The Works of Mr. Robert Gould In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould] |
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To the Memory of Mr. James Margetts
who died of the Small Pox in his Voyage to Pensilvania.
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 | The Works of Mr. Robert Gould |  |
To the Memory of Mr. James Margetts who died of the Small Pox in his Voyage to Pensilvania.
Long the kind Winds the Fatal Point forbore,
As loth to waft him from his Native Shore,
To which, alas! he must return no more:
But vainly they delay their destin'd Aid,
His Doom is set, and Fate must be obey'd.
For now the Youth is from his Parents gone;
O Fatal Parting!—but the Choice his Own.
I saw how to their Breasts they strain'd him fast,
And wept, as sure th'Embrace had been the last.
Nor Counsel, Caution, Blessing did they spare;
Their Hands, their Souls they for his Safety rear—
But in an Hour when Heav'n was deaf to Prayer!
As loth to waft him from his Native Shore,
To which, alas! he must return no more:
But vainly they delay their destin'd Aid,
His Doom is set, and Fate must be obey'd.
For now the Youth is from his Parents gone;
O Fatal Parting!—but the Choice his Own.
I saw how to their Breasts they strain'd him fast,
And wept, as sure th'Embrace had been the last.
Nor Counsel, Caution, Blessing did they spare;
Their Hands, their Souls they for his Safety rear—
But in an Hour when Heav'n was deaf to Prayer!
With a smooth Gale he leaves the Albion Shore,
And smiling Hope kept full in View before;
Nor did he any Danger fear, or find,
Either from Rocks, the Billows, or the Wind,
Which seem'd for him, against their Natures kind.
And smiling Hope kept full in View before;
252
Either from Rocks, the Billows, or the Wind,
Which seem'd for him, against their Natures kind.
In vain we wou'd into the Future see,
Or open what is clos'd by Destiny.
Who wou'd have thought, in this delightful Scene,
Secur'd without, they'd find a Foe within,
Worse than the wildest Tempest cou'd have been?
Or open what is clos'd by Destiny.
Who wou'd have thought, in this delightful Scene,
Secur'd without, they'd find a Foe within,
Worse than the wildest Tempest cou'd have been?
For now his Bow the Lep'rous Fury drew,
And from the String at once whole Quivers flew,
Which bursting in their Flight around 'em spread
The Ghastly Bane, and not a Shaft but sped:
Disdaining any Dart shou'd partial fall,
He aim'd the Pestilential Blast at all.
In vain alas! the Aid that Drugs wou'd lend!
Nor Art, nor Nature cou'd their Charge defend;
And it was fatal now to be a Friend:
Th'Assistants soon like the assisted grew,
And then as fast infected others too.
All Hands aloft had now been heard in vain;
The barbar'ous Ill had so decreas'd the Train,
The Ship as if Unman'd, lay floating on the Main.
And from the String at once whole Quivers flew,
Which bursting in their Flight around 'em spread
The Ghastly Bane, and not a Shaft but sped:
Disdaining any Dart shou'd partial fall,
He aim'd the Pestilential Blast at all.
In vain alas! the Aid that Drugs wou'd lend!
Nor Art, nor Nature cou'd their Charge defend;
And it was fatal now to be a Friend:
Th'Assistants soon like the assisted grew,
And then as fast infected others too.
All Hands aloft had now been heard in vain;
The barbar'ous Ill had so decreas'd the Train,
The Ship as if Unman'd, lay floating on the Main.
Ah! wou'd it here but stop it all were well!—
They're yet but Lives that we can cheaply Sell,
A vulgar Heard, whom Spite and Nonsense rules,
The Grin of Wit, and Proselytes of Fools;
And if they'll serve a Thousand more we'll spare;
Only, O Heav'n! the Youth be now thy Care,
Let not the fierce Destroyer enter there,
But thy Protection in his Worth survey:
As Israel's Safety on the Lintel lay,
We strive not to divert him from th'Ignobler Prey.
They're yet but Lives that we can cheaply Sell,
A vulgar Heard, whom Spite and Nonsense rules,
The Grin of Wit, and Proselytes of Fools;
And if they'll serve a Thousand more we'll spare;
Only, O Heav'n! the Youth be now thy Care,
Let not the fierce Destroyer enter there,
But thy Protection in his Worth survey:
As Israel's Safety on the Lintel lay,
We strive not to divert him from th'Ignobler Prey.
253
It will not be!—and vain is the defence,
When Death arrives, of Youth, or Innocence!
The fierce Disease no Magick cou'd rebate,
Unbyass'd by Remorse, and steel'd by Fate:
With Angry Joy the Luscious Bait he seiz'd,
Just as the Lion's Hunger is appeas'd,
That sullenly devours, and grumbles while he's pleas'd.
When Death arrives, of Youth, or Innocence!
The fierce Disease no Magick cou'd rebate,
Unbyass'd by Remorse, and steel'd by Fate:
With Angry Joy the Luscious Bait he seiz'd,
Just as the Lion's Hunger is appeas'd,
That sullenly devours, and grumbles while he's pleas'd.
The only comfort that did yet remain,
Was, that the youth had lost all Sense of Pain:
For, (as it were it self too mild a Fate,)
A Fever still does on this Fury wait,
Which with the Blood a Raging Venom blends,
And then in wayward Fumes up to the Brain ascends,
From whence a Thousand Fantoms take their Birth;
But, Tyrant like, they're fatal in their Mirth:
Thus lay the Youth, and in these last Extremes
Was forming to himself delightful Schemes
Of various things, but all without offence;
Reason was gone, but not his Innocence.
Ah! better, better far, than 'tis to be
At our last Gasp of Perfect Memory,
With all our Friends (as they were dying too)
Pale with Affright, and shrieking at the view;
Nor only that, but ev'ery slight of Grace
Staring a Guilty Conscience in the Face;
Which only serve, with our Departing Breath,
To give severer Pangs, and a more Anxious Death.
Was, that the youth had lost all Sense of Pain:
For, (as it were it self too mild a Fate,)
A Fever still does on this Fury wait,
Which with the Blood a Raging Venom blends,
And then in wayward Fumes up to the Brain ascends,
From whence a Thousand Fantoms take their Birth;
But, Tyrant like, they're fatal in their Mirth:
Thus lay the Youth, and in these last Extremes
Was forming to himself delightful Schemes
Of various things, but all without offence;
Reason was gone, but not his Innocence.
Ah! better, better far, than 'tis to be
At our last Gasp of Perfect Memory,
With all our Friends (as they were dying too)
Pale with Affright, and shrieking at the view;
Nor only that, but ev'ery slight of Grace
Staring a Guilty Conscience in the Face;
Which only serve, with our Departing Breath,
To give severer Pangs, and a more Anxious Death.
But now h' had reach'd the Ninth and fatal Day;
When in a Death-like Silence long he lay,
Till with a lengthn'd heave for Breath he sigh'd his Soul away.
Thus in a fatal Calm he Life resign'd,
But left a Tempest of Despair behind!
Not for themselves they half the Grief had shown,
So much his Name was dearer than their Own.
But most, O Blake! thou did'st his Fate deplore,
Nor Life, nor Fame it self you valu'd more.
So justly You his Gen'erous Temper hit,
No Tallies e'er did more exactly fit;
In sweetness one, in Innocence and Wit,
One in our Hope, (as in our Hope the Chief)
And now as undivided in our Grief!
In vain the fierce Disease thy Life did spare,
In vain you reach'd the Pensilvanian Air,
A lean Consumption there its Rage supply'd,
And you but liv'd to mourn his Loss, and dy'd!
When in a Death-like Silence long he lay,
Till with a lengthn'd heave for Breath he sigh'd his Soul away.
Thus in a fatal Calm he Life resign'd,
But left a Tempest of Despair behind!
Not for themselves they half the Grief had shown,
So much his Name was dearer than their Own.
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Nor Life, nor Fame it self you valu'd more.
So justly You his Gen'erous Temper hit,
No Tallies e'er did more exactly fit;
In sweetness one, in Innocence and Wit,
One in our Hope, (as in our Hope the Chief)
And now as undivided in our Grief!
In vain the fierce Disease thy Life did spare,
In vain you reach'd the Pensilvanian Air,
A lean Consumption there its Rage supply'd,
And you but liv'd to mourn his Loss, and dy'd!
Cruel Disease! enough at Land you reign,
Nor need erect your Trophies on the Main:
That Causeless Tyranny you well might spare,
And leave the Shelves, the Sands, and boiste'rous Air,
Thy dreadful Substitutes of Ruin there.
Or if thou wilt persist, and take Delight
On the rude Waves to exercise thy spite,
Against some Rock for ever may'st thou be
Transfixt by the Avenging Deity,
Just where the Billows with a hideous roar
Are broke, by Tempests thrown upon the Shore!
That there thou thro' all future Times may'st see,
Amid'st the Wrecks and Terrors of the Sea,
There is no need, accurst Disease! of THEE.
Nor need erect your Trophies on the Main:
That Causeless Tyranny you well might spare,
And leave the Shelves, the Sands, and boiste'rous Air,
Thy dreadful Substitutes of Ruin there.
Or if thou wilt persist, and take Delight
On the rude Waves to exercise thy spite,
Against some Rock for ever may'st thou be
Transfixt by the Avenging Deity,
Just where the Billows with a hideous roar
Are broke, by Tempests thrown upon the Shore!
That there thou thro' all future Times may'st see,
Amid'st the Wrecks and Terrors of the Sea,
There is no need, accurst Disease! of THEE.
See there thy Work where it extended lies!
Rack to our Thought! and Horrour to our Eyes,
View what a Ghastly Visage now he wears,
All crusted o'er! and marr'd beyond our Fears;
Of ev'ry Sweet dispoil'd, and ev'ry Grace,
That wore but now such Magick on his Face!
Is this the Portion of the Young and Fair!
Is this the end of all our Hope and Care!
His Sisters Wishes, and his Brothers Prayer!
Is this the Goodness we so much ador'd!
To which ev'n Fate will not a Grave afford,
Nor see the sad Remains back to his Native Soil restor'd.
Rack to our Thought! and Horrour to our Eyes,
View what a Ghastly Visage now he wears,
All crusted o'er! and marr'd beyond our Fears;
Of ev'ry Sweet dispoil'd, and ev'ry Grace,
That wore but now such Magick on his Face!
Is this the Portion of the Young and Fair!
Is this the end of all our Hope and Care!
His Sisters Wishes, and his Brothers Prayer!
255
To which ev'n Fate will not a Grave afford,
Nor see the sad Remains back to his Native Soil restor'd.
'Tis all too true!—and we lament in vain,
They must commit his Body to the Main;
Ev'n yet, deform'd as 'tis, too sweet a Prey
For the remorseless Monsters of the Sea.
O Sight! well from his Parents Eyes with-held!
A Sight where Death was by himself excell'd!
How had they rav'd his floating Corse to see
(Th'extremest Proof of Human Misery!)
On the bleak Waves with Ghastly Terrour ride,
Th'unpity'd Sport of the Insulting Tyde!
Mean while, perhaps, all Igno'rant of his Doom,
They pleas'd themselves he wou'd be soon at home,
And to their List'ning Ears, not heard before,
Tell all the Wonders of a Distant Shore:
Quite otherwise, alas! his Fate they find,
Sent back almost, by the next changing Wind.
Ill Tydings, tho' from distant Worlds they come,
Were never known to miss their Passage home.
They must commit his Body to the Main;
Ev'n yet, deform'd as 'tis, too sweet a Prey
For the remorseless Monsters of the Sea.
O Sight! well from his Parents Eyes with-held!
A Sight where Death was by himself excell'd!
How had they rav'd his floating Corse to see
(Th'extremest Proof of Human Misery!)
On the bleak Waves with Ghastly Terrour ride,
Th'unpity'd Sport of the Insulting Tyde!
Mean while, perhaps, all Igno'rant of his Doom,
They pleas'd themselves he wou'd be soon at home,
And to their List'ning Ears, not heard before,
Tell all the Wonders of a Distant Shore:
Quite otherwise, alas! his Fate they find,
Sent back almost, by the next changing Wind.
Ill Tydings, tho' from distant Worlds they come,
Were never known to miss their Passage home.
The News his Mother with Distraction hears,
A Rage of Sorrow! and a burst of Tears!
The Sweets her Visage cou'd so lately boast,
With Anguish rifl'd, and in weeping lost!
A Deathlike Pale reign'd there without controul,
And made her Face the Mirror to her Soul!
So much her Sorrow did th'Ascendant gain,
Her Travel for him was a smaller Pain:
Tho' never was there yet among the Fair,
One that deserv'd Exemption more from Care;—
But Vertue's not to be rewarded here.
His Beaute'ous Sister on her Mother hung,
And mournful Accents trembl'd from her Tongue:
Nor shall she yet forget to sigh his Name,
Till her fair Eyes have found out nobler Game,
Dispencing Darts that will not miss their Aim.
His loving Brothers, bending with the Blow,
Were not the meanest in this Scene of Woe:
But chiefly He, for Worth and Learning known,
Whom Truth adorns, and Friendship makes my Own.
His Pious Father, with erected Eyes,
All Dumb with Grief, and stiff'ning with Surprize,
Made yet this Flight of Sorrow higher rise!
Tho' Balm he pours into another's Moan,
He wou'd not, or he cou'd not cease his own.
A Thousand Ways in our Distress he finds,
To mitigate our Grief; and calm our Minds,
But all his Wisdom not himself relieves;
Like Heav'n he Counsels, but like Man he grieves!
A Rage of Sorrow! and a burst of Tears!
The Sweets her Visage cou'd so lately boast,
With Anguish rifl'd, and in weeping lost!
A Deathlike Pale reign'd there without controul,
And made her Face the Mirror to her Soul!
So much her Sorrow did th'Ascendant gain,
Her Travel for him was a smaller Pain:
Tho' never was there yet among the Fair,
One that deserv'd Exemption more from Care;—
But Vertue's not to be rewarded here.
His Beaute'ous Sister on her Mother hung,
And mournful Accents trembl'd from her Tongue:
256
Till her fair Eyes have found out nobler Game,
Dispencing Darts that will not miss their Aim.
His loving Brothers, bending with the Blow,
Were not the meanest in this Scene of Woe:
But chiefly He, for Worth and Learning known,
Whom Truth adorns, and Friendship makes my Own.
His Pious Father, with erected Eyes,
All Dumb with Grief, and stiff'ning with Surprize,
Made yet this Flight of Sorrow higher rise!
Tho' Balm he pours into another's Moan,
He wou'd not, or he cou'd not cease his own.
A Thousand Ways in our Distress he finds,
To mitigate our Grief; and calm our Minds,
But all his Wisdom not himself relieves;
Like Heav'n he Counsels, but like Man he grieves!
Nor Thee, O Kidder! cou'd thy Mitre save
From Briny Tears; the Emblem of his Grave:
Not all thy Learning from the Rabbins drain'd,
The Scripture clear'd, and Truth so well maintain'd;
Nor yet thy Goodness, that so far extends,
It all the Bad Instructs, and Poor befriends,
And, running still that Circle, never ends,
When thy Chast Spouse her Nephew's Fate did hear,
Cou'd free thee from partaking of her Care;
Thou wast thy self emasculated there!
Like Her, rejecting Comfort and Relief,
You mourn'd him more than with Collate'ral Grief.
From Briny Tears; the Emblem of his Grave:
Not all thy Learning from the Rabbins drain'd,
The Scripture clear'd, and Truth so well maintain'd;
Nor yet thy Goodness, that so far extends,
It all the Bad Instructs, and Poor befriends,
And, running still that Circle, never ends,
When thy Chast Spouse her Nephew's Fate did hear,
Cou'd free thee from partaking of her Care;
Thou wast thy self emasculated there!
Like Her, rejecting Comfort and Relief,
You mourn'd him more than with Collate'ral Grief.
But thou! O Father of the Youth I moan!
(With Sorrow scarce Inferiour to your Own)
If you so much Presumption will excuse,
Vouchsafe for once, to listen to the Muse:
If a fam'd Statesman, late, was in the Right,
The meanest Wits on best Expedients light:
Turn then the Tables, O Castalian Guide!
And shew the Prospect from the milder Side.
(With Sorrow scarce Inferiour to your Own)
If you so much Presumption will excuse,
Vouchsafe for once, to listen to the Muse:
If a fam'd Statesman, late, was in the Right,
The meanest Wits on best Expedients light:
257
And shew the Prospect from the milder Side.
What is the Cause of all our Human Care
But now to Hope, and now again to Fear?
From these two Passions y'are for Life releas'd,
As far as they relate to the deceas'd.
A Thousand Sweets he had that Blossom'd here,
Which now, remov'd into Æthereal Air,
Will ripen on, and reach Perfection there.
Ah happy Lot!—born in flagitious Times,
And yet remov'd before he knew our Crimes,
Or took the Bent for Pleasure to entice,
When Youth's advancing to the Verge of Vice;
E'er Beauty with her Smiles allur'd his Eyes,
And Wit had made him cease from being Wise;
E'er wild Ambition had his Mind possest,
Or Meagre Envy rob'd him of his Rest;
E'er he to hungry Ava'rice had been ply'd,
Softn'd by Lux'ury, or ensnar'd by Pride;
E'er he Distress without Compassion saw,
Or ever fee'd one Cormorant of Law;
E'er Atheists cou'd to Doubt a God perswade,
So visible in all the Works he made;
That Impious Race! who yet pretending Sense,
At Scripture laugh, and rail at Providence.
He left the Stage without the least Debate,
Or least Despondence of a Future State:
Beside, he dy'd e'er You his Sickness knew,
The killing Object distant from your View;
By which you from a Thousand Pangs were freed,
That must, in Nature, such a Loss precede.
For Proof of this, think of your other Son,
Thro' what a Train of Agonies you run,
When in the same Distemper, late, he lay,
Delirious, and just gasping Life away:
Not Death cou'd half so terrible appear,
For Death is, strictly, but the end of Fear:
True, he escap'd; and so your Elder Son—
At worst, of Three Y'are but depriv'd of One;
Nor He yet lost—but shunning longer Stay,
Gone to the Regions of Eternal Day!
The PLACE to which so well YOU teach the Way.
But now to Hope, and now again to Fear?
From these two Passions y'are for Life releas'd,
As far as they relate to the deceas'd.
A Thousand Sweets he had that Blossom'd here,
Which now, remov'd into Æthereal Air,
Will ripen on, and reach Perfection there.
Ah happy Lot!—born in flagitious Times,
And yet remov'd before he knew our Crimes,
Or took the Bent for Pleasure to entice,
When Youth's advancing to the Verge of Vice;
E'er Beauty with her Smiles allur'd his Eyes,
And Wit had made him cease from being Wise;
E'er wild Ambition had his Mind possest,
Or Meagre Envy rob'd him of his Rest;
E'er he to hungry Ava'rice had been ply'd,
Softn'd by Lux'ury, or ensnar'd by Pride;
E'er he Distress without Compassion saw,
Or ever fee'd one Cormorant of Law;
E'er Atheists cou'd to Doubt a God perswade,
So visible in all the Works he made;
That Impious Race! who yet pretending Sense,
At Scripture laugh, and rail at Providence.
He left the Stage without the least Debate,
Or least Despondence of a Future State:
Beside, he dy'd e'er You his Sickness knew,
The killing Object distant from your View;
By which you from a Thousand Pangs were freed,
That must, in Nature, such a Loss precede.
For Proof of this, think of your other Son,
Thro' what a Train of Agonies you run,
When in the same Distemper, late, he lay,
Delirious, and just gasping Life away:
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For Death is, strictly, but the end of Fear:
True, he escap'd; and so your Elder Son—
At worst, of Three Y'are but depriv'd of One;
Nor He yet lost—but shunning longer Stay,
Gone to the Regions of Eternal Day!
The PLACE to which so well YOU teach the Way.
| The Works of Mr. Robert Gould | |