave threat death to all.
But, to relieve the miseries of man,
Sweet Sensibility her reign began;
Beneath the mildness of her gentle reign,
The smiling virtues blessed the earth again;
Candour and Friendship, sweet ethereal pair,
Dispelled the lurid clouds of dark despair;
Those realms, which in the shades of darkness lay,
Shut from the light of learning's splendid day,
Or in the vale of misery, distressed
With every woe, that grieves a mortal breast,
With heart-felt joy perceived Compassion near,
From Sorrow's eye to wipe her bursting tear,
And mid the dungeon's insalubrious gloom,
Beheld the rose of consolation bloom.
Sweet Sensibility, pure is thy sway,
As the clear splendours of Hesperian day;
Bright is thy form, as when the clouds of even,
Enchase with flaming gold the azure heaven;
Soft is thy bosom, as the silver waves,
When gentle zephyrs, from their western caves,
Breathe a mild perfume o'er the rippling stream,
Which smiles effulgent in the solar beam.
Prompt is this breast, the wretched to release,
To allay his suffering with the voice of peace;
Thy love unbounded, as the boundless day,
Glows with the warmth of summer's noontide ray;
From thy kind tongue the sweetest honey flows,
To soothe the anguish of our bitterest woes.
When the dread king of terrors' ruthless dart,
Arrests a fond companion's bleeding heart,
And rifles youth of all his vernal bloom,
And lays the aged in the mouldering tomb;
When weeping virgins mourn a tender mate,
The hapless victim of a cruel fate;
When youthful lovers o'er their fair one's grave,
The funeral turf with briny sorrows lave;
When Hope no longer cheers their streaming eyes,
And drear despair's impervious clouds arise;
Then, Sensibility, thy power is known,
Thou never leav'st the wretch to weep alone.
With mild Persuasion's gently pleasing strain,
You love to ease his bosom-rending pain,
And, while the mourner lends a patient ear,
You answer sigh for sigh, and tear for tear;
Till, by the magick sympathy of woe,
His wounds are healed, his sorrows cease to flow!
Hail, Sensibility! thou soul of love,
'Tis thine the various scenes of bliss to prove;
The tear, we shed upon another's grief,
The woes, we suffer for our friend's relief,
Afford more pleasure to the feeling heart,
Than all the pomp and pride of wealth impart!
The silken sons of luxury and ease,
With vain magnificence, the crowd may please;
The chief, victorious, quits the embattled ground,
The blood-stained laurels round his temples bound;
The marble bust may tell to future age,
Some glorious villain on the present stage!
But what are riches, but an empty name?
And what is glory, but the toy of fame?
What is the mighty laurel, gained in fight?
To this the private murderer has a right.
Envy, the brightest character may rust;
The loftiest monuments are laid in dust;
Lo, brazen statues moulder and decay,
And hoary Time sweeps all the world away!
Then, where is glory, where the proud and great?
Where is the tyrant with his pomp and state?
Beggars and kings are destined to one grave;
Death deals alike to monarch and to slave.
Then learn, O man, to traverse out the year
Of fleeting life, which Heaven has lent thee here.
Be prompt to offer, with a kind relief,
The friendly pillow for the sons of grief.
Let feeling sympathy for every woe,
Which groaning mortals suffer here below,
Let Sensibility with heavenly fire,
With generous charity, thy soul inspire;
That, when pale Death this dreary scene shall close,
Millions may shout thee from this world of woes.
This is the noblest monument of praise,
Which human excellence on earth can raise;
This is the trophy, which with power sublime
Shall baffle all the wrath of hoary time.
But why, my muse, dost thou with daring wing,
Attempt so great, so bold a theme to sing?
Lo! in Amelia's breast the charms you tell
In sweet complacence and perfection dwell;
Maria, too, the feeling throb has known;
There Sensibility erects her throne.
Though beauty deck the fair external form
With all the elegance of every charm;
Though sense and virtue in the soul combine,
And like the stars in bright resplendence shine;
If Sensibility, that lovely guest,
Should prove a stranger to the virgin breast,
Beauty and sense and virtue must appear
But sounding names, which only fops revere;
Like some fair image, which the mimick strife
Of Sculpture's hand has made resembling life,
Which wants that nervous vigour to acquire,
That spreads through every limb the vital fire;
But Sensibility, the queen of grace,
Soft, as Amelia's sweetly blooming face,
From every stain the heavy soul refines,
And with a smile in every feature shines;
To every charm a milder beauty lends,
The fairest form with fairer tints amends;
A gentle mildness to the breast imparts,
Attracts, enchants and captivates our hearts;
Sprightly and gay as love, as pure as truth,
The soul of beauty, and the pride of youth.