Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY, PATRON; THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF STAMFORD, PRESIDENT; THE VICE-PRESIDENTS, TREASURER, REGISTER, AND DIRECTORS OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY, THIS FEEBLE ATTEMPT TO CELEBRATE THAT TRULY BENEVOLENT INSTITUTION IS (WITH A MIXTURE OF ADMIRATION AND RESPECT) MOST HUMBLY INSCRIBED, BY A SINCERE LOVER OF PHILANTHROPY.

Dramatis Personæ.

Sophia.
Albert, her Father.
Monimia, her Mother.
Edmund.
Roldan, the Seducer of Sophia.
Chorus of Albert's Neighbours, Messenger, Medical Assistant, &c.

Scene, before Albert's House, on the Borders of a Forest.
Time, about six Hours.

[_]

The Outline of this Story will be found by those who consult the Reports of the Humane Society for the Year 1784. Case 481. Page 110.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Albert, Sophia.
Albert.

Child of my happier years, belov'd Sophia!
Thou darling comfort of my woeful age!
Why hang of late the humid gems of grief
So frequent trembling on thy pale-grown cheek;
Like morning dews wherewith Aurora bathes
The vestal bosom of the paler rose?
Why dost thou fly of late the social joys
My hearth paternal, and my smiling bow'r
Were wont to boast? That smiling bow'r, Sophia,
(The wild luxuriance of whose woodbine sprays

'Twas once thy pride to regulate and prune)
Now, long neglected, needs thy tender care,
To check the wand'ring tendrils, raise from earth
The infant shoots, and teach the jas'mine sprays
To mingle with the smiling eglantine.

But thou, of late, more lov'st the gloomy shade
Of woods impervious to the mid-day sun.
The solemn fall of waters down the steep,
The gurgling riv'let, murmuring as it flows,
The piteous wailings of the nightingale,
And the sad cooings of the widow'd dove,
Now seem alone possessed of charms for thee.

Oft, with a trembling and unequal pace,
Slowly thou wanderest to the limpid brook,
Whose winding course among the antic roots
Of yonder ivy'd oaks obstructed mourns.
There have I mark'd thee, (for I careful oft
Pursu'd, with anxious love, thy wand'ring feet)
With sigh-swoln bosom, and with moisten'd eye,
Couch'd on the verdant sod, the flow'rets pluck;
And with a look so grave, as tho' thy mind
Knew not the childish conduct of thy hand,
Scatter the vegetative beauties o'er
The gliding surface of the dimpled stream.

Anon thou'dst rise; then on the fallen oak,
Whose ivy'd trunk athwart the streamlet lays,
Thyself extend, and, dropping many a tear,
With widening circles print the troubled stream.

Sophia.
Let not this musing fancy, tho' at times
It may assume black Melancholy's garb,
Disturb the peace of my dear father's mind.

Albert.
This antic mood at first I heeded not:
For youth I know its musing moments hath.
Nay, some there are, and those of sprightly cast,
Who, in the sportive hey-day of their bloods,
Prefer, at times, by solitary brook,
Or shade umbrageous, prudently to woo
The mournful pow'r of contemplation sage,
To all the joys of pastime's jocund reign.

Sophia.
Oh my lov'd father, (whom not ties of blood
So much endear as rev'rence for thy virtues)
Think that whatsoe'er of grief's resemblance

Hath mark'd my actions, is from thence deriv'd.
The mind which virtue fills, and sense refines,
Feels more of pleasure and substantial joy
In cool Reflection's sober haunts recluse,
Than in the bow'r where revelry abounds,
And jest, and vacant laughter shake the roof.

Albert.
'Tis wisely spoken. Yet, my gentle girl!
Thou hast indulg'd this mournful mood too far,
And almost waken'd in the doating breast
Of a fond sire who only lives in thee,
A painful doubt, that in thy tender heart
Some grief was deeply rooted. Oh, Sophia!
Since my dear boy, my Edmund, from these arms
By cold Misfortune's hand was forc'd away,
To seek new stores upon that ruthless sea
Whose greedy jaws soon swallow'd up the bark
Where rested all the treasure of our hopes—
But cease the sad remembrance! cease the tale!
The tender subject has, I see, provok'd
The floods of grief adown thy cheek to flow—
And my own soul is rushing to my eyes.

Sophia.
Oh, Sir! that dear, lov'd name within my breast
Wakes the remembrance of the woeful day
When first the dismal story pierc'd our ears
Of the wreck'd vessel, and my drowned brother;
And pained Memory, with her magic key,
Unlocks the floods of grief, and drowns my soul.

Albert.
Peace to his much lov'd ashes! Rest his soul
In everlasting peace! while we below
Drain without murmuring life's remaining cup.

Sophia.
Heav'n to my father make its remnant sweet!

Albert.

'Tis thou must sweet'n it, my soul's only joy!
Look on these hoary locks, this wrinkled brow,
And this plain garb of homely russet hue.
Once in my form were strength and beauty seen,
And silken grandeur cloth'd my youthful limbs:
Like a young oak, the forest's rising pride,

I flourish'd fair, while strength and vigour reign'd;
But when decay approach'd, the fatal blast
Of swift misfortune, like the lightning's gleam,
Seer'd all my cheerful verdure. Now alas!
I, in myself nor life nor comfort have.
Thy charms, Sophia,—thy unsullied worth
(Like mantling ivy to the leafless trunk)
Give the sole comfort to my cheerless age:
In thee I smile, I flourish, and I live;
And should some envious chance thy verdure blight,
Alone I stand, deserted, and distressed,
To ev'ry joy, to ev'ry comfort lost.

Weep'st thou, my child? Restrain thy needless tears:
Let not the pictures of desponding age
(Too often prone to look for distant woes,
And dwell on fancied evils) chill thy breast.

Sophia.
I needs must weep, to think thy joys depend
On such a frail foundation. Oh my sire!
To such transcendent virtue, heav'n methinks
Should deal its bounties with a larger hand.

Albert.
Tax not, my child, the just decrees of God!
Know that whate'er his providence ordains
Is for our good; tho' oft our headstrong wills
Defeat his kind intentions, and pervert
His proferr'd boon to an unwilling curse.

Sophia.
Thy just rebuke, my father, speaks at once
The piety and wisdom of thy mind.
But heav'n's paternal goodness sure'll forgive
The rash arraignment of its high decrees
Which filial love extorted from my lips.

Albert.

But say, what shadow for complaint have we?
'Tis true, of all our rich possessions stripp'd,
Here in a humble solitude we live.
But what of that? Still thro' our azure veins
The ennobled blood of our high ancestry
Flows undefil'd by folly or by guilt.
And tho' perhaps to narrow-minded pride
We shine less awful, to enlighten'd souls
Our lowly station gives us double worth.

The diamond virtue needs no painted foil,
No tinsel ornament, to set it off;
But in its native lustre still the same,
Sparkles as brightly in the trampled dust
As on the golden circle of a crown.

Then think, Sophia, that the greatest wealth
Which our proud ancestry could ever boast,
Still, still remains, and in thy tender charge—
I need not tell thee 'tis a spotless name.

But child, farewel. I go t'invite those neighbours
Our friendly cares have tutor'd and refin'd:
These shall to day our humble banquet share.
In celebration of thy natal hour,
Our roof, Sophia, shall with joy resound:
With harmless joy that leaves no sting behind.

SCENE II.

Sophia,
solus. [After a pause.]

“In thee I smile, I flourish, and I live;
“And should some envious chance thy verdure blight,

“Alone I stand, deserted, and distress'd:
“To ev'ry joy to ev'ry comfort lost.”

Almighty Pow'r! in pity to my sire,
Launch thy destroying lightnings at this head.
Oh let me die, ere yet my shame be known!

“A spotless name!”—Distraction to reflect!
That name, he deems so spotless, and so pure,
Shall soon be branded with a harlot's shame.
Oh Roldan! Roldan! wherefore didst thou thus
My peace destroy, and then to branded Scorn,
To Grief, to Anguish yield me up a prey?

The shorten'd shades these spreading beeches yield
Declare the long-expected season past
When the dear traitor promis'd to be here.
Alas the while! how is he alter'd now!
The time has been when, with impatient step,
And mind distract with thousand hopes and fears,
He, full an hour before the appointed clock,
Would to the spot repair, and chide the sun,
Whose envious chariot, he would swear, stood still,
To intercept the season of delight.

But ah! among the brambles, flow'ret-clad,
Which skirt on either side yon narrow walk,
Methinks I hear—'Tis so. My Roldan comes.

—But oh! how slow!—Where are the eagle wings,
With which Impatience us'd to aid his feet?—
Alas! this coldness doubles ev'ry pang.
Oh anguish! cruel Roldan! Oh despair!

[Leans in a disconsolate attitude against the scene.]

SCENE III.

Sophia, Roldan.
Roldan.
In tears, Sophia, wilt thou still defile
The gentle lustre of thy matchless charms
With such unpleasant vices? Grief and Care
At once are odious, in their foolish selves,
And mar the lovely workmanship of heav'n.

Sophia.
Oh Roldan, if these tears, these silly crimes,
Offend thy sight, 'tis in thy pow'r alone
To dry my cheek, and terminate my guilt.

Roldan,
(aside.)

Lewson, I thank thee; thou hast warn'd me well.
But I have steel'd my soul by thy advice,

And now am proof 'gainst all her artifice.

I come, Sophia, as thy summons bade,
And should be happy thy commands to hear:
But brief, I pray, for I am hence engag'd.

Sophia.
There was a time, Oh Roldan! well thou know'st,
When no engagement could have drawn away
Or Roldan, or a thought of Roldan's mind,
While the now slighted, the forlorn Sophia
Would deign her converse. Yet my Roldan say,
How am I alter'd? Has this hapless face—
Where thou wert wont to swear the rival flow'rs
(The factious blooms of York and Lancaster)
Fought o'er again their long disputed right,
And strove for mastery with such lovely grace
As made Rebellion seem the child of heav'n—
Say, has it lost its wonted vermile blush?
Oh think, dear youth! the tears, which love of thee
Has caus'd so oft to lave this pale-grown cheek,
Have damp'd the fires of youth and cheerful health.
The tender languish thou wert wont to praise,
Now reigns perhaps no longer in these eyes.
Alas! if now dim sadness there pervades,

Think 'twas thy conduct cast the woful veil
Which dulls their once-lov'd azure.

Roldan.
You wrong yourself. I mean not to dispraise
The matchless beauty of the fair Sophia.
But, to the purpose of this invitation.

Sophia.

Oh Roldan! that cool air—that frigid tone
Freeze on my tongue the purpose of my mind.

Think, Roldan, think: ere this fond, foolish heart
(By love of thee, and thoughtless youth betray'd)
Drew me unheedful from strict Honour's shore,
How many joys encircled me around:
How many comforts in my bosom reign'd.
But now where are they?—

Think when time shall come,
When all the secret of our love's reveal'd—
What then must be the lost Sophia's lot?
O think thou see'st me, by my father curs'd,
Deserted by the venerable dame
Whose tender paps my infant food supply'd,
Driv'n to distraction, with a frantic hand

Cut the black thread of vital misery;
And—Oh! where roves my madd'ning fancy now?

Thou can'st not, Roldan, cast me off to Shame;
Justice will surely prompt thy tender heart
To a poor, hapless female to restore
The peace and honour you have robb'd her of.

Roldan.
I have no time, Sophia, now to talk
Upon so stale a subject. So farewel.

(Going.)
Sophia.
Yet stay, my Roldan—dear barbarian! stay.
Oh hear me yet. Thus prostrate at thy feet,
(A suppliant now to one whose docile form
Once thought no posture meek enough to shew
The humble ardour of his boasted love)
The poor distress'd Sophia lowly begs
Thou yet wilt pity an unhappy sire,
The social pleasures of whose cheerful board
Thou hast so oft with seeming friendship shar'd.

Roldan,
(aside.)

A curse upon my weakness! Still I find
The lovely syren clings around my heart;

And, but for friendly Lewson's warning lore,
I soon should melt to pity.

Fair-one, cease,
Nor waste such dulcet sounds in bootless pray'rs.

Sophia.
Not for myself I beg: my conscious soul
Rests in such firm security that thou
(If God's commands are to his creatures law)
Art in the eye of Reason, and of Heav'n,
In strictest truth my husband, that I'd scorn
To stoop so lowly for a worldly name
Which thy inhuman bosom had refus'd.
But oh my parents!—Think, Oh Roldan, think
Thou see'st my father, by Affliction stung,
Sink down dishonour'd to a timeless grave;
While a poor mother, feeble and forlorn,
Pursues, with broken heart, his hapless shade.

Roldan.
Fair damsel cease; nor waste thy words in vain.
Think'st thou that I, for all the humid pearls
Which thy fair eyes so copiously can show'r,

Will sell the sparkling gems of Titled Wealth
Which Fortune offers.

Sophia.
Oh you oft have sworn
That you preferr'd the poor Sophia's love
To all the affluent gewgaws of a court.

Roldan.
When thus I swore, I swore but what I thought:
'Twas then the dream of love. But, lady, thanks;
The vision's charm thy kind indulgence broke;
And now I plainly see, that love's a toy,
Too light to be preferr'd to honour, wealth,
And grandeur. So farewel.

Sophia.
Inhuman! stay.
Recal to mind, I had a brother once,
Tho' buried now beneath the whelming wave,
To whom thy youthful heart appear'd conjoin'd
By sacred Friendship's adamantine chains.
Wilt thou then stain thy Edmund's memory thus?

Roldan.
Pardon me, Madam; but I mean to act
As I suppose that haughty brother would,
Were he alive to hear Sophia's tale.
Farewel, for ever.

SCENE IV.

Sophia; Chorus.
Chorus.
Did you mark, my friends,
How the false wretch the weeping fair-one spurn'd?
Alas the while! to jest and sportive glee
Our neighbour bade us welcome; but I fear
To grief and anguish will his joys be turn'd.

Sophia,
(not seeing them.)

Inhuman monster! What withholds my tongue
From breathing curses on his perjur'd soul?
Why do I not upon the lightnings call
To blast his impious head? Oh me, my heart!
Spite of his cruelty, and perjur'd crimes,
Still, still I find the dear destroyer reigns
Sole lord and monarch of this foolish breast.

Oh grief of heart! where, whither shall I fly?
Say, black Despair, hast thou no pathless wild;
No forest to the cheerful eye of day
Impervious, where dark Horror reigns alone,
And where no single ray, no feeble beam
E'er interrupts the terrors of thy sway?
There would I fly, and from the world conceal
My shame and woes. Alas! my hapless sire!
My tender mother too! Ah, break my heart!

Chorus.
Say, neighbours, shall I soothe with comfort's voice
This child of Misery? Or shall we stand,
Yet unobserved, and let the hapless fair
Give, unrestrain'd, her bitter sorrows vent?
But see again she rears her woful head,
And to heav'n's high tribunal lifts her eyes,
With tears envelop'd. Pretty soul! alas!
Hard is his heart who could such tears resist.
Now see, with what a frantic attitude,
With what a glare of madness in her eye,
She to the thickest of the wood retires.
Let us not follow; for such heavy griefs
Need much of Solitude's composing calm,

Ere the sad soul is suited to receive
The healing balm of Comfort's soothing lore.

SCENE V.

Chorus.

STROPHE I.

Oh Solitude, ordain'd to be
The nurse of thought, and Reason's friend,
How many virtues join in thee!
How many rare endowments blend!
By thee the philosophic mind,
O Science! tow'ring on thy wing,
And leaving Error's train behind,
And Prejudice, and Custom blind,
Has dar'd of awful truths sublime to sing.

ANTISTROPHE I.

Oh Solitude! by heav'n design'd
Reflection's sober pow'r to wake;
To soften the obdurate mind,
And Vice's firm fix'd throne to shake!
How often has the ribald lewd,

Conducted thro' thy awful bow'r,
With trembling soul, Conviction view'd,
And loth'd the path so long pursu'd,
And weeping own'd Contrition's pious pow'r!

EPODE I.

Then comes Repentance, cloth'd in sable stole,
And with her leads fair Peace, and Virtue bright,
Who gently soothe the agonizing soul,
And chacing Guilt's tempestuous night,
The bosom cheer with heav'nly light;
And fair Religion fills the breast with pure, serene delight.

STROPHE II.

Oh Solitude! by heav'n endow'd
With pow'r to lull the stormy train
Of passions, furious, wild, or proud,
And bow them all to Reason's reign!
How oft Revenge his bloody spite
Has thrown away, and quench'd his brand,
When, riding on the wings of Night,
(All active bustle put to flight)
Thou hover'dst whispering o'er with influence bland!

ANTISTROPHE II.

Oh Solitude! by heav'n endu'd
With pow'r to soothe the stormy breast,
By Grief, Despair, or Anguish rude,
Or fickle Fortune's frown opprest!
Whose lenient pow'r can charm the heart,
Can stop Affliction's bitter tear;
And, by thy shame-concealing art,
Can lessen Disappointment's smart,
And blunt Ingratitude's fell dart severe.

EPODE II.

Oh! if beside some gurgling runnel laid,
Beneath the pendant willow's weeping sprays,
Or in some grotto's more sequester'd shade
The poor forlorn Sophia stays,
While on her cheek keen Anguish preys,
Each torturing fancy, nymph divine! from her sad breast erase.

ACT II.

[SCENE I.]

Chorus; Albert.
Chorus.
Behold, my friends, with pleasure in his looks,
Where our good, venerable host approaches;
Vigorous in age. Alas! how soon those locks,
Which deck with hoary dignity his brow,
Torn by his wretched hands, shall strew the earth!
Into whose bowels he, with broken heart,
Will soon I fear descend.

Albert.
How now, my friends!
What sunk in sullen and desponding thought!
Does this our once glad mansion yield no cheer
To rouse the sluggard sparks of sprightly glee
Within your drooping bosoms?

Chorus.
Wretched man!

Albert.
What can this mean?

Chorus.
Oh man, to misery born!

Albert.
Almighty Pow'r! confounded and amaz'd
I stand. Oh friends, relieve my tortur'd mind!
Has any sad calamity befall'n
My aged wife? or she, the tender maid,
Whose dawning virtues are the only joy,
The only comfort of my wintry years?

Chorus.
The daughter whom you mention, if aright
These aged eyes discern, now bends this way.

SCENE II.

Albert; Chorus; Sophia.
Albert.
What can this mean? Those loose, dishevell'd locks,
Those antic braided flow'rets, and those eyes

Rolling with restless glare, and gazing oft,
With varying passions, on the traceless void,
Are tokens strong of a disorder'd mind.
How now, Sophia!

Sophia.
Said'st thou not, my friend,
Roldan, my love, would instantly be here,
To end my woes, my honour to restore,
And snatch my soul from Shame? See, see, how gay,
And yet how simple is my bridal dress?
Do not these red and purple flow'rets smile,
Among their verdant foliage, doubly sweet
Upon this vestal robe?—But ah! I fear
Roldan, my love, is false, and will not come.
They say Possession damps the flames of Love.
And, now I think me, he's grown cool of late.—
Oh I'm undone for ever.

(Weeps.)
Albert.
Out, alas!
Where does Conjecture lead? Alas, Sophia!
Dost thou not know thy father?

Sophia.
Oh forgive!
My wilder'd fancy, by this briny show'r
Now almost back to Reason's rule reclaim'd,
Perceives its wild mistake.

Albert.
But speak, my child;
For on the rack of doubt thy rambling words
Have stretch'd my tortur'd soul—Of Roldan what?
Thou hast not, surely, dar'd to plunge thy sire,
Thy hoary mother, and thy spotless race,
Thyself, and all into the pit obscene
Of Guilt and Shame.

Sophia,
(aside.)
Now am I curs'd indeed.
Oh break my heart!

Albert.
Ha! dost thou tremble, wretch?
And does the harlot blood forsake thy lip?
Oh guilt! guilt! guilt!—Thou stigma to my blood!

Chorus.
Oh be more gentle! See, thy harsh rebuke
Has chac'd the fainting spirit from her lip;
And deadly Terror seals her hapless eyes.

Albert.
Oh that these pale-grown lids had long been seal'd
For ever!

Chorus.
Oh be calm! Thy child revives.

Sophia.
Oh me! my sire, disarm thy bending brow;
And pity thy poor, wretched, injur'd child,
Whom Love and Treachery at once have spoil'd
Of peace and honour.

Albert.
Torture! Say no more.
Let loose my hand, lest I should dash thee off,
And bruise thy wanton form to—

Sophia.
Oh have mercy!
Yet, yet oh hear!

Albert.
No, not a word, by heav'n!
Hence, from my sight, and never see me more.

Chorus.
Rash man, forbear! Cast not thy hapless child,
More by Misfortune than by Guilt betray'd,
To public Shame and Misery a prey.

Sophia.

Oh mercy! mercy! aid my pray'rs, oh Heav'n!
Let not a hapless wretch, whose feeling heart
(Too much to sensibility attun'd)
Owes all its woes to Tenderness and Love,
Now fail within a parent's breast to wake
The soft emotions of relenting grief;
By the excess of which alone she fell.

Oh my lov'd, cruel father! had my heart,
Like thine, been barr'd to Pity's tearful plaint,
Could I, like thee, have turn'd a careless ear

To all the pray'rs, the sighs, tear-broken moans,
And moving arts of prostrate Tenderness,
I had not fall'n—I had not now become
Thus, in sad turn, a supplicant myself.
Oh then, if Pity has not fled to heav'n,
And left this sublunary world for e'er,
Chace this obdurate vengeance from thy mind,
And let Compassion soothe the rankling wounds
Compassion caus'd.

Albert.
Vile strumpet! hence, be gone.

Sophia.
My father! Oh, in pity—

Albert.

Hence, I say!
If thou but let me hear one accent more,
Or tarry longer in my blasted sight,
I'll breathe such curses on thy hated head—

Oh heaven and earth! where is the haughty boast
I made so lately of a spotless name!

SCENE III.

Albert; Chorus.
Chorus.
See, with what feeble and distracted steps
The wretched offspring of thy tender loves
Slowly withdraws. Ah yet thy rage restrain;
And let me back recal the trembling wretch:
For sure enough of anguish must she feel
From the base treachery of a perjur'd lover,
Without the sad addition of thy hate.

Albert.
Oh cursed Fortune! Is it come to this?
Is this the fruit of all my tender hopes?
Is this the end of all my boasted joys?
Is this—Oh wanton! murderess of my fame!
Curs'd be my hoary locks, for they no more
Shall claim respect and reverence from the crowd.
Curs'd be the hour that gave the harlot birth!
And curs'd be Roldan!—damned, impious fiend!
Oh that I had the treacherous villain here!
Old as I am, and feeble with my woes,

These wither'd hands should strew his mangled limbs,
For crows to feed on, and for flies to taint.

Chorus.
Oh calm these boisterous passions! Ill befit
The frantic bellowings of ungovern'd Rage
With those white locks. List then to Reason's voice,
And calm the raging tempest of thy ire.

Albert.
He who has always sail'd on glassy seas
May mock the storm-toss'd sailor for his fears.

Chorus.
The prudent sailor, in the worst of storms,
Leaves not his bark to mercy of the waves,
Ply then the compass of unbiass'd Right;
And where that points thee steer by Reason's helm.
This would assur'dly teach thee to restore
Thy wretched daughter once more to thy love.

Albert.

Oh name it not; for never from this hour
Shall the ungrateful strumpet blast my sight.

Has she not plung'd me deep in endless shame?
Has she not turn'd the sole surviving hope,
The only comfort of my hapless age,
To grief and anguish? Oh ye cruel pow'rs!
Is this the meed of all my tender care?
Were all my sage instructions then too weak
To guard her honour? Was it, say, for this,
That from the earliest birth of infant thought
I careful strove her tender mind to form?

How have I hung delighted o'er her charms,
Pouring the prudent counsels of my soul,
With ev'ry soft, insinuating art,
Which youth is ever pleas'd with, in her ear!
How has she oft with seeming rapture stood,
And mark'd, attentive, each instructive tale.
Then with the sweetest blandishments of love
Which infant fondness to a parent e'er
Could offer, would she pay my tender care;
Hang on my arm, and fondly kiss those lips
Whose honied lore she said her heart refin'd,
Lifted her soul to Virtue, and her breast
From ev'ry narrow sentiment sublim'd.
And now, when flattering Fancy painted all
The wish'd for virtues budding in her mind,—

The deadly weeds of Shame and wanton Guilt
Deform the scene, blast all my tender hopes,
And mar the promis'd harvest. Base Sophia!
Bane of my soul! polluter of my blood!
Never, oh never will I view her more.—
Oh hapless wretch! where shall I comfort find?
Where, where are Hope and Consolation flown?

SCENE IV.

Chorus.

Oh cruel sire! who, in thy frantic rage,
Canst cast away thy lost, thy injur'd child,
A prey to Want, to Anguish, and Despair.
For, in my thought, more guilty is the sire
Who thus abandons his deluded child
Than is the youth whose passion was her bane.

You see, my friends, how haughty rage transports
To impious actions e'en the worthiest minds,
And makes us deaf to Reason and to Truth.

STROPHE I.

Oh Rage! of all the fiends of hell
Who rule the wretched mortal's mind,

And prompt to actions base and fell,
Most stubborn, inconsistent, blind!
How curs'd are they
Who own thy sway?
How doubly curs'd the wretched thralls
On whom thy prompted vengeance falls!

ANTISTROPHE I.

'Tis thou, who, doubly furious made
By lofty Pride's imperious flame,
Hast hoary Albert's soul betray'd
To barbarous Guilt and public Shame.
Oh wretched child!
By Passion wild
Excluded from the shores of Peace;
Where shall thy growing sorrows cease?

EPODE I.

Oh Pity, on whose cheek divine,
Like gems, the trembling dew-drops shine;
Whose humid lustre soothes the heart
Impierc'd by keen Misfortune's dart;

Descend, sweet maid! and with a sigh
Chace from the furious Albert's mind
Each passion, and each thought unkind,
And let his fierce resentment quickly die.

STROPHE II.

Yes, Pity, as the furious train,
Who prowling hunt their midnight prey,
Retreating shun the peopled plain,
When fair Aurora's humid ray
Benignly gilds
The cheerful fields;
So, where thy mournful beauty shines,
Resentment flies, and Rage resigns.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Oh! if at some fair virgin's ear,
Who, coyly cruel, slights the swain,
Nor answers to his love sincere,
Thou weeping pleadest, not in vain;
Forsake a while
The tender toil;
And oh! exert thy gentlest art
To soften Albert's cruel heart.

EPODE II.

Or if, some forfeit life to spare,
You now, with soft, persuasive pray'r,
With sigh-swoln breast and loosen'd zone,
And 'shevell'd locks approach the throne;
Oh hither haste! thy care forego—
Thy needless care, for Brunswick's breast,
Already with each virtue blest,
Spontaneous melts at real woe.
No need of Pity's melting pray'r,
For George and Mercy are the same:
And Envy must herself proclaim,
“Compassion's not more prone to plead than he is prone to spare!”

ACT III.

[SCENE I.]

Chorus; Roldan.
Chorus.
Neighbours, is not yon same, with folded arms,
With head low bent, and pace dejected, slow,
And intermitted, the inhuman wretch
Whose selfish lust the heavy sorrows caus'd,
Beneath whose weight the child of Albert bends
Distracted? 'Tis the same. The graceful locks,
In curls Hesperient negligently dress'd,
The bloomy peach which ripens on his cheek,
The graceful limbs, and brow, where manly Grace
Commanding sits, I can remember well.

Roldan.

Inhuman wretch! What, was it not enough
To cast her off to Misery and Shame?
But must I, barbarous! to Injustice add
The unmanly insult of a mean reproach?—
Reproach for what?—For confidence in me.
Be Lewson curst, and curst the prudent lore

He pour'd so copious in this open ear!

Say, reverend stranger, hast thou lately seen
A weeping maid, disconsolate, and fair,
In humble robes of spotless white array'd,
Among the winding lab'rinths of this wood
Unguarded stray?

Chorus.
Mean'st thou the hapless child
Of hoary Albert, who yon mansion owns?

Roldan.
The same.

Chorus.
Driv'n from her sire, with curses loud,
Some short time since, distracted and forlorn,
The wretched outcast left the spot we tread.

Roldan.
And whither went she?

Chorus.
Where a frantic mind,
Thy treacherous cruelty, and a father's rage

Might drive the wretched lunatic, as yet
I have no power to guess.

Roldan.
Distracting thought!
What if the wretched fair, to madness stung,
Should perpetrate what she did more than hint!

Chorus.
Tell me, base libertine! dost thou suppose
That the hot vengeance of th'Almighty Pow'r
(Whose potent word the forked lightning forms,
And sends it hissing at the guilty head)
Will sleep for ever o'er thy impious crimes?

Roldan.
Oh me!

Chorus.
Thou guilty wretch! who, with pretended love,
Didst win the heart of the deluded fair,
And, for a short-liv'd transport, plunge her down
At once to Shame, and Guilt—perhaps to Death—
The worst of deaths—to suicide.

Roldan.
Alas!
Now glares my guilt in all its proper hues!
Yet let us hope—.

SCENE II.

Roldan; Chorus; Messenger.
Messenger.
Oh horror! Oh my friends!
Sophia!

Roldan.
Ha!

Messenger.
The sweet Sophia! She,
The loveliest flow'r of all Salopia's plains!—

Roldan.
Speak. What of her? Oh torture! Oh my fears!

Messenger.
She's dead! she's dead!

Roldan.
Oh God!

Chorus.
Where? where? and how?

Messenger.

As, even now, her sad, repentant sire,
By me accompanied, the forest rang'd,
To seek, and bring her back, we found the fair
Suspended to a bough; a cruel cord—

But see, the wretched man, and in his arms
His breathless child.

Chorus.
This instant fly to where,
Beside the hill, Pharmacinus resides:
The pupil he of sage Humanicus,
'Tis like the hapless female may restore.

The Lecturer on Suspended Animation.

SCENE III.

Roldan; Chorus.
Albert, with the body in his arms.
Roldan.
Oh agony! Oh horror! Sweet Sophia!
Oh let me—.

Albert.
Monster hence! nor howling thus
Disturb the torpor of my dumb despair.

Roldan.
Oh kill me! kill me!

Albert.

Prithee, wretch, be gone.
My heart's too full of anguish; I've no time
For vengeance now. Th'Almighty settle 'counts
'Tween thee and me.

Oh GOD! my child! my child!
Alas the sad effects of haughty Rage!
See, in my aged arms, the mighty curse,
The deadly fruit of ill-advised Ire,—
Of guilty Ire, which kin with nearest kin
At variance sets, and the paternal hand
Bathes in the heart's blood of his dear-lov'd child.

Oh blossom early cropp'd! dead, dead art thou!
Not by thyself, but by thy father slain.

Chorus.
Oh grief of heart! now dost thou see, too late,
The just resentment of offended Heav'n.

Albert.
Oh torture! anguish! Groaning, yes, I feel
GOD in his anger (on my furious head
Heaping his pond'rous vengeance) weighs me down.
Oh poignant thoughts of Horror and Remorse!
Oh scorpions gender'd of ill-grounded Wrath!
Oh grief of heart! Stript of my only joy!—
Alas, the anguish of a wretched man!

Chorus.
When she, the wretched partner of thy bed,
Shall view her breathless, and self-murder'd child;
How will her agonies thy pangs encrease?

Albert.
Oh Death, grim tyrant! thou hast swallow'd up
The dearest treasure of my bankrupt heart:
Then, in compassion, ope thy friendly port,
And let this shatter'd, storm-toss'd vessel in.

Chorus.

Waste not in fruitless tears the precious time;
But bear thy seeming lifeless daughter hence,
And on a couch, her head with pillows rear'd,

Let her extended lay: for I have sent
For one hard by, who, by th'instruction sage
Of good Humanicus, has haply learn'd
The life-restoring art—an art long time
To Pharmacy unknown; till, of late years,
Philanthropy, of Christian virtues first,
Some generous sons of Æsculapius urg'd
To institute, that honour of their tribe,
That glory of the happy age which gave
Such worthies and such worthy schemes a birth,
The bless'd HUMANE SOCIETY, design'd
To snatch the frantic suicide from hell,
As he seem'd rushing thro' its inmost gates;
To warm once more the breast which whelming tides,
Which cold intense, or suffocating fumes,
Or vivid lightning's desolating flash
Had robb'd of vital functions. Should I tell
The wond'rous triumphs of Resuscitation,
Thou'dst think I dealt in legends far more wild
Than Monmouth, or than Baker ever wrote.

But bear her in; for soon you may expect
The wish'd assistance here.

Albert.
Hopeless, and sad,
I will obey. Oh that the shaft of Death
Would pierce my cruel heart; for I, alas!
Never, no never shall, I fear, behold
These lov'd, these beauteous eyes unclos'd again.

SCENE IV.

Roldan; Chorus.
Chorus.
Rise from the earth, thou poor, distracted wretch!
While I the comfort-giving words of Hope
Pour in thy frantic ear.

Roldan.

Ah me, a wretch!
No, here, for ever, on the earth I'll sit,
Tearing the locks from this detested head,
And weeping till these guilty eyes, dissolv'd
Themselves to tears, no longer—Oh Despair!—
—What was I saying?—Whither rove my thoughts?

Sophia! yes,
Clos'd are thy eyes, and livid are thy lips.—

Yet will I kiss those eyes, those lips will press
Till warmth and animation shall return.

Chorus.
Why hold'st thou converse with the senseless earth? The Messenger and Medical Assistant cross the stage.

Skilful Pharmacinus, beneath that roof
The hapless female lays. O enter quick;
And Heav'n thy efforts crown with kind success.

Roldan.
Alas! no ray of Hope illumes my soul.
Oh! is there none whose hand compassionate
Will plunge a poignard in this aching heart?
For I, a wretch in sorrow overwhelm'd,
Loath the bright glories of the splendid sun.

Chorus.
Take comfort, wretched man! resign not Hope.

Roldan.
Talk not of Hope or Comfort, 'tis in vain:
Despair's cold gripe my aching heart benumbs.

Sophia! oh Sophia! murder'd fair!
Close on me, earth, for I am now no more.

Chorus.
Wilt thou not suffer Hope's soft, soothing voice
Thy anguish to suspend?

Roldan.
There is no hope.
Let this black day of horrors and of guilt
Close the short period of my wretched life—
Wretched thro' sin. Oh strike me, vengeful Heav'n,
Nor let the setting sun behold my woes.

Chorus.
Hear, wretched youth, and learn from thence to hope,
What wonders the resuscitating art
Has oft perform'd.

Roldan.
Sophia! oh Sophia!
Monster that I am! whither shall I turn?
Heav'n on all sides is up in arms against me.

Oh ye deep, gloomy caverns of Despair!
Open and receive me.

(Throws himself along on the ground.)
Chorus.
A guilty mind
Has render'd him to Consolation deaf.
Yet let us soothe him with such sounds as may
Most tend to 'waken Hope and chace Despair.
Relate the youth whose frost-suspended life
On Thames's peopled strand was late restor'd.

Semichorus.
Let not Despair possess thy soul: but mark
The triumphs of Resuscitation's arts.
Ere yet the feeble, distant sun
His second monthly course had run,
A friendless boy, whom cruel Fate
Compell'd with early toil and late
To ply on wintry tides the cheerless oar,
Sunk from his seat of vital pow'rs forlore.
Full bleak the frigid Erus blew;
The chilling fleeces gleaming flew,

Obscur'd the earth and hid the sky,
And scarcely could the clouded eye
The ice-clogg'd stream from the white shore descry;
Thus, till the distant port was gain'd,
Unaided the poor youth remain'd.
When now the boat arriv'd at last;
The tempest bleak, and stormy blast,
Had curv'd the stiffen'd breathless form.
No pulses beat; no part was warm:
The marbled corse no sign of life retain'd.
Clench'd at each ear a shrivell'd hand remain'd,
Nor all the strength which man could lend
The arms contraction could unbend.
Entire the sanguine blush was fled;
A livid pale each limb o'erspread;
Each limb appear'd irremediably dead.
On the left breast the chin reclin'd,
There seem'd indissolubly join'd.
Lock'd was the jaw; the features all
Distorted, shrivell'd, shrunk, and small.
The neck's contracted muscles felt like stone;
His open eyes with no bright lustre shone;
But, in the head retreated far,
The lessen'd balls were fix'd in horrid stare.

But when the kind assistance came,
And on the frost-contracted frame
Each art resuscitating tried,
The corse, at length, with warmth supplied,
Groan'd death-like; while by slow degrees
Spasms the rousing body seize.
With shrieks full loud, and bitter moan,
And limbs in writhes convulsive thrown,
Expressive of excessive pains,
Life her wonted seat regains.

Chorus.
Say, thou despairing wretch! who, prostrate still,
Seem'st to be digging for thyself a grave,
Reap'st thou no comfortable hope from this?

Roldan.

Oh no! 'tis different far. Tho' pinching frost,
Or deep emersion in the 'whelming wave,
May lock the soul within the cold-grown corpse,
And, life suspended, still keep Death at bay,
This cannot give in other cases hope.

Thus, thus I scatter to the vagrant winds
These hated locks; sad emblems of my hopes,

My joys, and comforts, which by anguish keen
Are torn and scatter'd from my wretched soul.

Chorus.

Forbear, rash youth, these acts of desperation:
Patient submit to Heav'n's supreme decree.
Meanwhile once more we'll try to quell Despair
Within thy wretched bosom. Thou shalt learn
There is no case, how desperate so e'er,
That is not gilded with a ray of Hope.

STROPHE

Despair! of Guilt thou frantic child,
In storms and dreadful lightnings got
By fierce Disease, Affliction wild,
Or keen Misfortune's swift embrace,
And in tempestuous whirlwinds born.
How wretched is his lot
Who trembling views thy frantic face,
And owns thy sway with heart forlorn!
Oh Roldan! lift thy pale, desponding head,
And hear how Heav'n's high grace before,
When ev'ry sign of life was fled,
Has deign'd lost Animation to restore.

ANTISTROPHE.

Returning from the banquet gay,
As late a son of Bacchus came,
The forked lightnings cross'd his way;
The awful thunders roll'd on high,
The tempest rag'd on ev'ry side.
And now the gleaming flame
Did round his black'ning temples fly,
And stretch'd him senseless on the ground.
Trembling, aghast, his pale companions stood:
No succour, no relief was near.
The breathless corse, with curdled blood,
They, homeward bearing, drew with many a tear.

EPODE.

Yet even he, tho' many hours he laid
Ere could be got the wonted aid,
Was to his wond'ring friends restor'd:
The blest resuscitating art
The soul-secreting caves explor'd,

And sat the captive spirit free:
Vibrates again the panting heart.
And now, renew'd in second life,
Restor'd to a delighted wife,
An aged mother and a wrinkled sire,
To tender relatives, and loving friends,
Among the social tribe he blends.

Then let not Hope, sad youth, expire;
But to that Power thy fervent pray'rs express,
Who crowns the toils of Charity with such unhop'd success.

Vide Reports for the Year 1783. Case 411. page 15.

This instance of restoring animation to a body struck with lightning was related by Dr. Hawes, in his last course of lectures on the subject of Suspended Animation. Imparted to me by a Pupil.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Roldan; Chorus; Edmund.
Edmund.

Lay still, my bounding heart! a while lay still,
Nor burst, thro' eagerness, thy swelling side!—
It will not be; the transports unrestrain'd,
Now as I nearer to the spot approach,
Grow doubly great. Oh agony of joy!
Oh bliss too great! Now, after four long years
Of tedious absence, thus to be restor'd
To a lov'd father and a doting mother.

But oh! how bounds my heart to thee, Sophia!
Thou dear-lov'd playmate of my infant years—
My lovely sister! And my bosom friend,
My Roldan too! him shall I see once more.
What joy to dart impatient to their arms,
Ris'n as it were from death! My dear Sophia!
How will thy tender bosom bound like mine!
How will thy lovely eyes with transport shine!
How will delight run thrilling thro' each vein,

When, with excess of fondness, thou shalt clasp
Thy long-lost brother once more to thy breast!

Roldan.
Oh wretch! wretch! wretch!

Edmund.
Alas! what moan is that?
Almighty Pow'r! he bears my Roldan's form;—
But Heav'n preserve him from such bitter woe!
For ah! his griefs would blight my budding joys.
Poor wretch! who, stretch'd all frantic on the ground,
Breath'st forth thy dolours to the public day,
What art thou? What thy plaint? Reveal and—Ha!

Roldan.
Shield! shield me, Heav'n! Have then my horrid crimes,
From the deep bottom of the briny tide,
Recall'd the ghost of my much injur'd friend?

Edmund.
What mean'st thou, Roldan?

Roldan.
Yes; I know thou com'st
To scourge and torture the detested wretch
Who dar'd, in violation of all laws
Of Friendship, and of Truth, of God, and man,
Despoil the sweet Sophia, hapless fair!
Of the rich treasure of her virgin fame;
And—

Edmund.
Ha! her virgin fame? Infernal villain!—
But thou shalt find in me no lifeless ghost,
Sent from the dreary mansions of the grave
To scare thy scoundrel soul with idle shrieks;
But one, oh monster! still possess'd of strength
To send thy howling soul to shades below;
There, in the ever-flaming depths of hell,
To mix with spirits of congenial stamp,
And clank thy burning chains, oh thou detested!—
With such devils as thyself.—Oh torture!
My sister, oh!

Chorus.
Alas! fresh woes remain.

Edmund.
Say'st thou fresh woes? What in the book of Fate
Can still so black be found as to increase
The more than Stygian horrors of my mind?

Roldan.
Oh wretch accurst, and impious as I am!
My cruel treatment drove the frantic fair
With desperate hand to terminate her woes.
Oh fatal cord!

Edmund.

Dead? Dead? Sophia dead?
My much-lov'd sister self-destroy'd? Alas!
Is this the fruit of all my springing hopes?
Do thus my transports end?

My sister dead?
Plung'd, all uncall'd for, in the awful realms
Of dark Eternity? Oh horrid thought!
Oh my tormented soul!—And thou the cause?
What damned fiend could steel thy barb'rous breast
To such accursed deeds?—But words are wind;
And bosoms hard as thine are not empierc'd
With unsubstantial weapons: therefore rise,

And, like a man (if manly feeling dwell
In breasts like thine) oppose my injur'd arm:
For die thou shalt, or to his sister's ghost
Dispatch young Albert's.

Chorus.
Ah brave youth, forbear!

Roldan.
Restrain him not. Oh my dear, injur'd friend!
Let loose thy rage. Here prostrate at thy knees
I bare my bosom, and entreat thy arm
To expedite the blow. Yes, kill the wretch
Whose damned arts, and cruelty have robb'd
Thy fair, accomplish'd, tender, lovely sister,
Of peace, of virgin honour, and of life.

Chorus.
Ah youth, forbear! Sheathe, sheathe thy furious sword!
See'st not the tear repentant down his cheek
Enanguish'd rolls, and speaks a tortur'd mind?

Edmund.

No, live, thou impious wretch! I will not blot
The name of Christian, which I boast to bear,
By taking vengeance of a prostrate foe,
Whose keen contrition's in his conduct seen.

But oh ye pow'rs, how cruel is my lot!
Wreck'd, and by cruel miracle preserv'd,
For four long years in distant climes I rov'd;
Long time a hapless vagabond, and poor;
Rent from the arms of ev'ry tender tie,
Of parents, sister, and of bosom friend,
Forlorn I griev'd. At length when sudden wealth
Had blest my toils, and winds and waves combin'd
To waft me rapid o'er the parting waves,—
Then when, of hope and expectation full,
I dart impatient to the much-lov'd arms
Of tender relatives, my cruel stars
Blast all my hopes, and plunge me headlong down
To the black abyss of Despair. I find
The dearest source of all my promis'd bliss
Destroy'd and ruin'd by a villain's hand;—
I find that villain in the bosom friend
Whose lov'd idea, thro' each distant clime,
I bore about, delighted, in my heart.

Chorus.
Have patience, noble youth, a while, and hear.—

Edmund.
What should I hear? What is't thou canst relate?
Canst thou describe with what a frantic look,
What tones of anguish, and what actions wild,
My wretched father tore the silver hairs,
With palsied hand, from off his hoary head?
Canst thou the shrieking agonies relate
Wherewith my mother view'd her breathless child?
This would'st thou tell me? This? For nothing sure
But sounds of horror and relations dire
Shall e'er again assail these wretched ears!

Chorus.
No, I would give thee comfort; give thee hope.

Edmund.
Away! What comfort can there be for me?
Oh sweet Sophia! dear, dear murder'd sister!—
But I will go, and (breathless as she is)
Strain her, distracted, to my sorrowing breast.

Chorus.
Not for the world. Thou must not enter now.
Tarry and hear: tho' late a breathless corpse
Thy sister was, yet is there hope she may,
In full possession of each vital pow'r,
Be to thy arms restor'd.

Edmund.
Ah, how! declare.

Chorus.
Of the HUMANE SOCIETY hast thou
As yet not heard? whose honours and rewards
Have to perfection brought the godlike art
Of rousing into life the dormant sparks
Of animation, and the latent fire
Rekindling with resuscitating breath
Of Medical Benevolence.

Edmund.
Before
The British coast I left, I oft have heard

The noble acts to which their civic crowns
Had urg'd the students of the healing art.

Chorus.
Now to perfection rais'd, the Institution,
Beneath the guardian patronage and care
Of our benevolent and pious King,
(Whose philanthropic principles, and zeal
For patriot works in lustre far exceed
The brightest jewels in the radiant wreath
That binds his royal brow) diffuses wide
The streams of its benevolence. The while
The noble Stamford's care and warm support,
(Assisted by the generous, the humane,
And worthy Beauchamp, Willoughby de Brook,
Pusey, and Andrews, valiant Oglethorpe,
And many others, whom the ardent glow
Of pure Benevolence has thus inspir'd)
Shelters its progress, and its pow'rs extends.

The while Humanicus, with annual toil,
Extends the useful knowledge of the means
By which the great Resuscitating Art
May be improv'd, and by Perfection crown'd.

Edmund.
This could I joy to hear, if grief of heart,
And poignant anguish for my private woes,
Each thought did not absorb. But what of this?

Chorus.
E'en now a pupil of this godlike art,
By good Humanicus instructed well
In all the useful knowledge of the science,
Essays thy sister's spirit to recal
From the dread portals of Eternity.

Edmund.
Assist him, Heav'n, and all ye heav'nly pow'rs!

Roldan.
And if a wretch so plung'd in guilt may dare
To Heav'n's bright throne uplift his suppliant eyes,
Oh crown with swift success the pious toil.

Edmund.
But wherefore stand I here, when I, perhaps,
Might to my dear-lov'd sister aid impart?
I'll haste and—.

Chorus.
—Hold! forbear! Dost thou not think
Thy unexpected presence must retard
Their needful care? Or say, can it be fit,
Should thy poor sister yet again respire,
Thou, who so long wert number'd with the dead,
Shouldst meet her op'ning eyes?

Edmund.
I yield, my friend.
But tell me: Dost thou think there's ground to hope?

Chorus.

If numerous instances of such success
As, if not vouch'd by witnesses of worth,
Would rank them with the idle tales of old
Of witchcraft and of magic, can suffice
As a foundation for so bold a hope,
Then will I say we ought not to despair.

For not long since a father and a son,
Whom cold and poverty impell'd to sleep
Within a potter's smokehouse, by the fumes
Were suffocated, and each vital pow'r,
Suspended, pent within their senseless breasts.
These did the Art Humane to life restore.
And, stranger still, when o'er the silver Trent
Destructive Winter spread her icy arms,
A little female, whom the semblance smooth
Beguil'd, with step advent'rous cross the stream
To bend her course, sunk thro', and by the tide
Swept far away, for half a dismal hour
Whelm'd in the aqueous element remain'd.
Yet even she was by the wonted means
To life restor'd, and to her frantic friends.

But should I ev'ry wond'rous case recite
Of those who from apparent death (produc'd

Or by emersion in the whelming tide,
By suffocation of unwholesome fumes,
By cord, by poison, or by other means)
Have rescued been, and to their friends restor'd,
Revolving Seasons to th'unfinish'd tale
Would pass all list'ning by.

Edmund.
Thy soothing words
On my benighted heart, reviving, pour
The cheerful lustre of fair dawning hope.

Roldan.
For me, a wretch! so far has coward Guilt
My soul unmann'd, I do not dare to hope.

Chorus.

Such the advantage virtue has o'er vice.

STROPHE I.

Wretched mortals! would ye know
Joy in weal, relief in woe,
Still to Virtue's sacred law
All your thoughts and actions square;
Then shall never black Despair
Your souls pervade with gloomy awe.

ANTISTROPHE I.

Hope—a virgin, chaste and pure,
Never, never will endure
To leave her blest ethereal seat,
To dwell with monsters guilt-defil'd;
But she loves, with influence mild,
To gild fair Virtue's sad retreat.

STROPHE II.

Thus in Edmund's guiltless mind
Dark Despondence cannot find
Gloomy space where she may rest;
Nor will Hope, with lightsome train,
Golden-tressed goddess! deign
To 'lumine Roldan's guilty breast.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Potent Pow'r, who rul'st on high!
Lord of earth, of sea, and sky!
Who disposest by thy word
All events, our griefs remove;
Nor let our hopes vain phantoms prove.
Oh be the fair to life restor'd!

EPODE.

And oh! with ev'ry joy those worthies crown,
Whom Christian Charity did first inspire
To fan in clay-cold breasts the dormant fire!
And kindly show'r each blessing down
On ev'ry pious head,
Who from the seeming dead
Has snatch'd the wretch, whom deep Despair
Impell'd Life's half-spun thread to tear,
Or whom some unforeseen event
To Death's half-open'd portals sent!

See the Honorary Medal given by the society to those who have restored Suspended Animation,

The reverse of the medal.

The Right Honourable the Earl of Stamford, President.

Lord Beauchamp, Lord Willoughby de Brooke, the Honourable Philip Pusey, Sir Joseph Andrews, Baronet, General Oglethorpe, &c. Vice-Presidents.

Reports for 1784. Case 480. page 107.

This is, I fear, not the only instance in which I have failed to make these facts appear tolerably in a poetical dress; perhaps it is not possible so to do. But it was my particular wish, by instancing various cases, to shew the public that the Humane Society did not confine their benevolent efforts to apparent deaths occasioned by one kind of accident only.

Case 482. page 111.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Roldan; Edmund; Chorus.
Edmund.

How long in expectation must we pine?
How long upon our eager hearts must Doubt
And keen Suspense with baneful influence prey?

Ye light-wing'd messengers of Heav'n! descend:
Let me no longer on the rack of Doubt
Be stretch'd impatient; but to instant Joy
Exalt at once, or headlong to Despair
Precipitate me down.

Chorus.

Impatient youth!
Curb the wild passions of thy headstrong mind,
And humbly wait th'Omnipotent decree.

Behold, my son, where down yon broken steep,
(With many an aged beech, and sapless elm,
Romantic, interspers'd) the foaming stream
Tumultuous rolls its way; and, as it rolls,

Breaks ever and anon the stony earth
With its impatient wave, and sweeps away
Its verdant boundaries, and its bed deforms.
Such is, within the human breast, the stream
Of Petulance, which, scorning all restraint,
Impairs the bounds of Reason, and deforms
The heart it flows thro' with unruly force.

Edmund.
Hark! hear'st thou not some busy noise within?
'Tis so. The door uncloses. Oh my heart!
With what a strong convulsion does each throb
Against my breast resound! What news? what news?
Hope glances from thy eye.

SCENE II.

Roldan; Edmund; Chorus; Messenger.
Messenger.
Sophia breathes.
Once more her eyes unclos'd, glad—.

Roldan.
—What say'st thou?
Did I thy accents rightly understand?

Or did unsettled Reason, to increase
To tenfold fierceness all my present pangs,
The fond delusion frame? Lives the sweet fair?
Does lov'd Sophia live?

Messenger.
She does.

Edmund.
Oh Heav'n!
My heart, too full of joy, prevents my tongue
Its gratitude to speak.

Roldan.
And shall I yet
Call sweet Sophia mine? Gaze once again
Upon her blooming charms, and ardent clasp
Her panting bosom to my bounding heart?

Chorus.
Thou messenger of happy tidings, say,
How waken'd first the dormant spark of life?

Messenger.
Long ev'ry quick'ning method we essay'd
Ere the most feeble gleam of distant Hope

Our arduous efforts cheer'd. In vain the lance
With keen incision the swoln vein unlock'd;
Two black coagulated drops alone
The orifice discharg'd. All hopeless we
Each art reanimating still applied,
While pale Despondence on each clouded brow
Disheartening sat. At length a feeble pulse,
Irregular and slow, Pharmacinus
Imagin'd he could feel. Inspir'd by Hope,
We doubled ev'ry effort, till in time
She faintly breath'd.

Edmund.
Oh sweeter sounds thy tale
Than the love carols of the matin lark
To the lorn ears of his night-sever'd mate.

Messenger.
And now the livid skin a purer hue
Began to wear; the while the trembling lids
Convulsions shook, as shake the misty clouds
On the green summit of some eastern hill,
Ere fair Aurora opes her radiant eyes
To glad the weeping plains with beaming light.

Then with a heartfelt sigh (while o'er her form
Auspicious moisture spread) her hand she mov'd.
And now her forehead glow'd; the coral blush
Chac'd from her trembling lips the inky dye.
The heart, once more, with slow vibration heaves;
The swelling sides distend; the pulses beat;
And the white panting bosom feebly swells.

Roldan.
Thou speakest transport to my list'ning soul!

Messenger.
Oh! had you seen her, when her languid eyes
Beam'd weeping forth between her opening lids;
As 'tween dispersing clouds the watry sun
Darts his enfeebled beams, while fertile show'rs
Fatten the vernal meadows, and restore
Their wonted beauty to the wither'd plains!
Such was her look, and such the kind effect
Her falling tears produc'd; for as they fell
Her fainted charms reviv'd, and to her mind
Her reas'ning pow'rs return'd.

Roldan.
Indulgent Heav'n!

Chorus.
These are the blessings, good Humanicus!
Thy pious industry on Britain show'rs!
'Tis not for nought that with incessant toil
And medical exertions thou hast sought
Afflicting pangs to change to springing joys,
And Grief's black stole, to Pleasure's varied robe.
The gloomy torch, the sad funereal pile
Design'd to light, thro' thee has oft been chang'd
To flames Hymeneal. Generous sage, proceed!
Exulting, Britain owns with grateful joy
How much to thy unwearied application
(Which the HUMANE SOCIETY has brought
From small beginnings to its present height)
She stands indebted. She with truth declares
That he whose efforts save a subject's life,
Deserves more honour than the hardy chief

Whose valiant daring in th'embattled field
The blood-stain'd laurel reaps. What then dost thou
(Oh good in private as in public life!)
Of grateful Britain claim!

Edmund.
On him and all
The pious founders of this Institution,
Be Heav'n's choice blessings show'r'd!

Chorus.

Amen! Nor be
Its Royal Patron, or Supporter kind
Without reward regarded.

STROPHE.

Benevolence, thou pow'r divine!
Whose radiant charms so brightly shine,
That not the thick'ning clouds impure
Of Guilt, who stalks with giant stride,
With Levity, and thoughtless Pride
Attendant on each wanton side,
Thy glorious influence can obscure!

Whatever vices curse this age,
Whatever thoughtless follies rage,
Yet thou, bright cherub! still, with influence bland,
Gild'st with thy smiles divine this favour'd land.

ANTISTROPHE.

Lo Charity! how many a shrine
To thee is rear'd, thou pow'r divine!
If Lust laments her life of shame,—
Compell'd by Anguish to deplore
The hour she launch'd from Honour's shore,
Thou open throw'st th'inviting door,
And dost the wand'ring fair reclaim.
For ev'ry various kind of woe
Thy gracious streams abundant flow.
Thy stewards sit at rich Augusta's gate
T'invite Distress to share a happier fate!

EPODE.

But far conspicuous o'er the rest
Of Charity's resplendent works,
That Institution shines confest,
Whose generous efforts to the human breast
The long suspended life restore;

And fan the spark that lurks
Within the senseless corse supprest.
Oh Albion! thy thrice favour'd shore
May Heav'n's peculiar favour boast:
For say, can any foreign coast
Such charities extensive show?
Or did one kingdom ever know,
And in one happy age,
So many worthies truly great,
So prompt to stem Affliction's rage,
To blunt the shafts of frowning Fate.—

Sophia,
(within.)
Oh let me taste again the vernal gale.

Roldan.
Ah cease, my friends! for hark what sweeter sounds
Warble harmonious in my ravish'd ear,
And bear my raptur'd soul aloft to Heav'n.

Sophia,
(within.)
Oh lead me friends, I pray, where the sweet flow
Of unobstructed breezes may regale
The feeble spirit fluttering in my breast.

Chorus.
Lo! this way comes thy sister. Youth, retire.
Till she of thy arrival shall be warn'd,
Prudence forbids the wish'd for interview.

I am credibly informed that several females whom the cruelty of our sex have driven to attempt the crime of suicide, have not only been restored to life by the exertions of the Humane Society, but have been honourably united to the objects of their affections.

The Magdalen Hospital.

SCENE III.

Roldan; Messenger; Chorus; Sophia; Albert; Monimia; Medical Assistant.
Monimia.
Oh my dear child! and do these aged eyes,
Once more with doting fondness gazing o'er
Thy animated limbs, admire the glow
Of matchless beauty which pervades thy form?

Albert.
My dear Sophia! my soul's better part!
And shall I yet, yet once again attend
With silent rapture to thy tuneful tongue?
Shall I once more admire th'enchanting flow
Of wisdom and of softness, sweetly join'd
In unison by thy attractive tongue?

Edmund,
(at a distance.)
Oh cruel Fate! must I thus gaze aloof,
Nor dare to be partaker of their joys?

Roldan,
(kneeling)
Oh thou dear injur'd fair-one! at thy feet
A wretch, who dares not to thy injur'd face
Uplift his guilty eyes, submissive begs
Thy pardon and thy pity.

Sophia.
Roldan rise,
Nor by that posture to my mind recal
Those fatal moments I must blush to think of.
Oh leave me, leave me!

Roldan.
Ah! in mercy yet,
If thou wouldst not to desperation drive
A poor repentant wretch, Sophia hear.

Sophia.
Oh my poor drooping heart! What wouldst thou have?

Roldan.
Thy pardon, sweet Sophia!

Sophia.
I could not,
If in my nature I were so inclin'd,
Refuse my pardon to a suppliant now;
When I so lately at the hand of Heav'n
Such favours have receiv'd.

Roldan.
And wilt thou, then,
At Hymen's altar crown my life with joy?

Sophia.
No, Roldan; no. Can I suppose that thou,
Who couldst insult my weakness, wouldst not still
Of thy untimely triumph mind me oft?
What then but anguish could our union bring?

Roldan.
Oh never, never, by high Heav'n I swear—.

Sophia.

Peace, Roldan; peace! High Heav'n's eternal throne,
And all the sacred attributes of God,
Thy faithless vows already have blasphem'd.
Oh do not wake the memory of thy crimes,
By repetition of those sacred oaths
Which could not bind thy wavering heart before.

But oh farewel! my feeble spirits faint.
This conflict of contending passions shakes
My frame too much. Farewel!

Roldan.
Ah stay, Sophia!
Oh didst thou know the pangs which gnaw my breast!
And didst thou know with how sincere an ardour—

Sophia.
—Urge me not. I will not think so harshly,
As, that thou didst not from thy soul intend
Whate'er the ardour of thy early love
So frequent swore. But if thy changeling mind
Was so unstable once, what hold secure
Can I at present have? Therefore farewel.

Roldan.

Oh torture! Oh my friends! Ye who have seen
My keen sensations of sincere remorse,
Will none, in pity, plead a wretch's cause?

Where shall I wander, desperate and alone,
And spend in bootless penitence my days?
Some silent, dark, sequester'd gloom I'll find,
Where lazy zephyrs thro' close woven sprays
Scarce whispering creep, nor with their feeble wings
Disturb the surface of the sleeping lake;
Where living thing as yet was never seen,
Save when the widow'd dove retir'd to mourn;
Where tread of foot ne'er press'd the unshorn grass,
Unless the spirits (if such things there are)
Which fill with troubled dreams the dormant brain,
Might there withdraw, to gather gloomy thoughts.
There will I ponder on Sophia's charms,
And sigh away my soul in pray'rs for her.

Haply Sophia, when I am no more,
Thou'lt to my memory drop a tender tear,
And sigh a pray'r for my departed soul.

Sophia.
Oh Roldan!

Chorus.
Youth, behold the fair-one melts,
And soft consenting in her azure eyes
Appears to languish bland.

Roldan.
Oh my Sophia!
Can then thy heart, in pity to my woes,
Accept the incense of repentant sighs,
And melt compassionate at these my tears?

Sophia.
Alas! Sophia's heart was never form'd
To hear her Roldan sigh, and hear unmov'd.
Then, if indeed this hand can make thee bless'd,
Accept it. Well thou know'st my heart is thine.

Roldan.
Oh bliss too great!

Chorus.
Hear me, thou gentle fair,
And you, ye happy parents, Yet in store
There is increase of happiness.—Your son—.

Albert
Ha! What of him?

Chorus.
Oh fortify your hearts
With firm philosophy; for I shall tell
What else with joy your reason might o'erturn.
Your Edmund still survives.

Sophia.
Oh Heav'n!

Chorus.
And soon he will be here.

Edmund
comes forward.
Yes, here he is.
Oh my dear sister! fondling of my heart!
Do I then clasp thee in my arms once more
Alive and breathing, rescu'd from the grave?
Oh transport! oh delight!

(Embraces her.)
Sophia.
My brother, oh!

Edmund.
Oh my lov'd parents!

(Embrace.)

Chorus.
While with transports they,
Too great for utterance, weep their sudden joys,
Say does thy heart, Pharmacinus, not feel
A conscious glow of intellectual pleasure,
Beyond the vulgar joys of appetite?

Medical Assistant.
It does, my friend. But be it not forgot
That first to Heav'n, which warm'd the generous breasts
Of those who spread Resuscitation's art,
And next, to that society belongs
The grateful tribute of sincere applause.

Chorus.
'Tis spoken well. And ye, most happy friends!
Let not the pleasures of your future lives
Drive from your hearts the memory of this day;
But ever, with true gratitude inspir'd,
Confess the mercies which ye have receiv'd,
With several thousand fellow creatures more,
From Heav'n and the HUMANE SOCIETY.

Exeunt Omnes.

ELEGIES, PASTORALS, AND OTHER RURAL POEMS.

ELEGIES.

ELEGY I. The ROSE.

Sure there are hours when the most joyous heart,
If from Reflection's pow'r not wholly clear,
Would from the banquet's noisy mirth depart,
To gurgling streams to lend a pensive ear;

And social souls relinquish for a while
(If trembling Conscience shrink not from the choice)
E'en Friendship's joys, or even Beauty's smile,
For silent Solitude's instructive voice.

For, where Reflection sways the feeling mind,
Or Fancy revels in luxuriant pow'r,
Articulation in each rill we find,
And gather morals from each budding flow'r.

Thus while I gaze upon that op'ning rose,
(In no embroider'd vestment proudly gay)
Which by the gaudy tulip sidelong grows,
The blushing blossom thus appears to say:

“Judge not, fond shepherd, by thy eye alone,
“Fix thy affections on intrinsic worth;
“Tho' other flow'rs more gaudy vestments own,
“No bud so sweet perfumes the teeming earth.

“Perennial charms 'tis only I can boast;
“From cankering age, and time, charm-blighting, free;
“My scent continues when my hue is lost.
“In me the emblem of fair Delia see.”

Yes, Delia's mind excels each outward grace—
Yet ne'er was virgin form more sweetly fair:
In her combine each charm of mien and face.
No sweeter bud perfumes the vernal air!

Yet Delia's mind excels each outward charm,
And, like thy scent, sweet blossom, shall remain:
The hand of Time shall polish, and not harm
The wit that rivets Cupid's roseate chain.

ELEGY II. The INVALID.

Tho' scarce I breathe (or breathe with toil and pain)
Intemp'rate pulses all unequal beat;
And tho' my fainting lungs can scarce sustain
Their wonted task, oppress'd with inward heat.

At sultry eve I court no fanning breeze,
Upon no river's cooling margin stray;
Nor seek refreshing shelter from the trees,
When bright Meridian darts his scorching ray.

Can Zephyr breathing thro' the poplar shade,
Can all the water in the Naiad's urns
Efface the image of my dearest maid?
Or quench Love's flame that in my bosom burns?

Yet let me strive to heal my bleeding heart.—
My waining health, ah! how shall I regain?
Verse may have pow'r to draw Love's venom'd dart;
And musick's charms may ease this feverish pain.

To rosy Health I'll tune my sober lyre,
Invoke her presence with a sprightly strain,
Till kindly she my bosom reinspire.—
Love mocks my toil, and says, “That toil were vain!”

With black Despair the Goddess scorns to dwell;
She seeks the breasts that jolly pastimes fire.—
My heart, alas! can by experience tell,
'Tis only Delia's smiles can Health inspire.

And why can Delia never, never smile?
Or with one distant hope relieve my care?
Why will she not my wretchedness beguile,
And banish, with responsive Love, Despair?

Content whole years I'll wear the servile chain,
And deem an age in sighs and tears well past,
If Delia'll pity my long-during pain,
And pay my sufferings with her love at last.

Oh shew me, then, one distant, cheerful ray,
And well contented I'll my course pursue:
The gleam of Hope shall 'luminate my way,
And bear me up Life's tedious journey thro'.

ELEGY III. DESPONDENCY.

Why sit I thus, to listless Grief a prey,
Nor lop my orchard's boughs, nor prune my vine?
While, chok'd with weeds, my promis'd crops decay,
And with'ring flow'rs, thro' lack of tending, pine.

No more my kids I gather from the rocks,
Or teach my lambs in verdant meads to roam;
But, quite neglectful of my pining flocks,
Within my dreary cottage sigh at home.

Pan yields no fleeces to my idle hand;
Gay Flora scorns to bless my slighted bow'r;
Ceres nor visits my uncultur'd land,
Nor feel my trees Pomona's fruitful pow'r.

Farewel, Oh Life! to all thy prudent cares;—
Let happier youths those busy cares employ;
Love, hopeless Love, my cheerless bosom tears.—
Why must I live forlorn of ev'ry joy?

Oh rouse me, Delia, with responsive Love!
Oh chace this langour with a gentle smile!
Rough Labour's active life o'erjoy'd I'll prove,
If Delia'll share the guerdon of my toil.

My goats I'll gather from unshelter'd rocks,
When scorching Leo fries the gaping ground;
While, in some water'd vale, the bleating flocks
My Delia tends, by poplars shaded round.

But when from heav'n unwholesome rains descend,
Or frigid blasts Earth's hoary bosom freeze,
Myself both goats and fleecy flocks will tend,
At home while Delia tastes indulgent ease.

For thee I'll gladly rise at early dawn,
To delve the glebe, or do the oxen's toil;
If thou'lt but cheer my heart at my return,
And pay my labours with a gracious smile.

The cow I'll milk, the brimming pale bring home,
And gather faggots from the neighb'ring wood,
And, numb'd and cramp'd with cold, when back I come
Thy fond concern shall warm my frozen blood.

ELEGY IV. The MUSE.

Farewel the transports of harmonious verse!
No more I sing of shepherds' happy loves;
No more each blossom's virtues I rehearse,
Or cull gay wreath's in Fancy's fertile groves.

Farewel the transports of the tuneful Muse!
My woes appear in ev'ry drooping lay:
If other subjects for my verse I chuse,
A love-lorn sigh wafts ev'ry thought away.

Awake, my Muse! shake off desponding Care;
On high Parnassus seek immortal fame:
In epic verse a lasting work prepare,
May place with Maro's my yet humble name!

Let trumpets sonorous bellow in the strain!
Let sanguine War in all its horrors rage!
Cleave heav'n's scar'd vault, and drench the thirsty plain,
While spreading Discord thunders thro' the page.

Sing mighty battles and great derring-does!
Let valiant Henry's conquests be thy choice!
—The vain attempt is blasted by my woes:
Love breathes a sigh dispels the trumpet's voice.

To livelier themes I'll turn my wanton song;
With rosy wreaths luxuriant grapes I'll twine:
To Bacchus' praise my lyricks shall belong;
With Bacchus buxom Venus shall combine.

Tune, tune, my lyre! I'll sing of drunken Mirth!
Let many a cup of mantling wine be quafft!—
—Ah vain essay! my spirits sink to earth:
Love drops a tear, and sours the wanton draught.

Why do my thoughts, their own tormenting foes,
Still turn to thee, my anguish to inflame?
Why does my Muse still ruminate my woes,
Still paint thy charms, still dwell on Delia's name?

Why, when I slumber, does she haunt me still?
Why, when I wake, is Delia still my theme?—
Has not Despair the pow'r Desire to kill?
Or does presumptuous Hope still fan my flame?

Dear cause of my all anguish! yes, my heart
Shall treasure up thy lov'd memorial still:
Tho' ev'ry tender line inflame my smart,
Thy virtuous charms the mournful page shall fill.

ELEGY V. The PERSON.

Come, Delia, come, and heal my bleeding heart!
Come, with sweet smiles, and banish fell Despair!
Why wilt thou heedless view thy lover's smart?
Ah, why reject his tender, faithful pray'r?

What tho' no orient blushes tinge my cheek,
Nor shine my eyes with wit's enliv'ning ray;
No curls Hesperient wanton in my neck,
Nor glossy lips the currant's hue display?

100

What tho' I've felt Misfortune's blighting hand,
And no far-grazing cattle call me lord;
No numerous fleeces whiten o'er the land,
Nor hives luxuriant honied sweets afford?

Yet want of wealth my fondness shall repay,
And cheerful toil shall multiply my store:
For thee thro' storms I'd plow my dang'rous way,
Or delve in gloomy mines for sordid ore.

Pleas'd o'er Numidia's burning sands I'd fly,
To chace the furious lion with my spear;
Or hunt hyænas 'neath the frigid sky,
The toil-bought guerdon would my Delia share.

Then come, my love, nor slight my lowly state;
Nor yet the plainness of my person scorn:
My ceaseless toil shall force a boon from Fate,
And cheerful health my person shall adorn.

101

ELEGY VI. The LARK.

The hapless youth who feels a real flame,
(So cruel Love, capricious god! decrees)
Long mourns, neglected by the lovely dame,
And long, enanguish'd, seeks in vain to please.

The fading langour of his mournful eye,
The faultering accent, trembling on his tongue;
The bosom heaving with the painful sigh,
The head propended as he droops along:

The dress neglected, and the slighted air,
(The faithful indicates of fervent love)
Disgust the fancy of the thoughtless fair,
And the preventions of his fortune prove.

While the false youth, with bless'd indifference gay,
(Who insincerely boasts bright Beauty's pow'r)
Oft bears the virgin's captive heart away,
And on her soft affections steals each hour.

102

His sprightly converse wins the list'ning ear;
Thoughts unimpassion'd point the happy way
T'improve each chance with brisk, assiduous care,
And the unguarded, flatter'd heart betray.

For me, the strong emotions of my mind,
My fond affection, my respectful fears,
Perplex my fancy, and my judgment blind:
Confus'd, I tremble when my love appears.

Thus I, perhaps, oppress'd by fear and grief,
Neglect each pleasing, softly soothing art;
With fruitless sighs, thus vainly seek relief,
And vainly strive to gain my Delia's heart.

Yet think, my Delia (thou, of all the fair,
With sensibility and sense adorn'd
In blest extreme, like Heav'n's peculiar care!)
You cause the grief for which your lover's scorn'd.

Oh then, thy lovely face with smiles array!
Think not my sadness speaks a sullen heart,
Or mournful words a peevish mind display:
I sink, alas! beneath Love's hopeless dart!

103

What tho' no sprightly wit adorns my tongue,
To bandy jocund laughter round the room?
What tho' I gaily chaunt no mirthful song;
But o'er my converse wear a sadd'ning gloom?

I once was cheerful as the new-born day,
Emerging gaily from the laughing east;
As blithe and sportive as the frolic May,
With choral birds and gaudy flow'rets drest.

Yon captur'd Lark, whose waining life decays,
Thro' the blue welkin while he wont to rove,
With dulcet pipe would hail Aurora's rays
With hymns of gratitude, and songs of love.

But darkling now, in close confinement pent,
His head he droops, and hangs his fainting wings:
His bosom pierc'd with dreary Discontent,
No more, alas! the mattin warbler sings.

My spirits thus, encag'd by black Despair,
Sink, inly fainting, in my love-lorn heart.
Give me but Hope, no lev'rock shall compare
With me, in gaiety or tuneful art.

104

For thee I'll fondly pen the tender lay,
And, while 'tis warbled by thy dulcet voice,
No feather'd tenant of the blooming spray
Shall with more perfect gratitude rejoice.

ELEGY VII. The CONSOLATION.

Did tuneful Hammond, skill'd in classic lore,
Sigh in soft verse, in vain, for love's return?
Did he, in vain, in softest strains deplore,
Condemn'd unpitied to a timeless urn?

And did his Delia listen while his strain
Made all the charms of Tibullus his own?
And was his learning and his genius vain
To chace from Delia's brow th'obdurate frown

Then ah what hope, what distant hope have I
To woo my lovelier Delia to these arms,
With verse expressive of the heaving sigh,
Which speaks my pains and her transcendent charms?

105

To me the deathless classics never taught
To breathe in artful notes the love-lorn care.
To me no aid laborious science brought:
Love and the Muse my only tutors are!

Thro' academic groves I never rov'd;
Meonides for me ne'er tun'd his shell;
Anacreon, Sappho, ne'er my verse improv'd;
Nor he who knew the arts of love so well.

Simple my thoughts, my language void of art,
And, like my person, rude and unrefin'd:
More fit to seek some rustic damsel's heart,
Than woo fair Delia's all-accomplish'd mind.

Then cease fond verse, nor seek again her ear:
In pensive silence I'll my pipe forego.—
Yet no, the Muse my drooping heart shall cheer,
And balmy verse shall lull the poignant woe.

Bless'd be the hour when first the love of song
Stole on my heart, and fir'd my youthful mind:
For verse can soothe whom Love and Fortune wrong,
And Passion's force in friendly fetters bind.

106

Then tho' blind Fortune, deity unkind!
Nor my more cruel fair, their frowns abate;
Yet will I still retain a grateful mind,
Nor Heav'n accuse, nor murmur at my fate.

For when, to hear some runnel bubble soft,
Pensive I stretch'd upon the verdant plain,
Me, yet a boy, the Muse would tutor oft,
And Love instruct and meliorate the strain.

Ovid.

ELEGY VIII. The EXECRATION.

TO A FRIEND.

1786.

Curs'd be the Muse! and curs'd the fatal hour
When first I listen'd to her syren tongue!
Resign'd my bosom to her pleasing pow'r,
And by her tuneful influence was undone.

107

Curs'd be the love of Science, which pervades,
With wild, enthusiast ardour, all my heart!
Oh happier they whom torpid Dulness shades,
Who plodding ply some low mechanic art!

Oh had the fates, low mould'ring in the dust
Untimely laid me, ere th'aspiring flame
Of ambient Fancy o'er me shining first,
Inspir'd and fill'd me with the love of fame!

Happy is he whose servile, grov'ling mind,
Nor sensibility nor spirit knows!
Who, all joys to appetite confin'd,
With pity throbs not, nor refinement glows!

But ah! ere yet ten sportive years had run—
Oh years of bliss!—swift o'er my youthful head,
With rhimes uncouth, ambitious, I begun
To shew the flame which late so widely spread.

E'en then sequester'd oft would I retire,
With mimick pencil or instructive book,
And to refining arts, e'en then, aspire;—
My sports neglected, and my mates forsook.

108

Tho' arts unfriendly long the flame supprest;
Tho' cold Misfortune chill'd my progress long,
And damp'd the ardour of my youthful breast,
Nought could destroy the sacred love of song.

Still as I grew, I nurs'd the embrio fire,
Which prompts the soul to knowledge and to fame;
Which to refinement makes us still aspire,
Expands the heart, and doubles feeling's claim.

Oh foolish man! What is Refinement? say.
Or what is Science? Fame and Knowledge what?
That thus you throw soft peace and rest away,
And, for Opinion, blast your tranquil lot?

—Yes, grov'ling joys contented I resign;—
For Sensibility and Fame forego
Low-thoughted transports: be the bosom mine
That feels from Sympathy redoubled woe!

Be mine the heart that beats for high renown,—
Tho' nights of sleepless care the wish attend!
And my warm'd fancy, oh ye Muses! crown,—
Tho' in unpitied want the vision end!

109

Let careful Study quit her cobweb'd cell,
With me the page instructive to explore,
Unheedful of the midnight tolling bell,—
Tho' aching heads succeed the 'laborate lore!

Still let me mourn, neglected, poor, despis'd,
From noisy Mirth and greedy Wealth estrang'd,
Ere all the feelings I so long have priz'd,
With Muse and Fancy, for such bliss be chang'd.

For still I hold 'twere better far to be
(And generous souls the choice must better suit)
A man, oppress'd with grief and misery,
Than the most happy, grov'ling, sensual brute.

And sure the keener feelings we possess,
The more of Science does the bosom fire;
We bear resemblance to the brutes the less,
And tow'ring rise in dignity the high'r.

110

ELEGY IX. TWELFTH DAY.

To Mrs. H.

1785.

The time has been (but ah! farewel those days—
Those cheerful days of innocence and mirth!)
I bless'd the wained sun's convivial rays
That gave this day of joyous pastime birth.

Around the social hearth, at night, we throng'd,
Where humour much, but more good-nature shin'd;
While joke and song the cheerful feast prolong'd
Far past the usual hour for rest assign'd.

Full oft our sire'd the youthful train provoke;
Full oft incite to pastimes gay and bland;
Full oft himself revive the flagging joke,
And in the comrade loose the sire's command.

Good gentle soul! fulfill'd with sober cheer,
Of morals blameless, as of manners gay;
He scorn'd the stoick frown and tone severe,
And rather chose by love than fear to sway.

111

But Death's keen axe has long embrac'd the root
Of all our joys. Yet not within his tomb
Was bliss interr'd; for many a tender shoot
Sprung budding forth, and blush'd with hopeful bloom.

Grief's season past, gay Mirth return'd again,
(Now flown perhaps to visit me no more).
The blazing faggot cheer'd the social train,
While Ease and Plenty show'r'd their lavish store.

Around the hat impatient were we seen,
And eager wrestled for our transient fate.
If I suppos'd gay Stella was the queen,
Eager I panted for the kingly state.

The prize obtain'd, I claim'd th'accustom'd kiss,
And thought no real Monarch was so blest:
This crown'd my transport; was my warmest wish:—
Love, now my torture, then was but my jest.

Thus was I wont this festive eve to spend,
In mirth outshining all my childish peers,
With spirits, health, and fortune to befriend—
What sad reverse attends my ripening years!

112

Grim Penury, with unremitting care,
And friendless solitude, my peace destroys;
And love, all hopeless, drives me to despair;
And hell-born Ate my sad heart annoys.

Ye cheerful hours, unhurt by gnawing Care!
Ye social days of plenty, joy, and peace!
Say will ye hither, once again, repair?
Will e'er the frowns of adverse Fortune cease?

Pale Melancholy's first-born daughter, Spleen,
To my sick fancy paints a thousand ills:
Upholds her shadowy, woe depictur'd screen,
And thus her hope-destroying lore instils:

Perhaps, while here in solitude I set—
My playful cat, my only company,
Who seems to pity my dejected state,
And, purring, fondly sports upon my knee.

Perhaps, while here in solitude I pine,
And doating think on lovely Delia's charms—
Those charms, alas! which never must be mine:
Ah how the teasing thought my heart alarms!

113

Perhaps while I in solitude reflect,
And sing in mournful verse my hapless plight,
The regal name my Delia may elect,
And some pert beau (the monarch of the night)

E'en now, perhaps, upon her coral lips
Imprints the kiss, his three-hours consort hails;—
Careless the balmy nectar'd breath he sips,
Nor knows how rare a flow'r his sense regales.

Or else, perhaps, (thus moping Spleen inspires)
Some favour'd lover gains the peerless prize;
The pleasing kiss inflames their mutual fires,
And mutual pleasure melts in either's eyes.

—Ah why to all the real woes of life
Should sick Imagination add her store?
Ideal, blending with substantial strife,
Oppress the feeble wretch surcharg'd before?

Hence caitiff Spleen, with thy chimera train!
Swell not with fancied woes my real grief,
Nor forge conceits to double ev'ry pain!—
But come, kind Hope, and bring my mind relief.

114

Full many a turn has Fortune's giddy wheel,
And I, who long have mourn'd her cruel spite,
In time her warm benevolence may feel:—
Aurora's rays succeed the darkest night.

ELEGY X. NEW YEAR'S NIGHT

MDCCLXXXVII.

Now silence reigns, and thro' the misty cloud
The plaintive Moon displays her yellow face:
Her light diminish'd by the humid shrowd,
Which wimples o'er the wonted azure space.

Now thro' the leafless trees, her feeble rays
Illume my window with a dappled light,
And, fix'd in sober thought, my eye surveys
The dun appearance of the cheerless night.

Reflection whispers to my brooding thought,
“Thou pensive bard, survey thy shadow'd fate!
“Yon low'ring sky with serious truth is wrought:
“Strong emblem, youth, of thy untoward state.

115

“See all the sky a slaty cloud o'ershade;
“No spot is cheer'd with azure's splendid hue,
“Yet sullen darkness no where is display'd:
“In this thy state of mind distinctly view.

“No festive joys, no revels, no delights,
“No cheerful friends, no nymphs of form divine
“Thy days consume, or cheer thy lonely nights;
“No rays of Fortune on thy efforts shine.

“Yet may'st thou say, and 'tis no little boast,
“Tho' sportive joys thy mind but rarely bless,
“Yet art thou not in black Despondence lost:
“Few feel the gloom of Melancholy less.

“The moon whose palid rays so feebly beam,
“Dispelling darkness, yet scarce yielding light,
“Shews how thy feeble hopes just faintly gleam,
“To keep thy soul from Fear's desponding night.”

Hark! thro' the silent void the solemn bell
Tolls forth the knell of a departed day!
Ah, who that hears the awful sound can tell
That he shall hear another toll'd away?

116

How many now, with social glee who met
To hail with festal joy the new-born year,
Prolong the cheerful hour, and jocund yet
Push round the glass, while songs and pastimes cheer?

And I, who now the serious Muses woo,
And waste in pensive thought the sleepless night,
Have hail'd this gay, this sportive season too,
The social harbinger of loud delight.

Then pastimes bland, and songs of cheerful glee
Gave wings to time, and roll'd the hours away;
While sportive cranks, and harmless gambols free
Were interspers'd with flash of Humour gay.

But now has thrice revolv'd the various year,
Thrice has return'd the time of sport and glee—
—But ah! in vain the circling times appear,
Revolving seasons bring no joys to me.

The hapless sons of Penury and Care,
Alone, neglected and deserted pine;
No hours convivial they in revels share,
Where wit, where beauty, and where affluence shine.

117

For who so dull, in this sagacious age—
This age of worldly prudence and of pride—
To court the humble, or the youth engage,
Who, saving Genius, has no wealth beside?

Yet thus neglected by the proud and gay,
Repine I will not at my stars unkind,
But rather far my gratitude display
For inward wealth, which gilds my tranquil mind.

Does not the Muse my raptur'd bosom fill?
Does not gay Fancy bless my lonely hours?
Does not Content her soothing lore instil,
And Health come tripping from her roseate bow'rs?

Bless'd is the youth who boasts a Poet's name!
He, independent, Fortune may despise:
Others their bliss from outward objects claim;
He, in his bosom bears the source of joys.

Ye gilded sons of Grandeur, vainly great!
Ye painted flies, who glitter at the ball!
Ye feather'd fops, who vaunt in tinsel state!
Know I, vain things! am richer than ye all!

118

Can all the wealth of both the Indies join'd,
And all the stores thro' fertile Nilus sent,
Procure such rich enjoyment for the mind
As Muse, as Fancy, Health, and young Content?

“It is the knell of my departed hours.” Young.

ELEGY XI. The DEPARTED FRIEND.

MDCCLXXXV.

I grieve to think how quick each blossom fades
That decorates the thorny road of life—
How oft Grief's worm the tender bud invades,
How oft 'tis blighted by Misfortune's strife!

I grieve to think how Disappointment's breath
Shrinks the young foliage of our budding hopes!
How oft the sudden hand of cruel Death
The sweetest branch of our enjoyment lops!

I had a friend—Oh Philip, ever dear!
Still shall thy memory in my bosom live.
Thy virtues bloom in recollection there;
To emulate those virtues will I strive.

119

I had a friend—tho' heav'n had snatch'd away
Each other comfort in my tender age;
In him it seem'd my losses to repay—
My sweet companion on life's toilsome stage!

How fraught with tender feelings was his mind!
O'erflowing fount of Sensibility!
To friends how true, to relatives how kind,
And how belov'd of ev'ry one was he!

Witness the tender sorrows which he felt,
Witness the mutual sorrows she return'd,
While both in tears of fond affection melt,
When he a sister's transient parting mourn'd!

I saw their tears, and heav'd a tender sigh;
I wish'd I could the cause of grief remove;
But vain that wish—I then resolv'd to try
With tuneful verse my Philip's breast to soothe.

And truth to say, of Muse no need was there:
For friendship's flame that glow'd within my breast
Inspir'd my thoughts, all artless as they were,
And thus the lay, well-meaning, I addrest:

120

“Accept, dear Phil, this rude, unskilful verse,
“Tho' nor by Muse inspir'd, nor Grace refin'd,
“Which I, in loose alternate rhime rehearse,
“To soothe the sorrows of thy gentle mind.

“What, tho' no polish'd lines, like Pope's, appear,
“No boldly-splendid thoughts my theme refine,
“—Such as in Spenser's nobler page appear,
“Or Collins, in thy strains majestic shine?

“I court not now the laurel'd wreath of Fame,
“Or various praise of nervous, smooth, and clear.
“Enough my honour, all I wish and claim,
“If with my verse thy bosom I may cheer.

“Fair Friendship's voice shall breathe in ev'ry line
“The faithful dictates of an honest heart:
“Friendship alone inspir'd the fair design
“To thee, these soothing verses to impart.

“No need is there of lofty Spenser's fire;
“No need of tuneful Pope's energic art,
“To strike, with trembling hand, a humble lyre,
“And sing the genuine feelings of the heart.

121

“But if my numbers should offend thy ear,
“Oh think they flow from an uneasy heart:
“The voice of Anguish never can be clear,
“And Melancholy mars the tuneful art.

“My lonely time no fond relations cheer;
“'Mongst gay compeers no social hours I spend;
“But oft in silence shed the bitter tear,
“And darkling sighs full oft my bosom rend.

“At times, indeed, a friendly Muse appears,
“And my sad breast inspires with soothing rhimes;
“And Fancy for a while my bosom cheers,
“With promis'd bliss and joy in future times.

“And sometimes (more than Muse or Fancy's dream)
“Thy friendly converse glads my drooping heart;
“Relieves my sorrows with the cheerful gleam
“Of gay delight, and blunts Misfortune's dart.

“As thy sweet converse oft has sooth'd my mind,
“So shall my Muse to comfort thee essay:
“Thus from the stream the flow'rets nurture find,
“And in return her verdant banks array.

122

“Thrice happy Phil! to thee indulgent Heav'n,
“Thy heart for ev'ry social tie who form'd,
“The best of all terrestrial gifts hath giv'n,—
“A friend with feelings like thy own adorn'd.

“One rich in Nature's gifts, and Virtue's lore,
“By ev'ry soft accomplishment refin'd;
“Who pays thy generous love with equal store,
“And in affections like as like in mind.

“Yet happier still a friend so lov'd to find
“In warm fraternal bonds combin'd with thee:
“To meet at home a friend so good, so kind:
“In thy fair sister all these charms to see.

“No wonder then that down each kindred cheek
“The pearly drops in moist succession fell;—
“No wonder that with fault'ring tongues ye speak,
“And blend with tears the bitter word, “Farewel.”

“Yet think, my friend, and let it cheer thy heart,
“How small's the distance that your love divides:
“No snow-crown'd Alps your neighb'ring dwellings part,
“No roaring oceans 'tween ye roll their tides.

123

“Oft will ye meet, and meet with double joy;
“For by short absence love is but increas'd,
“And pleasure's sweeter after pain's annoy:
“Who ne'er knew trouble Heav'n but half has bless'd.

“Thus some sweet lark, while absent from his love,
“In silence droops, of ev'ry joy forlorn;
“But with his voice makes vocal all the grove
“When his heart's gladden'd by her wish'd return.

“Thus a pure stream adown some sloping hill
“Rolls limpid on, and smoothly babbling glides,
“Till some rude crag obstructs the tranquil rill,
“And in two wand'ring brooks its course divides.

“The sister streams, as o'er th'unlevel grounds
“Unbless'd they wander, shed sad, troubled tears,
“And mourn their parting in low murm'ring sounds,
“Till pitying nature their lamenting hears.

“For now, to vales convey'd, each troubled stream
“Rushes delighted to the other's breast:
“Thus reunited, far more pleas'd they seem
“Than ere division's anxious cares opprest.

124

“With dimples deck'd they gambol thro' the fields,
“Their breast reflecting nature's various dyes:
“Flocks, shrubs, and flow'rs, which earth or feeds or yields,
“There mix confus'dly with the tinctur'd skies.”

Thus dictates Friendship to my artless quill,
When—oh! how transient, how unstable's life!
How vain is hope! How unexpected ill,
Instead of promis'd peace, brings unthought strife!

Scarce had I finish'd, when—oh grief of griefs!
My bleeding memory mourns the painful thought!
That friend, for whom my verse design'd relief,
By swift disease t'his early grave was brought.

Now who shall soothe my sorrow-clouded mind?
Who now my sad reflections shall relieve?
Where shall my heart consoling friendship find?—
Misfortune's children all unpitied grieve!

If the carnation, rich in gaudy dyes,
Droops on the earth, the florist views with pain
His garden's glory fall'n, each method tries
With props to rear it, and with art sustain;

125

But if some hedge-row flow'ret, cast to earth
By raging Erus, in the dust lays prone,
No trav'ller thinks it his assistance worth,
But each indignant treads its blossoms down.

Not so didst thou, my heart's elected friend!
You kindly courted when the world grew coy;—
When bland civility was at an end,
And cold-grown kindred turn'd th'inverted eye.

But oh thou image of the generous youth!
Thou other Philip, in a softer frame!
What can the anguish of thy bosom soothe?
What pangs excessive must thy breast enflame!

Did sorrow's gems empearl thy lovely cheek,
When in short absence ye were doom'd to pine?
What floods of woe will now that channel seek,
Since thou for e'er thy Philip must resign?

As fragrant lilies, overcharg'd with dew,
Their beauteous heads upon the earth recline,
So thy sad beauties drooping shrink from view;—
Oh when once more shall comfort's sunbeams shine?

Lilies of the Valley.

126

ELEGY XII. The SWALLOWS.

[_]

WHILE the author was, one summer's evening, sitting among the branches of a young, but antic-twisted oak, which hangs over a favourite and most romantic dell, (the scenery of which is equally heightened by the bubbling and unequal stream which runs through it, and by the corn-fields, precipices, dingles and bushes, trees, and flowers which adorn its winding brink, and add a beautiful and wild variety to the prospect) two swallows settled on the boughs of the same tree. The noise the first made before he was joined by his companion, together with the romantic scene, suggested to his mind the ideas he has endeavoured to convey in the following Elegy.

Here, 'mongst the branches of this spreading oak,
(Where Philomela's wont to build her bow'r)
Which wreathes fantastic o'er the babbling brook,
To mournful thought I'll dedicate an hour.

The blushing West, with glowing zone unbrac'd,
To her bright bosom takes the panting Sun;
Who journeys down, behind yon hill, in haste
Obtruding eyes of prying man to shun.

127

Now 'gins the mournful nightingale to sing,
And with her pipe salute departing day;
Each feather'd songster baits his tired wing,
And calls his partlet to the wonted spray.

The verdant tenants of the dewy fields
With wonted vespers make each meadow ring;
With sweets surcharg'd, which gaudy Flora yields,
The bee, soft murmuring, homeward bends his wing.

And see where Phrogne steers her fearless flight,
And, perching near me, from the distant spray
Thus seems her tim'rous partner to invite:
“Oh guide, my love! thy purple wing this way.

“Oh come, my love! devoid of Fear's alarm:
“It is no foe invades our peaceful bow'r;
“But Strephon 'tis, who scorns a bird to harm,
“But ever guards them with his utmost pow'r.

“Forlorn he loves to seek the dimpled rills
“Which thro' the winding dells meanders stray;
“For here the Muse his throbbing bosom fills,
“And Fairies drive his pensive thoughts away.

128

“One night I saw him by this bushy dell,
“Which shone reflecting mild Lucina's sheen;
“I stretch'd the wing, to bid my bow'r farewel,
“When strait before me stood the Fairy Queen.

‘Restrain thy flight, sweet chatterer!’ she cried,
‘Thy fluttering heart divest of needless fear:
‘By no unfeeling swain thou art espied:—
‘The friend and lover of our haunts is here.

‘He never climb'd the tree at midnight hours
‘To rob the stock-dove of her callow young;
‘Nor stole the eggs from out the linnet's bow'rs;
‘Nor cag'd the sky-lark for his dulcet song.

‘The fairies love him, and his steps attend,
‘From damps protect him, and his sorrows soothe:
‘For ever they the love-lorn swain befriend,
‘And ever pity unrewarded truth.

‘Full oft the youth, the anxious hours to kill,
‘Will, with no skilless toil, our haunts improve;
‘Encrease the murmurs of each babbling rill
‘With stone-built falls, and grots which fairies love.

129

‘Then fear not him, but tranquil keep thy bow'r;
‘For love his feeling bosom has refin'd;
‘To ev'ry tender passion added pow'r,
‘And wak'd each chord of pity in his mind.

‘Oh that that love which prompts each gen'rous deed,
‘Which harmonizes, humanizes life,
‘Should make the lover's inward bosom bleed!
‘Give peace to others, but to him give strife!

‘Thus scorching flames on Ætna's bowels prey,
‘And with convulsions rend her tortur'd womb,
‘While the heat makes surrounding vallies gay,
‘And decorates them with each brighter bloom.

“So spoke the Queen; then gliding light away,
“Her mystic train she sought beside the stream,
“Where to the tinkling rill they sportive play,
“And bask and frolick in the yellow beam.

“Then come, my love, nor let his presence chace
“Our trembling pinions from the wonted bow'r;
“But, side by side, we'll keep our tranquil place,
“And to delight him try our skilless pow'r.

130

“Tho' with the lark's shrill pipe we can't compare,
“Nor can we match the tuneful linnet's throat,
“Yet our rude lays may mitigate his care,
“And tho' unskilful, friendly is our note.

131

PASTORALS.

ECLOGUE I. THE TEARS OF HOBBINOL.

To the Memory of Mr. PHILIP BONAFOUS.

MDCCLXXXV.

[_]

In this eclogue the author is introduced under the name of Hobbinol, lamenting the death of his friend Lubin.

Hobbinol; Cuddy.

Hard by a bushy dell was Hobbin seen
In bitter stour, and shent with doleful teen;
(Hobbin, the youth who whilom blithe and gay
As mattin lark or linnet on the spray,
Was wont to sing the jocund roundelay.)
Unheeded now upon the dewy grass
His bagpipe lay, and eke untun'd it was.

132

Blent were his eyen with sorwe's bitter flood,
His tear-stain'd cheeks forlorn of youthly blood;
In ropy tangles hung his unkempt hair,
Like one whose heart's yclouded by despair.
Full many were the heavy singulphs sent
From his riv'n breast, in sorwe all ydrent.

Him blithesome Cuddy, tripping o'er the lea,
All in this dreary guise enchanc'd to see,
And to him yeod to weet what deal of woe
Ycaus'd his bitter tears so fast to flow.

Cuddy.
Why what's the hap? Why, Hobbinol, my lad!
Thee art bewitch'd I trow, or ganging mad.
I met thy sheep o'ersprinting yonder mead,
Where they have stray'd for lack of better heed.
Up shepherd, up, thy scatterlings restrain,
Ere pilfering lossels filch them from the plain.

Hobbinol.
Let blithsome swains of flocks take proper keep,
Here will I lay, and eke for ever weep.

133

Cuddy.
Thou witless herd-groom! hast forlorn thy wits?
How ill thy plaining with this season fits?
For now light Zephyr ling'ring Spring awakes
From her long slumber, and behold she breaks
Thro' frigid nature; sham'd that Boreas rude
Should on her wonted reign so long obtrude:
A verdant blush enclothes her gladsome frame.
D'ofte dolour then, eke 'gin some joyous game:
Tune up thy jolly pipe, which now forlore
Lies all unheeded on the greensward floor;
Herry the buxom season, as 'tis meet,
With hymnials loud and lovelays gaily sweet.

Hobbinol.
Ah Cuddy! seek thee out some happier swain:
Of me thou seek'st for joysomness in vain.
But ill bestead is that unhappy bard
Blithe madrigals to sing, whom Fortune hard
Doth doom in bitter stour his days to spill;
Whose gladsome fancy anguish keen doth kill.
For roundels brag to unshent shepherds wend,
Whiletime the welkin I with dolours rend.

134

What boots it me, that Phœbus once again
Makes lightsome nature with his jolly waine?
What boots it me, that Boreas, blust'ring bleak,
His reign foregoes for Zephyr bland and meek?
That gay Vertumnus spreads him o'er the meads,
And by the hand the bloomy Flora leads?
That Naids no more their frore-bound fountains mourn,
But pour in gambolment the crystal urn?
From the warm'd stream that sheen-scal'd fishes leap?
That browsing lambkins merry gambols keep?
That on each spray birds maken melody,
And cooing doves speak their felicity?
To make me mirth in vain the sun essays;
In vain 'mongst budding trees light Zephyr plays:
Phœbus ne warms, ne Zephyr glads my heart;
Despair's breeme winter works me baneful smart.
In vain embraved meads look fresh and gay,
While lambs and fishes bragly sport and play:
They nor my eyen delight, ne ease my care,
Forthy my heart's yclouded by despair.
In vain the Naids in silver murmurs flow,
Birds sootly sing, and doves enamour'd coo;
Their melody no joyaunce can impart,
Sorwe's harsh discord grateth in my heart.

135

With dolourous teen my heart is so bestead
The landscape's pleasaunce cannot make me glad;
Nor songs mine ear delight, ne flow'rs mine eye,
The stream's soote murmurs pass unheeded by.

Cuddy.
Thou witless groom! what means this moody care?
What glauncing eye, or love-bereaving air
Hath trapp'd thy heart in Cupid's wimble snare?
Cheer up thou fon, thy jolly bagpipe tune;
With mirth and glee thou'lt lose thy passion soon.

Hobbinol.
Ah Cuddy, Cuddy, you my plight misdeem;
My drearyment is heavier than you ween.
Not Love's light arrow, but Death's heavy dart,
Bestirs this mortal teen within my heart.
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
All joy I've lost, for I have lost my friend.
Oh Death! of Sin the greedy tyrant son!
As round the world for ravin thou dost run;
Could'st thou no wight to glut thy craving find
But him alone in whom at once combin'd
Each gifting rare of heart, and eke of mind?

136

Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
Joy is no more, for I have lost my friend.
Ah life what art thou? Tenure of an hour!
Of joy how scant? how full of dolourous stour?
A brere, whereon, in spring, few blosmes appear,
But muchel noyous thorns thro' all the year.
Ah, woe's my heart! how rear my blossoms fade?
How scant they open'd, and how soon decay'd?
Just budded forth, and, as that were too much,
Like sensitives yshrink'd they from my touch.
One flow'ret only blossom'd sootly forth,
And that I dempt of sick a peerless worth,
That, tho' I saw each other hope decay'd,
I counted this a rich amendment made.
But wele away! 'tis nip'd by deablly frost:
The only pleasaunce of my life is lost.
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
All joy I've lost; for I have lost my friend.
My Lubin dearn! the glory of the plain,
Love of each nymph! delight of ev'ry swain!
Lubin (on whom befriending heav'n bestow'd
A pleasant fancy, curb'd by judgment good,
A heart to Virtue's good beheasts inclin'd,
By Sensibility's soft touch refin'd,)

137

Thy friendship 'twas wherein I took such joy.
Ah, cruel Death! why did'st my bliss destroy?
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
Joy is no more; for I have lost my friend.

Cuddy.
Is Lubin dead?—Ye birds that fill each spray
Your sonnets cease, and be no longer gay.
Ah, blent thy face, bright sun, in mirky tears;—
How ill thy sheen at sick a time appears?—
Surcease ye babbling rills, or as ye flow,
Contrive to sing of drearyment and woe.
Be hush'd, ye zephyrs, if ye n'ill inspire
With woeful dirges some Æolian lyre.
Lambkins no more your pleasant pastimes keep,
But pining learn of us to wail and weep.
Weep, weep ye swains! for peerless Lubin's dead,
And cause of joyaunce from the plain is fled.
Ye buckthorns cease your budding leaves to show;—
Let nothing thrive but cypress, sign of woe.
Let daffodils their golden semblance lack,
And eke the primrose dight in sooty black;
Let crocusses no various colours know,
But them b'dight in livery of woe.

138

From glens and groves is rural joyaunce fled:
Mourn, mourn ye sylvan scenes! for Lubin's dead.

Hobbinol.
Ah, me! each various object pains my heart;
Each wonted pastime wakes my dol'rous smart.
Farewel to books that wont to glad my mind;
No pleasaunce now in rural songs I find.
Yet, whilom, when I wont to pine and grieve,
Would Colin's lovelays eft my mind relieve;
But now no lovelays can my grief assuage:
My Lubin's form's depeinten on each page.
Each rustic lay, which erst with joy I read,
Now but reminds me that my friend is dead.
How eft his converse would my taste refine?
How eft explain the beauties of each line;
And with soote praise inspire me to rehearse
My artless lays, and copy Colin's verse?
But now farewel to pipe and artless lays;
For he is gone who wont my skill to praise.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend!
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.

139

Groves, bourns, and rivers but my dole renew,
For there the image of my friend I view.
In dreary cot, or o'er embraved glennes,
Where'er I won still, still the tender scenes,
And eke blithe hours in friendly pleasaunce spent,
My woeful mind loves all to represent.
How eft times would we rise at early dawn,
Whiles glitterand dews besprint the humid lawn,
And to some rivers cooling marge ystray,
With pleasing talk aye glad'ning all the way:
Thus was I wont a double good to find,
The walk my health improv'd, his lore my mind.
But, ah! such pleasaunce I must ken ne more
Sithence with Lubin I each joy forlore.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
Farewel the joys of valley, grove, and spring,
Desporting lambkins, birds that sootly sing:
Ne more, ne more your vernal charms invite;
Ne more, alas! your merry makes delight.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
Farewel to rustic verse and music sweet,
Ne more the loves of shepherds I repeat:

140

But thus my erst-lov'd bagpipe throw away
Sithence he's dead for whom I wont to play.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Music is harsh; for we have lost our friend.
Yet hold, and let us stint our selfish tears;
For not our friendship in our grief appears:
Forthy, he 'as left this vale of dole below
For heav'nly realms, where never yet was woe.
Death's dart, that shent us with such sore annoy,
Exalted Lubin to sublimer joy.
Then stint ye impious tears, ne more descend;
Heav'n gain'd a cherub when we lost a friend.

Spenser.

141

ECLOGUE II. THE WEEPING LYRE.

[_]

In this eclogue the author is again introduced, under the character of Hobbinol, lamenting the death of Lubin; while a friend, under the name of Argol, is also introduced lamenting the death of Stella; by whom is meant a young lady who died about the same time.

Argol; Hobbinol.

I tell the dreary ditties of two swains,
Who 'neath a poplar sung their doleful strains.
Death, ugsome death! had both their joyaunce crost;
Hobbin his friend, his love had Argol lost.
And now, their daily rural business done,
Each one began his nightly task—to moan:
The silver moon, yshining o'er their heads,
Her glitterand beams upon the streamlet sheds,
Whose doleful murmurings o'er the pebbled ground
Invite the mourners by their plaintive sound.

142

The yellow'd dews bewet the hawthorn spray,
And in the west did wained Phœbus' ray
Dapple with fainty red eve's dusky grey.

Wilt thou, oh T---, lend my lays an ear,
And with my sorwe's mingle eke thy tear?
Thou wilt I wot; tho' artless been my verse,
Thou'lt feel the tender subject I rehearse;
The tear adown thy manly cheek will steal—
Oh hide it not, for it becomes thee wele.
I'll mingle mine, and echo groan for groan,
Mourning thy loss whiles I waiment my own.
Each ones I pine, each ones at once I grieve;
Their memories both in Doric verse shall live.
Both I esteem'd, albe it is confest,
Lubin my friend was dearnest to my breast.
Albeit for him my heart is most forlorn,
Stella naith'less with unfeign'd dole I mourn;
And had ne Lubin drain'd the bitter tear,
My waiments sad had wetted Stella's bier.

Begin my Muse, b'dight in sable 'weed,
The joy-lorn shepherds' mournful tales aread.

143

Hobbinol.
Argol, our flocks are in their cootes ypent,
And day's illum'ning waine in ocean blent;
The happier herd-grooms been all lull'd in sleep,
But we by sorwe kept awake to weep.
Better I trow we hail the sheen-clad moon
With woeful dirges, and our minstrels tune
To dreariment beside this murmuring stream
Than pining press the restless bed I deem.
Here set we down, our mutual teen rehearse:
For sorwe's oft reliev'd by mournful verse.

Argol.
Thy council, Hobbin, I arread is good:
Then let us here indulge the dreary mood.
I have a dirge, which ones erewhile I wrote,
Wherein my teen for Stella's death I note;
Thilk same I'll sing, and tune my sorweing tale
To the sad wailings of the nightingale.

Hobbinol.
And I last night, ystretch'd upon the ground,
Whiles pastime slept, and sadness reign'd around,

144

Where weeping willows darkling shade the stream,
That murmuring flows these delved banks between,
Her voice to dole where Philomel attunes,
And mate-lorn doves yspill the night in moans,
To Lubin's praise compos'd a doleful verse:
The same if tears permit I will rehearse.
And eke I've made of maple ware a lyre,
Deftly attun'd with various sounding wire;
At top whereof's encarved a hollow shell;
From whence, like tears, adown the chordings well
Slow drops of water, and the whiles they flow
They give each note a sooter sound of woe.
Amuling this, mine Elegy I'll sing,
Touching with all my art each thrillant string.

Argol.
Eftsoons then Hobbinol begin thy tale,
And, after thee, I will my hap bewail.

Hobbinol.

Adown the wires while tears melodious rain,
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.
Ah woe is me! how mickle is the smart
The heart of Sensibility doth rend,

145

When we, deep shent by Mis'ry's trenchant dart,
Our dearnest joyaunce lose, a bosom friend.
Nought to the feeling bosom been so dear
As the elected brother of the heart:
That dearnest blessing I enjoy'd while-ere,
But now bereaved am by Death's fell dart.
Ah, me! that dearnest friends so soon must part!

Adown the wires, while tears melodious rain,
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.

Oh Friendship! passion of celestial birth!
Oh hailey flame! oh joyaunce most divine!
How eft profess'd? how scantly met on earth!
Thou wont to glad this drooping heart of mine.
But friendship's joysomness been now all o'er,
And ah! for aye with dearnest Lubin fled;
I'm doom'd to taste of joyaunce now no more,
But hang in pining dole my drooping head;
For social pastime is with Lubin dead.

Adown the wires while tears melodious rain,
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.

Ne more the hautboy shall my bosom cheer;
'Mongst blithesome louts ne more my time I'll spend;

146

In lonely silence eft the darkling tear
Shall swell my eyne, and sighs my heart yrend.
Oh come, ye Muses, help me now to weep,
Help me to tell my Lubin's peerless worth.
Shall Lubin's virtues with his ashes sleep?
Sicker thilk gems been not of mould'ring earth:
Then letten verse ygive them second birth.

Adown the wires while tears melodious rain,
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.

The social virtues fram'd his youthly heart,
And modell'd eke each movement of his soul;
And dulcet graces deftly did their part,
With lovely manners cloathing soote the whole:
Philanthropy, and eke her sister fair,
Hight Sensibility, the parent-queen
Of generous passions, eachones did repair
To dwell my Lubin's tender heart within.
But mean Self-love there ne'er found place I ween.

Adown the wires, while tears melodious rain,
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.

147

Love, of his neighbour's deeds yjudging kind;
And Justice, only to himself severe,
By Mercy made to other's failings blind;
And Prudence als, whose lorings all revere;
And Pity, from whose dawn-resembling eye
Distils for aye a teen-appeasing balm,
Before whose face all shents and dolours flee—
Of sick a mickle potence been her charm:
These virtues did and more his bosom warm.

Adown the wires, while tears melodious rain,
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.

Deep Sapience, with mirthsome Wit combin'd,
Free from all surquedry, and eke from pride;
And manly strength of philosophic mind
Shone in his lore, did o'er his tongue preside.
Then sicker all have cause to weep and wail,
And eke, like me, to hang in drearyment,
That death has wrought so soon my Lubin's bale,
So soon this lamp of virtue is yblent.
Ah me! with dark despair I'm overhent.
Here cease my lyre, here cease the plaintive strain,
'Tis past thy art his virtues to explain!

148

Vain been the efforts of the tuneful Nine
To paint such peerless worth in plaintive lays
In tears, alas! my Lubin's praise shall shine;
For all who konn'd him speak in tears his praise.
A sister's sorwes and a mother's moans,
Aread his praise as brother and as son.
His pheers deep sighs, his friends heart-rending groans
Aread how true in Friendship's race he run:
Ah me! a virtuous race too soon foredone.
Then cease my lyre, then cease thy plaintive strain;
Cease down the wires melodious tears to rain.

With much of tears thus wail'd the gentle wight,
Then Argol 'gan his ditty to recite.

Argol.

Ah, Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Ah me! my heart is overhent with woe,
To think how thou wert ravish'd from my arms:
Sweet bud of beauty! ah how short thy date!
Must Death's fell worm devour thy youthly charms?
Descend ye tears, ye floods of sorwe flow!

149

For Death hath blent soft Hymen's joyous fire,
Hath seiz'd his amorous torch to light the fun'ral pyre.
Sad Philomela, from the humid spray,
Thy trembling notes awhile prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge my love-lorn lay.

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Mourn, Venus, mourn thy earthly image dead;
And Love waiment thy daintiest darling lost;
Great been your woe, but mine been far more great:
How is each hope of tender pleasaunce crost!
Bright Pleasure's bow'r in fogs of anguish fled!
My saffron robe ychang'd to sable stole,
My madrigals to dirges turn'd, my glee to dole!
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes awhile prolong
To make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?

150

That eye, where wit and pleasaunce wont to play,
Ah woe's my heart! shall pleasure me no more:
That vermil'd cheek, b'dight with dimpled state
The rose and lily eke I did adore,
All, all, alas! are sunk in sad decay.
The flow'ry garlands cull'd to grace each brow
Must be ychang'd to wreaths of baneful cypress now.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes a while prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
The virgins meant to chaunt the amorous hymn,
To herryings soote to dance the heighdregue,
Must now their sportive merry-makes abate;
Must tear their chaplets on thy grave to strew;
Their sonnets chang'd to dirgeous waimentings,
Must d'off their snowy robes for weeds of woe;
Changing their wimble steps to traces sad and slow.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes a while prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.

151

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
But oh my Stella! tho' Death's cruel dart
Hath snatch'd from me so rear thy bloomy form,
Thy virtues, all for utterance too great,
Which more than beauty's waste did thee adorn,
Shall live for aye depeincted on each heart
That kenn'd thy worth. Tho' ah! what wont to joy
Their minds, must now, alas! fulfil them with annoy.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
No more thy trembling notes prolong,
Here cease thy dolourous undersong,
Here ends my solemn dirge, my love-lorn lay:
For ah my grief is all for speech too great,
Nor can my feeble wit's device relate
My dolourous teen at Stella's timeless fate.

Thus wail'd the youths their deep-wrought drearyment,
Till bright Aurora o'er the mountains sent
Her changeling beams (besprinting o'er the plain
With spangleous sheen) forerunning Phœbus waine.
Then rose the woeful swains to loose their sheep
From the pent folds, where they them nightly keep;
The whiles all heedy of their dreary dole
Adown each cheek the floods of sorwe roll.

155

RURAL POEMS.

A NOSEGAY.

When Flora wore her gayest vest,
Each meadow breath'd perfume,
In gaudiest flow'rs each hedge-briar drest,
Each hawthorn white with bloom,

I wander'd thro' each mead and grove,
The fairest flow'rs to cull,
And visited my gay alcove,
Each sweetest bud to pull.

The posie gather'd home I brought,
To grace my fair-one's breast.
Then thus, as teeming Fancy taught,
Each flow'r its worth exprest—

For Fancy, who in clouded skies
Pourtrays the varying tale,
Can give each flow'r a voice whose dyes
Enrich the scented vale.

156

The ROSE.

See, ye maidens, what a bloom
O'er my healthy cheek's diffus'd!
Smell, ye nymphs, what sweet perfume
From my blushing mouth's produc'd!

For the Zephyrs here that blow
Free exert their fresh'ning pow'r;
And the brooks that babbling flow
Nourish ev'ry smiling flow'r.

Here the sun darts forth his rays,
From all sulph'rous vapours clear;
Here Contentment ever strays;
Tranquil virtues flourish here.

But were I to town convey'd,
Stately domes to render gay,
Soon my blushing charms would fade,
And my breathing sweets decay.

157

Ye who health and beauty prize,
Quick to rural shades retire:
Never hope that artful dyes
Can to rival mine aspire.

Never fancy artful gales,
Civet, Marechalle, Otter rare,
To the sweets gay health exhales
In the smallest can compare.

The SPRIG of HAWTHORN.

HERE on my spray the various blossoms view,
Some wide display'd, some clos'd, some op'ning new.
For admiration each prefers her plea;
Hear the pretensions then of all the three.

The FULL-BLOWN BLOSSOM.

ALL my beauties display'd to the bright beaming sun,
I court ev'ry gazer's regard;
Nor Zephyr's soft kiss e'er attempt I to shun,
Nor my sweets from the bee do I ward.

158

Thus open and free, from all bashfulness clear,
My cheeks by no blushes are stain'd:
I scorn the cold prude, with her maxims severe,
And her looks so demurely restrain'd.

The BUD.

WANTON, loose, imprudent flow'r,
Thus to tempt loud Scandal's pow'r!
Will beholders ever prize
Charms thus offer'd to their eyes?

Silly blossom, I advise
More thy tender beauties prize;
And, like me, demurely grave,
Close thy sweets enfolded save.

All my virgin form, behold,
Robes of vestal white enfold:
Not the sun's far piercing ray
Can my modest charms survey.

159

Beauties that are most conceal'd
In the most esteem are held:
Admiration then to gain,
Observation's eye restrain.

The HALF-OPENED BLOSSOM.

LET the broad expanded bloom,
Like a rifled, widow'd flow'r,
On her full-blown charms presume;
Wide display her beauty's pow'r.

Let the tender infant's pride
Close her prudish beauties fold;
Immature, her graces hide,
Lest the sun her charms behold.

Who will wanton beauty prize?
Who admire what's quite conceal'd?
What when clos'd are brightest eyes?
What is wish'd if all's reveal'd?

160

I nor shun the gazer's sight,
Nor yet court with aspect bold;
On my charms, thus op'ning bright,
Modesty's pure blush behold.

Half my dawning beauties seen,
Make those hid the more desir'd;
Half conceal'd behind the screen,
Make those view'd the more admir'd.

The WOODBINES.

CONSCIOUS that we want supporting,
Round the hazle's stems we 'twine;
And, the sun's warm influence courting,
O'er their waving tops recline.

Thus our blossoms far displaying,
O'er the babbling streams are arch'd;
Where the fish, beneath us straying,
By our shades are kept unparch'd.

161

Different powers, when thus uniting,
Tend to benefit mankind;
Which, in solitude delighting,
Neither use nor pleasure find.

The VIOLET.

BY the bramble-clad dyke from the sun's scorching ray
Protected, I bloom on the soft mossy bank,
And the thick foliag'd arms of the hawthorn display
O'er my head their protection from winds bleak and dank.
Thus my sweets all protected, I scent ev'ry gale
That strays thro' the woodlands, or freshens the vale;
And my beauties, thus shelter'd, repay with their smiles
The care of my guardian, and crown all his toils.

Ye fair virgin blossoms, who gladden the plain,
Whose sweets are on mountains or meadows display'd,
Nor longer unsocial, unguarded remain,
But seek from love's union a durable shade.
Can your soft-smiling beauties resist or elude
The sun's with'ring heat, or the storm sharp and rude?
See yon king-cups unshelter'd, how swift they decay!
While my beauties defended look smiling and gay.

162

The COWSLIP.

O'ER the verdant mead reclining,
With the morning's dew-drops shining,
I the fertile moisture sip,
Sweet as fair Melissa's lip.

Or the purling streamlet courting,
As adown some valley sporting,
Humid treasures it supplies,
Sparkling like Melissa's eyes.

Nature's bounties thus collected,
Those that want are ne'er rejected;
But my sweets are ever free,
To reward the toilsome bee.

The LILY of the VALLEY.

IN the humid verdant valley,
By a dingle's bushy side,
Unambitiously I dally,
Free from Envy, free from Pride.

163

Ne'er could Vanity come near me;
Shame ne'er ting'd my cheek with red;
Meek and modestly I bear me,
Bowing still my humble head.

In the rustic shade contented,
I to grandeur ne'er aspir'd;
Ne'er my humble lot repented;
With ambition ne'er was fir'd.

Yet from all mishaps to ward me
Prudence lends a constant screen,
Which from envious blights will guard me,
And the sun's too powerful sheen.

[THUS to Reflection's sober train]

THUS to Reflection's sober train
Each flow'r a lesson gives:
A moralizer on the plain
Each turf and blossom lives.

164

But ah! while from each smiling flow'r
I draw the moral lay,
They droop, they feel the withering pow'r;
They sicken and decay!

Each various bloom, so sweet, so bright,
Shall, ere to-morrow's dawn,
Appear a charmless, shrivell'd sight,
And, scentless, droop forlorn!

Yet fair Melissa, gentle friend!
Should you approve my lays,
On them will second life attend—
A life that ne'er decays!

Your smile each beauty can restore,
Revive each drooping sweet—
Nay, make them lovelier than before,
Their perfume more complete.

At least, should you my sonnets praise,
To me it will appear;
The flow'rs, surviving in my lays,
A double value bear.

165

The TURTLES NEST.

“Serena, in this peaceful grove
“A temple's built to purest Love;
“Where his chaste rights are duly paid,
“Where his full pow'r's at large display'd,
“Where burn those fires that never fade.

“'Tis here, to all who wish to know,
“He condescends at large to show
“The means by which Connubial Love
“We may obtain, we may improve,
“Nor fear a change, nor wish to rove.”

Serena sought the grove around—
But temple none, nor shrine she found.
When the fond partner of her breast
His secret meaning thus exprest:
“See here, my love, the Turtles Nest!

“Whene'er, within this close retreat,
“My eyes the feather'd partners meet,
“Or when, as thro' the grove I stray,
“They fondly pour the mutual lay,
“'Tis thus methinks I hear them say:

166

‘In tender years of ductile youth
‘Our mates we choose, for love and truth,
‘And thus our yet unfashion'd hearts,
‘Each to the other still imparts
‘Its tempers, inclinations, arts.

‘We never seek the busy town,
‘Where plodding Care, with stupid frown,
‘Where Simulation's treacherous art,
‘Where Pleasure's lure, Detraction's dart,
‘And Vanity corrupt the heart;

‘But to embow'ring shades repair,
‘To rear our young our only care.
‘Thus seeking bliss, thus hoping rest
‘But in each other's tranquil breast,
‘Joy hovers round the Turtles Nest.

‘Thus time ne'er shakes our constant love,
‘Nor jars, nor cold distrusts we prove;
‘Not Fate himself our loves can part,
‘But when he points the barbed dart
‘At once it pierces either's heart.’

167

Serena heard her lover's tale,—
Nor did it of its moral fail.
Old Clodio, whom her friends approv'd,
By titles and by grandeur mov'd,
She spurn'd, to bless the youth she lov'd.

Retir'd within the peaceful grove,
They taste uncloying sweets of love;
And, leaning on her lover's breast,
Full oft has fond Serena blest
The day she saw the Turtles Nest.

EXTEMPORE.

On seeing a Bird perched on the Summit of a Poplar while it was shaking with the Breeze.

See, on yon poplar's topmast spray,
The little warbler stands;
And, fearless, while he pours the lay,
The distant view commands.

168

The spray that shakes with ev'ry breeze
That fans the vernal air,
Shakes not his bosom's tranquil ease,
Nor gives one trembling care.

No weight of guilt to press him down,
No stores his heart to 'thrall;
Should he from yonder spray be thrown,
He fears no dang'rous fall.

If shaken from the fickle spray,
He'll claim his native skies,
And sweetly pour his sprightly lay,
As thro' the air he flies.

So 'tis with him whose tranquil soul
With pious ardour glows;
No cares his steady joys controul,
He fears no threat'ning woes.

Secure on Danger's brink he stands,
And laughs at Fortune's spite:
Prepar'd, when Fate or Chance commands,
To seek the Realms of Light.

169

SONG.

The BEST AIR.

They talk of Montp'lier,
And the soft-breathing air
Which blows in the southward of France,
Conducive to health,
Which, far more than wealth,
All the blessings of life can enhance.

Of Lisbon they preach,
And of Italy teach;
But I, in Old England have found
A far better air
Waining health to repair,
Than did e'er on the Cont'nent abound.

Not Zephyrs that play
'Mong the flow'rets of May,
Have so pleasant an influence to cheer!
The air that I mean
Flows forth from between
The bright rosy lips of my dear.

170

But, alas! the sweet breath
Can also give death,
As sure as from sickness can save!
At will can destroy,
Or fill me with joy,
And build me a bow'r or a grave!

Then Chloe be kind—
More pleasure you'll find,
If tender and gentle's your breast,
To heal the heart's wound,
Than to deal death around;
And in blessing yourself will be blest!

AMBITION AND HUMILITY.

When first this infant rose I spied,
Just op'ning to the laughing day,
In all her gaudy vestments gay,
And bright in blushing pride,

171

Exalted on her stem she shin'd,
To public notice far display'd;
While this, as of the sun afraid,
In shelter low reclin'd.

Then thus I sung, in thoughtless strain:
“If charms or merit are not shown,
“What boots it that we either own?
“They're idle gifts and vain!

“This rose, close shrouded by the briar,
“And hanging humbly near the ground,
“To rival this, which shines around,
“For beauty might aspire.

“But thus obscur'd, alas! how few
“Her glowing beauties shall survey,
“Which if aloft she would display
“Would charm each trav'ller's view.”

But ah! behold a blighting wind
Has cropt the lofty flow'ret short;
To earth its flaunting beauties brought,
Where fading 'tis reclin'd!

172

While, shelter'd by its humble choice,
The prudent blossom safe remains,
And thus, to the surrounding plains
“Exerts her modest voice:

“Let not ambition fire your hearts,
“Ah pant not for a lofty state;
“For sudden dangers wait the great,
“And many fatal arts.

“There Envy, Calumny await,
“Misfortune rides on ev'ry gale;
“While, in Contentment's humble vale,
“We shun the storms of Fate.”

173

SONNET.

To the MOON.

Thou Moon, whose yellow beams are seen
Just darting thro' this poplar shade,
And mingling dappled light between
The dusky umbrage round display'd,

Shew'st of my mind an emblem true;
Where smiling Hope, with feeble ray,
Pierces the thick'ning shadows through
Which Love and Fortune's frown display.

Mount higher, Moon, and let thy beams
No more obstructed meet the ground!
Mount higher, Hope, and pour thy streams
Of light more full my heart around!
Ah may no fears thy smile confound,
But Joy thy offspring blest, gay thro' my bosom bound!

174

MISCELLANIES.

CONTENT.

A. D. 1785.

Happy the man, and only he,
Who, from repining ever free,
Enjoys the little he has got,
Unenvious of his neighbour's lot;
Who never sighs for empty state,
Nor impiously repines at Fate
Because it has not made him great.
What tho' compell'd to work and toil;
To wield the quill, or turn the soil?
O'er Coke to kill his tedious hours,
Or range in shrubberies, fruits and flowers?
Or, on the small or greater stage,
Act the feign'd king or real page?
'Tis from the heart that peace must flow:
Content is ever free from woe.
And he, who in a cottage lies,
Finds sleep as fond to kiss his eyes,
Enjoys a slumber as profound
(And sweeter far 'tis often found)

175

As he who, lull'd in downy state,
Sleeps in the chambers of the great.
For not the pompous room nor bed
Kills care, or cures the aching head,
When virtue from the heart is fled.
Nor, when the conscience is at rest,
Can Poverty disturb the breast;
Unless indeed, with frown severe,
Captivity and Want appear.
For if the plain and frugal board
A simple, wholesome joint afford,
Hunger will better sauce provide
Than for luxurious, pamper'd pride,
In China or much injur'd Ind',
The sons of commerce ere could find;
And sparkling amber can impart
More pleasure to the tranquil heart,
Than, to the care-fill'd wealthy man,
Or Burgundy or claret can.
Then to my pray'r good Heav'n be kind,
And grant me—a contented mind,
A grateful and an honest heart:
And riches where thou wilt impart;
I ask them not: for rich or poor,
If happy, what can man have more?

176

MODERN VIRTUE CONTRASTED WITH ANCIENT IMPIETY.

Occasioned by a Coach being stopped by a Highwayman, who refused to take the Purse from one of the Ladies.

It has by pedants been insisted long
(For pedants will insist, or right or wrong)
“That modern times with ancient can't compare
“For active Virtue, or for Genius rare.”
They will pretend, “that Courage is no more;
“That Justice, Wisdom on no modern shore,
“Or godlike Fortitude presumes to tread.”
But chief they say “that Piety is fled.”
Why should I, vainly, tire the sacred Muse,
Examples of our valour to produce?
For sure no Briton warm'd with vital blood
Has yet forgot the great and glorious Hood;
Whose naval thunder, in just vengeance, hurl'd
The foes of Britain to the Stygian world.

177

For Justice, Wisdom, Fortitude of mind,
What need the Muses more examples find?
Has it not long to all the world been known,
That each conspicuous shines on Britain's throne?
In the Third George, in whom we see combin'd,
Ah, mix'd but seldom in one godlike mind!
The private virtues and the ruling art,
The patriot's feelings and the hero's heart.
For Piety, to prove that we excel,
What need I more than two short stories tell?

'Tis said by Homer, (and there's none so bold,
I hope, will dare deny what Homer told)
When the bright goddess of the sportive eye
Rush'd from the heav'ns to save the Chief of Troy,
The great Æneas, her much honour'd boy!
Bold Diomed (for ancient virtue fam'd!)
With sacrilegious hand the goddess maim'd;
His thirsty falchion drank celestial blood,
And stain'd the field with an immortal flood.
In vain her silver skin his eye detains,
And the bright azure of her mantling veins;
In vain her eyes the tender languish shed;
In vain her panting bosom heaving spread;

178

In vain her ringlets flow'd with graceful ease;
Vain was she form'd to captivate and please;
Nor charms nor yet divinity could save.
Insensate ruffian! to his rage a slave!
Nor sex, nor sanctity his ire withstand;
He plung'd his sword within her lily hand.

But when of late the goddess deign'd to grace
Sophronia's wedding with her smiling face,
As in the car triumphant back she roll'd,
(Oh happy car, her heav'nly form to hold!)
And sought in Croydon's shade her calm retreat,
A practis'd robber chanc'd her way to meet.
On plunder bent, and eager to despoil,
The startled ruffian own'd the heav'nly smile.
The sprightly lustre of her sparkling eye,
The locks where thousand loves in ambush lie,
The soft smooth skin, as downy cygnets white,
The sanguine blush, than damask rose more bright,
The coral lips, whence sweets ambrosial stray,
The winning graces that around her play,
The smile celestial, and the mien divine;—
When all these charms upon the caitiff shine,
The proffer'd spoils his conscious hands reject,
O'er-aw'd and soften'd by divine respect.

179

Then pedants say, are old or modern times
More fam'd for daring and for impious crimes?
The Queen of Love an ancient hero wounds,
That with her anguish heav'n's high roof resounds;
A modern plund'rer owns the sacred smile,
Trembling o'er-aw'd, nor even dares to spoil.

On a Dog laying his Head in the Lap of a Lady, while she was playing on an Harpsichord, and singing.

Orpheus no more unrivall'd reigns:
Melissa claims an equal praise;
Like his, her art e'en brutes detains
In fix'd attention while she plays.

See where the fawning creature stands,
His head upon her lap reclin'd;
The minstrel warbling to her hands,
Her tuneful breath perfumes the wind.

When harmony and beauty join,
What can resist the potent spell?
E'en brutal Instinct must resign;
E'en Reason ceases to rebel.

180

THE SHRINE OF HOWARD.

Oh Howard! Thou whose philanthropic mind,
From every prejudice of pride refin'd,
Show'rs like the God whose agent here thou art,
The balm of comfort on each aching heart!
Whose hand incessant, toils with lenient joy,
To wipe each trembling tear from every eye!
Thou, who not only bear'st a Christian's name,
But glow'st with Christian Love's unbounded flame!
Thou, sent by heav'n, to shew the wond'ring earth
How near of parents frail the mortal birth
May, in the glorious attribute of love,
In emulation of the Saviour move!
How shall my humble lays approach thy ear?
How shall I sing those virtues I revere?

Hark! tuneful Hayley strikes the warbling lyre,
And list'ning cherubim the strain admire:

181

For sure, when HOWARD wakes the sacred strain,
Heav'n will attend, and all the heav'nly train;
Heav'n's list'ning choir awhile the hymn will cease
While mortals sing of charity and peace.
HOWARD and HAYLEY!—Oh most justly pair'd!
The truest hero and the greatest bard!
While HOWARD's actions fill the hearer's soul
With feelings that each selfish thought controul;
And more than all the names her records hold,
(Henries or Edwards, the great boasts of old,)
Give deathless lustre to Britannia's fame,
And add fresh glory to the Christian name;
Thy strains enchanting Hayley shall impart
Unrival'd bliss to each enlighten'd heart,
Which joys can feel above the vulgar throng,
From dulcet verse, and Fancy's raptur'd song.

And hark! again resounds the tuneful wire.
What skilful bard now wakes the patriot lyre,
And, while his fingers o'er the cordings rove,
Tunes the sweet airs of Charity and Love?
While charm'd Benevolence, delighted, hears
With generous rapture, the descending spheres

182

Her triumphs sing, and spread her glorious reign:—
Self-love, abash'd, retiring, shuns the strain;
While 'sham'd Ambition from her temples tears
The blood-stain'd wreath—sole fruit of endless wars!

Ah! how shall I with vent'rous wing aspire,
Their heights to soar, or emulate their fire?
When bards like these have rais'd the favour'd strain,
Vain is my praise, my feeble efforts vain.
Wilt thou, Britannia, from their songs divine,
A while thy ear to meaner strains incline,
Nor scorn a theme so unadorn'd as mine?
Rude is my music, uninform'd my mind;
By classic lore nor lumin'd nor refin'd.
Yet let not HOWARD scorn the humble verse
Which love of virtue prompts me to rehearse.
Virtue like thine, must ev'ry soul inspire;
All, all must praise thee, or to praise aspire.
Expiring Age, all silver'd o'er with years,
Whose wrinkled front, death's livid signet bears,
With the last effort of the vital flame,
Shall breathe, enraptur'd, HOWARD's pious name;
While lisping Infancy the couch beside,
Shall catch the fainting sound; with honest pride

183

Shall glow, transported, at thy virtuous fame,
And prattling, echo HOWARD's pious name.
From shore to shore, from pole to distant pole,
Thy fame, Oh HOWARD! shall perennial roll:
Nor earth shall bound it; heav'n! high heav'n shall ring!
And the bright seraph sound it on the wing.
When shrines decay and moulder into dust,
The Parian statue, urn, and sculptur'd bust.—
Nay, when Creation bursts her bounding chain,
And Night and Chaos re-assume their reign;
Then shall thy tow'ring fame transcendent rise,
And “HOWARD” ring with raptures thro' the skies.
Well may'st thou scorn, of fame like this secure,
The fragile statue and its records poor.
Well may thy Christian fortitude deride
The short-liv'd monuments of earthly pride;
Resign the praise by wond'ring mortals giv'n,
And all rewards despise but those of heav'n.

And ah! what great, what glorious visions rise?
I leave the earth; I tow'r into the skies;
And heav'n's bright conclave opens to my eyes.

184

Seraphic forms, and Cherubim of fire,
And angels warbling to the speaking lyre!
Round the immortal throne they glorying stand,
The radiant beams stream forth on either hand.
With glowing rapture, all their voices raise;
The full choir'd anthem speaks the Maker's praise.
Their hallelujahs ring thro' all the skies,
And hallelujah heav'n's high vault replies.

Now the loud anthems cease. To softer notes
They string their harps, and tune their dulcet throats;
And thus they sing; “Oh HOWARD! sage divine!
“Whose pious deeds all other deeds outshine;
“With holy raptures, heav'nly spirits see
“Unfeign'd benevolence shine forth in thee;
“See Christian meekness ev'ry action guide,
“And see thee spurn the pomps of earthly pride:
“The sculptor's art, the fair inscribing verse,
“Which would to distant times thy worth rehearse.
“These honours all, philanthropist divine!
“Well pleas'd we see thee piously resign.

“Mortals behold! and while ye gaze admire,
“Let bright example Christian love inspire!

185

“In HOWARD's actions ye at large may see,
“From worldly pride and affectation free,
“The brightest rays of pure philanthropy.

“Who now, deep skill'd in theory, shall dare,
“With arrogant presumption, to declare,
“The love of fame, by Nature's hand imprest,
“Reigns sov'reign monarch of each human breast?
“Who now shall say, that ev'ry noble deed
“Does from this great infirmity proceed?
“Lo! HOWARD's actions, past all question, prove
“A stronger impulse still—in Christian love.
“For who in chace of fame was ever led
“To tread the dangerous paths he loves to tread?
“Did ever love of fame the foot impel
“To tread infected shores, or tainted cell?
“Plagues, and infections; the polluted breath
“Of pestilential caverns, breathing death;
“And all the bloated horrors which abide
“In cells of anguish, who would brave for pride?
“Yet these did HOWARD: these, gaunt ills and more,
“In many a land, on many a distant shore,

186

“Prompted alone by truly Christian zeal,
“Which teaches all for all mankind to feel.
“And when his native land, with honest pride
“Would sacred to his fame a pile provide;
“Jealous lest foreign climes his birth should claim,
“Would, while he yet survives, assert her fame,
“The matchless fame of giving HOWARD birth—
“HOWARD, who deals a blessing o'er the earth!
“Who, like the sun, attach'd to no one soil,
“Explores the varied globe with ceaseless toil,
“Where'er he meets with Anguish and Distress,
“To dart the Beams of Comfort, and to Bless.—
“And when his Country would, with sculptur'd fame,
“Reward his virtues, and assert her claim,
“With modest, meek, and disint'rested zeal,
“Which unfeign'd piety alone can feel,
“He, all humility, the fane resigns,
“And public plaudits (what he can) declines;
“Striving from man—admiring man! to hide
“The gen'rous deeds his labours scatter wide.
“But all in vain: for Virtue's ray divine,—
“Virtue like his, will still transcendent shine:

187

“No cloud so thick which Modesty can spread,
“Or humble Meekness, round the radiant head
“Of such transcendent worth, can dim its ray:
“It needs no lustre from the garish day;
“But like the Gem , in native lustre bright,
“Shines most conspicuous when it shuns the light.
“The little virtues of a camp or crown
“May need to court it, to obtain renown;
“But pure Benevolence! so bright thy charms,
“That Fame, enamour'd, woos thee to her arms.
“In vain to secret shades you bashful fly;
“For she'll pursue more swift than thou canst fly;
“Where'er thou turn'st, enraptur'd bend her way,
“And force thee, blushing, to admiring day.

“Yes, HOWARD, yes, tho' still thou shouldst refuse
“The sculptur'd honours, and recording muse;
“Tho' thou wouldst still the praise deserv'd decline,
“Yet still thy virtues shall not want their shrine.
“While language lasts, and hearing shall remain,
“To list'ning youth the parent shall explain:
“How virtuous Howard plough'd the dang'rous sea,
“To cure infections, set the captive free,

188

“Relieve the wretched, soften each distress,
“Bewail the guilty, and the wrong'd redress.
“Thus age to age thy virtue's shall impart;
“And HOWARD's SHRINE be rais'd in every heart.”

From ev'ry eye he wipes off ev'ry tear. Pope's Messiah.

Ode inscribed to John Howard, Esq; by Mr. Hayley.

Triumph of Benevolence. Supposed to be written by Pratt.

Milton calls Fame, “The last infirmity of noble minds.”

The diamond.

189

THE TEARS OF THE GENII

On the DEATH of JONAS HANWAY, Esq.

I

What pow'r supernal strengthens thus my sight?
Why do these sadly beauteous visions rise?
Beatific forms! the heirs of heav'nly light!—
Yet swell with pearly drops their beamy eyes.
Their charge neglected, and their mystic joys,
The drooping Genii 'neath the murky shade
Which yonder thick-grown woodland round supplies,
Sigh in sad concert, all supinely laid;
Careless of sunny hill, cool stream, or winding glade.
Thro' all the echoing wood the note of sorrow dies.

190

II

Lo, sadly murmuring winds each troubled stream!
Their charge translucent, lo, the nymphiads slight!
Lo, they who wont to cool the solar beam,
With wing unmov'd, forget their airy flight!
While feather'd warblers, all in doleful plight,
Hang low the wing, and stint their dulcet note:
The awful stilness fills them with affright,
And melody no longer swells the throat,
Tho' late thro' air it wont with pleasing rapture float,
And fill the list'ning soul with sweetly calm delight.

III

Wherefore they droopen thus I fain would learn.
Come then, my Muse, of chaste and sober mien,
Lead thy rapt votary where he may discern
Why thus they mournful seek yon sylvan scene.
Can heav'nly agents feel a pang so keen?
Can holy Genii shed the sorrowing tear?
Full sad to know, must be the cause, I ween,
To man portending some misfortune drear—
But lead me, gentle Muse, where I their plaints may hear:
E'en 'mong the bow'ry valves of yonder verdant screen.

191

IV

Meet place I deem these spreading elms behind,
Where, antic-twisted, many a thick-wrought brere
Tempteth yon sprite to wail, beneath reclin'd,
Who of them all the chiefest doth appear.
Ah! if it be for woe, or if for fear,
The blushing blossoms seem to fade away,
As they his heart-empiercing accents hear:
Those blooms that shone erewhile so smiling gay.
But peace. My verse record what sadly he doth say,
As thus his mournful plaint steals on the list'ning ear:

V

“Ah Spirit gentle! tho' so frequent toss'd,
“In early life on rude Misfortune's wave;
“By Danger sieg'd, by Disappointment cross'd:
“Ah evils borne with resolution brave!)
“Thee, never form'd for Passion's fickle slave,
“Nor Danger's frown, nor sad Misfortune's woe
“The tender feelings from thy bosom drave,
“Nor made thee mild Benevolence forego.
“Yet HANWAY art thou dead—oh tale of heavy woe!
“Ah must such worth as thine sink in the senseless grave!

192

VI

“Ah Spirit meek! whom not the gaudy beams
“Of giddy Fortune e'er could tempt away
“To thoughtless Pride or Passion's wide extremes—
“Ah much too apt frail mortals to betray!
“But Charity did rule thy breast for aye;
“And, busy e'er to bring the wretch relief,
“No time had'st thou for thoughtless follies gay,
“Which promise pleasure, but which end in grief.
“Oh Britain mourn thy loss, nor be thy mourning brief;
“For roll may many years ere thou his like survey.

VII

“Ah Spirit patriotic! who didst toil
“To save the wretch forlorn from Guilt and Shame,
“And make the youth a guardian of this isle
“Who else, perhaps, had stigmatiz'd her name
“With crimes of blackest dye, which who proclaim
“With shuddering horror shed the gloomy tear.
“Full oft thro' him, I ween, the trump of Fame
“Hath bade us worthily some name revere
“Which else in guilt had sunk, and fall'n by doom severe.
“Yet dead is he, alas! who well such praise might claim!

193

VIII

“Ah Spirit pious! in whose moral lines
“Is kindly pictur'd to the lowly mind
“How bright in vale obscure fair Virtue shines;
“And teachest how true bliss that wight may find,
“Who, to calm dale of Humbleness confin'd,
“Far from the pompous blaze of gilded Joy—
(“False Joy, external, of the baser kind!)
“Doom'd in the sylvan scene the axe to ply,
“Might for luxurious Ease and fickle Honour sigh.
“Ah few like him I ween hath HANWAY left behind!

IX

“Ah Spirit kind! his name ye females bless!
“To ye the Sage I deem the best of friends:
“When traitor man has plung'd ye in distress,
“When guilty Woe your tortur'd bosoms rends,
“And ghastly Want her sad assistance lends;—
“Then, when ye seek that refuge from despair
“Which Peace restores, and tort'ring anguish ends,
“Then, then remember well, ye weeping fair,
“To him the boon ye owe which may your state repair,
“And make those comforts yours to which repentance tends.

194

X

“Nor you, ye fair, who o'er the waves of life
“With fav'ring gales of smiling honour sail,
“Who boast the name of Virgin, or of Wife,
“Treat with false pride your hapless sisters frail:
“E'en you, yourselves, perchance the self-same bale
“Experienc'd had, had ye so tempten been:
“Who vaunt the most themselves do easiest fail.
“With different eyes their fate hath Hanway seen,
“And to reclaim them sought, and from new dangers screen;
“But dead is he, alas! whose toils did oft avail.

XI

“How oft, invited by his gen'rous care,
“Sad wretches, trembling with disease and want,
“From Guilt's vile shed, and Misery's horrid fare,
“Have crawl'd with haggard eye, and visage gaunt,
“Paler than midnight Ghosts, who church-yards haunt!
“Him have they crawl'd to bless, whose voice so sweet
“Bade black Despair their hearts no longer daunt,
“For he had kindly founded a retreat,
“Where, by Repentance led, they Happiness might meet:
“Yet is he dead, alas! weep, weep to think upon't.

195

XII

“Now will we weep and wail in drearyment,
“And all unheeded each one leave his charge:
“Ye gentle Breezes cease your merryment;
“No longer ply the sportive wing at large;
“Ye watry Nymphiads quit the babbling marge,
“And ye who wont to tend the spreading bow'r,
“And all unwholesome blights from thence discharge,
“And ye who fed with sweets each fragrant flow'r,
“And health reviving dews thro' ev'ry vale did show'r,
“Here flock, with dismal notes my wailings to enlarge.

XIII

“For ah! how little boots the gentle gale,
“That freshens vales, and wakes the warbling throat?
“The babbling streams, how little they avail,
“That fertilize the valley as they float?
“How little merit bow'rs or blossoms note,
“Which shade afford, or render nature gay?
“Or rich perfumes, which scent fair Nature's coat,
“To what we in Benevolence survey,
“Which cheers the human breast and drives all care away?
“Ah then for HANWAY's death let Sorrow swell the note!

196

XIV

“See round his tomb the heav'n-rob'd forms attend!
“Lo Charity, with ever open hand;
“Sweet Sensibility, fair Virtue's friend,
“And kind Benevolence, with aspect bland,
“Whose bounteous smilings with a soft command
“Chace blank Affliction from Misfortune's face:
“And close beside doth tender Pity stand—
“Her azure eyes the pearls of Sorrow grace:
“Yet from each other cheek she Sorrow's pearls doth chace.
“These water with their tears the newly delved land.

XV

“Since then of three who bless'd the present age,
“Humane and generous, Howard, Hanway, Hawes,
“Too soon, tho' late, one quits life's busy stage,
“Ah loud let us lament, for we have cause—
“We who are doom'd by Heav'n's all-sapient laws
“Man's woes to mitigate, and guard his joys.
“But see, yon sable cloud aloft withdraws;
“A glorious vision opens to my eyes:
“Array'd in glory's beams, lo HANWAY mounts the skies,
“While hymning angels give his virtues due applause!

197

XVI

“Yes, pious sage! 'tis just that thou at last,
“After so many years of virtuous toil,
“Shouldst be rewarded for thy labours past
“In that blest realm where joys perennial smile.
“Yet drooping Nature must lament awhile
“For her own loss, not thy imagin'd woe:
“Lamentings sad her anguish must beguile;
“For who could e'er thy worth, oh Hanway! know,
“Nor weep when sadly forc'd such virtue to forego?
“Then pardon these our tears, thou boast of Britain's isle!”

XVII

Thus wail'd the Genii 'neath the verdant screen,
Whose thick'ning lab'rinths cast an awful gloom,
All listless stretch'd on mossy couches green,
While tears celestial wet each op'ning bloom.
Then, lowly couching 'mongst the flow'ry broom,
Did Philomela sad, with drooping wing,
Near where was newly made lost Hanway's tomb,
From dulcet pipe his mournful requiem sing,
'Till round the Genii flock'd to hear her in a ring:
Tho' sooth'd she, sad, their woe for Fate's malignant doom.

The Magdalen Hospital.

198

ODE TO FANCY.

Formerly intended as an Introduction to a Poem on the Pleasures of a warm Imagination.

STROPHE I.

Oh Nymph divine, of heav'nly race,
Who erst by Avon's favour'd side,
Array'd in all thy splendid pride,
Adorn'd with every varying grace,
Came lightly tripping in the vernal wind,
While Shakespeare on the flow'ry bank reclin'd,
And call'd the destin'd bard from slumber's soft embrace!

ANTISTROPHE I.

Oh veil thee in thy splendid vest,
Ting'd by the sun's immortal rays,
Where every hue alternate plays,
Where every image is imprest—
I see thee now; thy orient zone unbound,
Thy dazzling robe flits in light's folds around,
Now hides now shews the graces of thy heaving breast.

199

EPODE I.

And as the vernal am'rous gale
Lightly 'mong the foldings plays,
In antic postures curves the veil,
And o'er its dancing surface strays,
See how many various dyes
O'er the splendid habit rise:
Here the rose's blush is spread,
Here the violet seems to blow,
Yonder glares the rubies red,
Here the gold appears to glow;
Here the silver's glossy white,
And em'ralds there, and sapphires bright.
But ah what boots the quickest numbers pride?
For all so swift the fleeting shadows glide,
That ere the lute's mellifluous note
Can in the yielding æther float,
Or ere the panther's rapid pace
Can o'er the sands a cubit trace,
Each various hue forsakes its transient place,
And other dyes the varying vestment grace:
Now gay, now sad, now simple, now sublime,
The glow-worm tints in swift succession shine.

200

STROPHE II.

Here, Goddess! bend thy antic step;
Now dancing to the cymbal's noise,
Now to the flute's complaining voice,
In solemn sadness slowly sweep:
Be all thy pow'rs vicissitudes imprest
Deep on the tablet of thy suppliant's breast:
With fictions make me smile, at fictions make me weep.

ANTISTROPHE II.

What dazzling glories dart around,
Where waving o'er thy sprightly head
The rainbow's various beams are spread,
And by a zone thy temple's crown'd:—
An azure zone with chrystal stars inlaid,
Whose beaming radiance is afar display'd;
Thy splendent tresses waving by no fillets bound.

EPODE II.

Thus nimbly while you pace along,
Nature's freshest verdure wakes;
The thrush and linnet's gayest song
From groves and smiling hedge-briars breaks;

201

Zephyr's breath more sweetly blows,
And the Naiad clearer flows.
Touch'd by thee the violet shines
With a deeper, clearer blue;
'Neath thy hand, the purple vines
Seem to blush a brighter hue.
Thou canst gild the darkling cloud,
Or Phœbus' brightest glories shroud.
And ah, how swift thy gaudy vestments fade!
That robe erewhile which ev'ry hue display'd,
The zone and looks which transport warm'd,
Are now to sable weeds transform'd,
While all surrounding objects show
Sad symptoms of responsive woe.
Come then, bright nymph, with all thy various pow'r,
Into my breast thy strongest influence show'r,
While I the pleasures of thy reign rehearse,
And sing thy praises in immortal verse.

210

EPILOGUE.

“Ye gentle soothers of my lonely heart!
“Ye tuneful offspring of my teeming brain!
“Go—to the world, the critic world depart;
“In lowly vale obscure no more remain.
“Go—for my brow the laurel wreath obtain—
“The laurel wreath by smiling Virtue 'twin'd,
“Where lurks no sting conceal'd, which by no thorn is lin'd.

“Haply these lays, in solitude conceiv'd,
“To chace blank Sadness from my lonely heart,—
“These lays which oft my drooping soul reliev'd,
“And bade Despondence flee, and Woe depart,
“Might, if corrected with attentive art,
“From loath'd Obscurity preserve my name,
“And round my temples spread the lambent rays of Fame!”

By dreams like these did flattering Fancy warm;
(Ah soothing dreams, too soon, perhaps, believ'd)
Rash I adventur'd.—But what fears alarm
Of threat'ning dangers now too late perceiv'd!
With anxious throb how oft my heart has heav'd,
Lest by vain hopes, delusions fond! betray'd,
I on a sea too rough my canvas have display'd!

211

Lo! now the mists which youthful ardour shed,
And proud, delusive dreams all glide away;
Around the solar beams of Reason spread,
My threaten'd dangers my weak bark display;
Here critic rocks my trembling eyes survey,
'Gainst which I dread to split by doom severe:
There sands oblivious threat to swallow me for e'er.

Why did I listen to Ambition's voice?
Why did I e'er believe the partial friend?
Why was it not my calm, my humble choice,
Thro' lowly vale obscure my course to bend,
Where sweet Content and smiling Peace attend,
Far from the flattering trump of haughty Fame,
Far from discordant clang of Disappointment's blame?

Yet oh ye sacred daughters, ever young,
Of Memory sage, and of Creative Pow'r,
To whom the lyre my boyish fingers strung,
If at the entrance of your hallow'd bow'r
I vent'rous thus approach in youthful hour,
And sue to gain admittance 'mong your train.
Be this, ye maids, my plea, nor be that plea in vain:

212

“To Virtue's notes alone the tuneful wire
“Was taught to tremble by my artless hand;
“I never strove to fan unhallow'd fire,
“Or spread of wanton Vice the lewd command.
“A ready champion did I ever stand
“For hapless beauty by feign'd Love betray'd;
“The stings of Guilt I sung, and Virtue's charms display'd.

“Of pure Benevolence the hallow'd shrine
“Oft with the incense of the Muse I heap;
“Or warm'd by Gratitude, that pow'r divine,
“The harp of praise my raptur'd fingers sweep.
“Perish the Bard whose idle harp can sleep,
“When heav'n-born Gratitude demands the lays
“To Friendship's gen'rous name to swell the note of praise!”

Then give, ye Muses, to your vot'ry's pray'r,
Still in the number of your train to live.
The honest verse let critic rigour spare,
The artless rhime, the theme unlearn'd forgive.
Let on my brow your verdant chaplet thrive,
And grant, ere yet my youthful prime decays,
To 'twine one flow'ring sprig of Myrtle with my Bays.

FINIS.