The Shamrock or, Hibernian Cresses. A Collection of Poems, Songs, Epigrams, &c. Latin as well as English, The Original Production of Ireland. To which are subjoined thoughts on the prevailing system of school education, respecting young ladies as well as gentlemen: with practical proposals for a reformation [by Samuel Whyte] |
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| V. |
| VI. | LETTER VI. |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
402
LETTER VI.
INSCRIBED TO MISS BOYLE.
Welcome, thrice welcome, thou returning Light,
To calm the Terrors of the restless Night!
From whence those passing Fires, and wakeful Noise
Of rolling Huts, those fear-inspiring Cries?
Do they in Paris Midnight Revels keep,
Whose Rites deprive the Stranger's Soul of Sleep?
Arriving late, desponding, and dismay'd,
I sought some Place to rest my raging Head:
In vain my Pallet promises Repose;
The nightly Tumult all that Hope o'erthrows:
Even all the live-long Night, I trembling lay,
In Expectation of the coming Day;
Anxious I wait for what the Fates intend,
Or when my Life, or when my Woes, shall end;
No Beam of Hope breaks in, but, through the Whole,
Darkness and Doubt o'erwhelm my troubled Soul:
No News of thee, no Aza comes to bless
His Zilia's Eyes, still swimming in Distress.
But, now, alas! I feel myself undone;
For, now I weep, my Quipos almost gone;
That lov'd Amusement, where my Soul employ'd
A Correspondence which my Love enjoy'd;
My Hopes were flatter'd by the dear Deceit;
My Heart in plaintive Cadence ceas'd to beat:
Delusive Fancy! the Illusion flies;
And horrid Truth appalls my opening Eyes.
My first Intention was, that, if once more
Fate should hereafter my dear Lord restore,
To bless his Zilia on her native Shore,
These Knots might aid my Memory, to trace
The various Customs of this savage Race:
If I, at present, such Obstructions find,
To regulate the Ideas of my Mind;
How shall I, then, without Assistance left,
And of my Quipos' wonted Knots bereft?
'Tis true, these Savages employ an Art,
To tell the Eyes the Meaning of the Heart:
On a thin Substance, beautifully white,
The tracing Feather pictures to the Sight
The Sense reveal'd: But, can my simple Brain
This wonderous Art, this Knowlege e'er obtain?
'Tis Love must aid me, the Attempt to make;
'Tis Love must guide me, for my Aza's Sake.
But, while the Remnant of these Threads afford
A Correspondence with my absent Lord,
These Threads shall tell the Wonders that I see,
And paint the Affection of my Soul for thee.
The gentle Cazique, studious to devise
New various Means to dry my streaming Eyes,
Led me, reluctant, to a spacious Room,
Whose numerous Lights forbad the nightly Gloom;
Here Wealth, Magnificence, and Splendor vye
With Art, and Order, to attract the Eye:
High on the Wall, in various Colours wove,
The enliven'd Figures seem almost to move;
Those glossy Plains, that human Art has taught
To double Objects, wonderfully wrought,
In golden Frames, deceive the dazzled Sight,
By the Reflection of the opposing Light;
Large gilded Stands their marble Coverings bore;
And vary'd Carpets form'd the enamell'd Floor.
But, now, a Croud of Savages appear,
Whose urgent Jargon strikes my tortur'd Ear:
Here black Curacas, sprucely dress'd, behold,
And sumptuous Anquis, plated o'er with Gold:
With vast Magnificence the Women shone,
In borrow'd Charms, and Beauty not their own;
For, would'st thou think it? here, the Power of Art,
Not Nature's Gift, must reach the Lover's Heart;
The Brush, and Paint, and Washes have supply'd
The Want of Charms that Nature has deny'd;
To the best Artists Men their Homage pay;
And sigh for Charms, that bloom but for a Day.
To calm the Terrors of the restless Night!
From whence those passing Fires, and wakeful Noise
Of rolling Huts, those fear-inspiring Cries?
Do they in Paris Midnight Revels keep,
Whose Rites deprive the Stranger's Soul of Sleep?
Arriving late, desponding, and dismay'd,
I sought some Place to rest my raging Head:
In vain my Pallet promises Repose;
The nightly Tumult all that Hope o'erthrows:
Even all the live-long Night, I trembling lay,
In Expectation of the coming Day;
Anxious I wait for what the Fates intend,
Or when my Life, or when my Woes, shall end;
No Beam of Hope breaks in, but, through the Whole,
Darkness and Doubt o'erwhelm my troubled Soul:
No News of thee, no Aza comes to bless
His Zilia's Eyes, still swimming in Distress.
But, now, alas! I feel myself undone;
For, now I weep, my Quipos almost gone;
That lov'd Amusement, where my Soul employ'd
A Correspondence which my Love enjoy'd;
403
My Heart in plaintive Cadence ceas'd to beat:
Delusive Fancy! the Illusion flies;
And horrid Truth appalls my opening Eyes.
My first Intention was, that, if once more
Fate should hereafter my dear Lord restore,
To bless his Zilia on her native Shore,
These Knots might aid my Memory, to trace
The various Customs of this savage Race:
If I, at present, such Obstructions find,
To regulate the Ideas of my Mind;
How shall I, then, without Assistance left,
And of my Quipos' wonted Knots bereft?
'Tis true, these Savages employ an Art,
To tell the Eyes the Meaning of the Heart:
On a thin Substance, beautifully white,
The tracing Feather pictures to the Sight
The Sense reveal'd: But, can my simple Brain
This wonderous Art, this Knowlege e'er obtain?
'Tis Love must aid me, the Attempt to make;
'Tis Love must guide me, for my Aza's Sake.
But, while the Remnant of these Threads afford
A Correspondence with my absent Lord,
These Threads shall tell the Wonders that I see,
And paint the Affection of my Soul for thee.
The gentle Cazique, studious to devise
New various Means to dry my streaming Eyes,
Led me, reluctant, to a spacious Room,
Whose numerous Lights forbad the nightly Gloom;
Here Wealth, Magnificence, and Splendor vye
With Art, and Order, to attract the Eye:
High on the Wall, in various Colours wove,
The enliven'd Figures seem almost to move;
Those glossy Plains, that human Art has taught
To double Objects, wonderfully wrought,
404
By the Reflection of the opposing Light;
Large gilded Stands their marble Coverings bore;
And vary'd Carpets form'd the enamell'd Floor.
But, now, a Croud of Savages appear,
Whose urgent Jargon strikes my tortur'd Ear:
Here black Curacas, sprucely dress'd, behold,
And sumptuous Anquis, plated o'er with Gold:
With vast Magnificence the Women shone,
In borrow'd Charms, and Beauty not their own;
For, would'st thou think it? here, the Power of Art,
Not Nature's Gift, must reach the Lover's Heart;
The Brush, and Paint, and Washes have supply'd
The Want of Charms that Nature has deny'd;
To the best Artists Men their Homage pay;
And sigh for Charms, that bloom but for a Day.
Scarce was I enter'd, when the motley Throng
Respectful view'd me, as I pass'd along;
Each lowly bow'd, or dropp'd the bended Knee,
And paid me Homage, only due to thee:
With strange, ill-manner'd Scrutiny they gaze;
And seem to wonder, but yet seem to praise.
While, thus expos'd, and 'compass'd round, I stood,
My Cheeks confess'd the shame-attracted Blood;
Most hateful this! But, now, as if inspir'd
With the same Thought, they all at once retir'd:
To Cards! to Cards! a female Savage cries;
To Cards! the assenting Croud with Joy replies.
Now, round the Table's green Expanse they croud;
Now, burst in Clamours, sudden, wild, and loud.
The Cazique pointed to my wondering View
Small, square, thin Leaves, array'd in milk-white Hue,
On one Side this; on the Reverse appears
Large deep-stain'd Spots, and mystic Characters:
These are the Ministers that Fortune gives;
With these, her misled Votaries deceives;
'Tis from their Aspect each his Fate attends;
On these, their short-liv'd Happiness depends,
Or lasting Misery; and the shining Ore
That decks the Board, must yield to Fortune's Power:
Precarious Chance! Now, each his Soul betrays;
And various Fortunes various Passions raise:
Here, Indignation eyes his parting Hoard,
While calm Contentment sweeps the shining Board;
Here, the pale Wretch, to Desperation driven,
Gnashes his Teeth, and seems to rail at Heaven:
The Females, too, perform their different Parts,
While their Eyes tell the Emotion of their Hearts;
Now, for a Moment, bright, serene, and clear;
Then, on a sudden, clouded with Despair;
The unsuccessful, and successful Card,
Alternate kiss'd, and torn, as a Reward
Of Fortune's Caprice. Whence this Thirst of Gain?
'Twas hell-ordain'd for human Nature's Bane:
How vast a Difference 'twixt thy Zilia's Soul,
And these, whom Wealth, and Want, alone controul,
For thee, dear Aza, spring my Care and Grief;
From thee, I hope for Comfort and Relief;
From Pride, from Avarice, from Ambition free,
I only ask for Liberty, and thee.
Respectful view'd me, as I pass'd along;
Each lowly bow'd, or dropp'd the bended Knee,
And paid me Homage, only due to thee:
With strange, ill-manner'd Scrutiny they gaze;
And seem to wonder, but yet seem to praise.
While, thus expos'd, and 'compass'd round, I stood,
My Cheeks confess'd the shame-attracted Blood;
Most hateful this! But, now, as if inspir'd
With the same Thought, they all at once retir'd:
To Cards! to Cards! a female Savage cries;
To Cards! the assenting Croud with Joy replies.
405
Now, burst in Clamours, sudden, wild, and loud.
The Cazique pointed to my wondering View
Small, square, thin Leaves, array'd in milk-white Hue,
On one Side this; on the Reverse appears
Large deep-stain'd Spots, and mystic Characters:
These are the Ministers that Fortune gives;
With these, her misled Votaries deceives;
'Tis from their Aspect each his Fate attends;
On these, their short-liv'd Happiness depends,
Or lasting Misery; and the shining Ore
That decks the Board, must yield to Fortune's Power:
Precarious Chance! Now, each his Soul betrays;
And various Fortunes various Passions raise:
Here, Indignation eyes his parting Hoard,
While calm Contentment sweeps the shining Board;
Here, the pale Wretch, to Desperation driven,
Gnashes his Teeth, and seems to rail at Heaven:
The Females, too, perform their different Parts,
While their Eyes tell the Emotion of their Hearts;
Now, for a Moment, bright, serene, and clear;
Then, on a sudden, clouded with Despair;
The unsuccessful, and successful Card,
Alternate kiss'd, and torn, as a Reward
Of Fortune's Caprice. Whence this Thirst of Gain?
'Twas hell-ordain'd for human Nature's Bane:
How vast a Difference 'twixt thy Zilia's Soul,
And these, whom Wealth, and Want, alone controul,
For thee, dear Aza, spring my Care and Grief;
From thee, I hope for Comfort and Relief;
From Pride, from Avarice, from Ambition free,
I only ask for Liberty, and thee.
| The Shamrock | |