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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| VII. | LETTER VII. |
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 | The Shamrock |  |
406
LETTER VII.
INSCRIBED TO MISS SCOTT.
Aza, my Love! how long a Time is past,
Since my fantastic Soul address'd thee last:
Light of my Days! e'er since my Quipos fail'd,
Two hundred bright returning Suns I have hail'd:
Now, a new pleasing Art some Comfort brings,
And serves in Lieu of the descriptive Strings;
Taught by these Savages, my tutor'd Hand
Marks o'er the Paper, as my Thoughts command;
The feather'd Pen, deep-dy'd, performs its Part,
And strikes my Wonder, while it paints my Heart:
But, oh! alas! what Terrors have assail'd,
What different Passions o'er my Soul prevail'd!
Now, green-ey'd Jealousy, and pallid Fear;
Now, short-liv'd Hope, still haunted by Despair:
But hold, my Grief, and let my Lines unfold
Still stranger Things than e'er my Quipos told.
Since my fantastic Soul address'd thee last:
Light of my Days! e'er since my Quipos fail'd,
Two hundred bright returning Suns I have hail'd:
Now, a new pleasing Art some Comfort brings,
And serves in Lieu of the descriptive Strings;
Taught by these Savages, my tutor'd Hand
Marks o'er the Paper, as my Thoughts command;
The feather'd Pen, deep-dy'd, performs its Part,
And strikes my Wonder, while it paints my Heart:
But, oh! alas! what Terrors have assail'd,
What different Passions o'er my Soul prevail'd!
Now, green-ey'd Jealousy, and pallid Fear;
Now, short-liv'd Hope, still haunted by Despair:
But hold, my Grief, and let my Lines unfold
Still stranger Things than e'er my Quipos told.
High o'er the Town, a solemn Fabric rears
Its venerable Head, the Work of Years;
Like the Sun's Temple; but whose towering Height,
Stupendous, baffles and fatigues the Sight;
Of vast Extent, which summon'd me awhile
To admire the Beauties of the outward Pile:
But, when I enter'd that superb Abode,
The Anti-chamber of the reigning God,
What noble Objects did I there behold!
The lofty Roof adorn'd with pendant Gold;
Supporting Pillars in due Order stand,
Which boast the Exactness of the Sculptor's Hand;
Here, on each Side six Marble Figures plac'd,
The hollow'd Wall with awful Grandeur grac'd,
'Bove human Size; in every Space between,
Adorn'd in Gold, the Painter's Skill is seen;
Where real Life and Spirit seem to warm,
In different Ways, each artificial Form.
My trembling Soul, with Expectation fir'd,
Painted the God most gloriously attir'd,
With Scenes of Bliss, and exquisite Delight,
All Heaven disclos'd insufferably bright:
But how deceiv'd! when through the brazen Door
I trod the inward consecrated Floor:
In Front, a naked human Form I view'd,
Fix'd to a Cross, which o'er an Altar stood;
A Wreath of Thorns his heavenly Crown supply'd,
While the Blood trickled down his wounded Side;
No glorious Rays bedeck'd his drooping Head;
No Signs, but what excessive Pain betray'd;
Though pale in Death, the writhing Limbs confess
The late felt Pangs of infinite Distress:
Strange! that these Savages should hope Relief
From one in Death, unconscious of their Grief:
Perhaps some Mystery to this belongs;
And my dark Soul their brighter Knowlege wrongs;
Perhaps his Life was for his Children given,
To atone their Crimes, and ascertain their Heaven:
What could it mean? even I myself, in Thought,
Fear'd, lov'd, and wonder'd, at I knew not what.
But, now, a Figure, matron-like, appears,
Whose tender Arm a smiling Infant bears;
Weeping, she stands within a glittering Shrine,
Where precious Stones, and Gold, alternate shine:
To her, these Savages most frequent pray;
To her, their Vows, their Adoration pay;
But, how absurd! how carelessly express'd!
The Deity alone appears distress'd.
Here, a young Virgin, kneeling 'midst her Prayers,
Her Aza's Oaths with Approbation hears:
Meanwhile, the Youth with double Ardour burns,
And plays the Lover, and the Saint by Turns.
See! where, install'd, the bloated Ynca sleeps,
Oh! impious Mortal! while the Godhead weeps.
The Thought of Worship, doubtless, first was given,
To bless Mankind, the Boon of gracious Heaven:
But, sure, these Wretches have this Gift misus'd;
Or, by degenerate Priests have been abus'd;
Or, some dark Angel, studious to betray,
Has led their Souls, maliciously, astray.
Not so, thy Yncas watch the sacred Fire;
Not so, thy Virgins hail their rising Sire;
Not so, thy Youths pollute the Temple Floor,
Or dare to trifle with Almighty Power:
Alas! my Aza, may some pitying God
Reclaim their Steps from this mistaken Road!
Its venerable Head, the Work of Years;
Like the Sun's Temple; but whose towering Height,
Stupendous, baffles and fatigues the Sight;
407
To admire the Beauties of the outward Pile:
But, when I enter'd that superb Abode,
The Anti-chamber of the reigning God,
What noble Objects did I there behold!
The lofty Roof adorn'd with pendant Gold;
Supporting Pillars in due Order stand,
Which boast the Exactness of the Sculptor's Hand;
Here, on each Side six Marble Figures plac'd,
The hollow'd Wall with awful Grandeur grac'd,
'Bove human Size; in every Space between,
Adorn'd in Gold, the Painter's Skill is seen;
Where real Life and Spirit seem to warm,
In different Ways, each artificial Form.
My trembling Soul, with Expectation fir'd,
Painted the God most gloriously attir'd,
With Scenes of Bliss, and exquisite Delight,
All Heaven disclos'd insufferably bright:
But how deceiv'd! when through the brazen Door
I trod the inward consecrated Floor:
In Front, a naked human Form I view'd,
Fix'd to a Cross, which o'er an Altar stood;
A Wreath of Thorns his heavenly Crown supply'd,
While the Blood trickled down his wounded Side;
No glorious Rays bedeck'd his drooping Head;
No Signs, but what excessive Pain betray'd;
Though pale in Death, the writhing Limbs confess
The late felt Pangs of infinite Distress:
Strange! that these Savages should hope Relief
From one in Death, unconscious of their Grief:
Perhaps some Mystery to this belongs;
And my dark Soul their brighter Knowlege wrongs;
Perhaps his Life was for his Children given,
To atone their Crimes, and ascertain their Heaven:
408
Fear'd, lov'd, and wonder'd, at I knew not what.
But, now, a Figure, matron-like, appears,
Whose tender Arm a smiling Infant bears;
Weeping, she stands within a glittering Shrine,
Where precious Stones, and Gold, alternate shine:
To her, these Savages most frequent pray;
To her, their Vows, their Adoration pay;
But, how absurd! how carelessly express'd!
The Deity alone appears distress'd.
Here, a young Virgin, kneeling 'midst her Prayers,
Her Aza's Oaths with Approbation hears:
Meanwhile, the Youth with double Ardour burns,
And plays the Lover, and the Saint by Turns.
See! where, install'd, the bloated Ynca sleeps,
Oh! impious Mortal! while the Godhead weeps.
The Thought of Worship, doubtless, first was given,
To bless Mankind, the Boon of gracious Heaven:
But, sure, these Wretches have this Gift misus'd;
Or, by degenerate Priests have been abus'd;
Or, some dark Angel, studious to betray,
Has led their Souls, maliciously, astray.
Not so, thy Yncas watch the sacred Fire;
Not so, thy Virgins hail their rising Sire;
Not so, thy Youths pollute the Temple Floor,
Or dare to trifle with Almighty Power:
Alas! my Aza, may some pitying God
Reclaim their Steps from this mistaken Road!
Another Circumstance demands my Pen,
The chief Amusement of these wayward Men:
As, heretofore, I have seen on Cusco's Stage,
They paint the Portraits of a former Age;
They to our Memory were alone reviv'd,
Who fell with Glory, or in Virtue liv'd;
Worthy Examples to instruct Mankind,
To mend the Heart, and humanize the Mind:
Not so instructive do these Scenes appear;
Villains, and Fools, are represented here;
The impetuous Actor whirls his Arms around,
And tears his Hair, or, falling, bites the Ground,
'Till his devoted Side receives the Knife,
And mad Self-Murder ends an impious Life.
Such Crimes as these, that shock the Sight of Heaven,
From our Remembrance rather should be driven:
For, from the Stage, Examples may prevail
O'er tender Minds, where wisest Precepts fail.
What Entertainment for a human Mind!
To view the Woes attending human Kind;
To see the Madman, in his abject State,
Pleas'd with his Frenzy, ridicule his Fate;
To hear the Wretched make their fruitless Moan;
And, unappall'd, withstand the dying Groan:
'Tis strange, yet certain, horrid Sights like these,
Among this Nation find the Means to please.
Can female Appetites such Food digest?
Can Pity find no Harbour in their Breast?
From tyrant Custom, they affect to hear
These tragic Scenes, unconscious of a Tear:
Fierce sanguine Passions manly Souls disgrace,
And substitute the brutal in their Place.
The chief Amusement of these wayward Men:
As, heretofore, I have seen on Cusco's Stage,
They paint the Portraits of a former Age;
They to our Memory were alone reviv'd,
Who fell with Glory, or in Virtue liv'd;
409
To mend the Heart, and humanize the Mind:
Not so instructive do these Scenes appear;
Villains, and Fools, are represented here;
The impetuous Actor whirls his Arms around,
And tears his Hair, or, falling, bites the Ground,
'Till his devoted Side receives the Knife,
And mad Self-Murder ends an impious Life.
Such Crimes as these, that shock the Sight of Heaven,
From our Remembrance rather should be driven:
For, from the Stage, Examples may prevail
O'er tender Minds, where wisest Precepts fail.
What Entertainment for a human Mind!
To view the Woes attending human Kind;
To see the Madman, in his abject State,
Pleas'd with his Frenzy, ridicule his Fate;
To hear the Wretched make their fruitless Moan;
And, unappall'd, withstand the dying Groan:
'Tis strange, yet certain, horrid Sights like these,
Among this Nation find the Means to please.
Can female Appetites such Food digest?
Can Pity find no Harbour in their Breast?
From tyrant Custom, they affect to hear
These tragic Scenes, unconscious of a Tear:
Fierce sanguine Passions manly Souls disgrace,
And substitute the brutal in their Place.
Can Zilia hope for Pity, in an Age,
Where her Misfortunes may adorn the Stage,
Where Cusco's Fate, in Time, may entertain,
With Virgins, Yncas, reverend Mamas slain,
And the Sun's Temple be prophan'd again:
Oh! could they add, how providential Fate
Reliev'd the Sufferers from their slavish State;
How grateful Subjects hail'd their bounteous Lord,
For Peace, Religion, Liberty restor'd;
How royal Aza, from his Bondage free,
Releas'd his Zilia from Captivity;
How, by their Virtues, the Peruvian Throne,
In them restor'd, with double Lustre shone:
Oh! flattering Hopes! how soon do ye subside!
How fade the Prospects of such airy Pride!
Perhaps, my Fate has no such Joys in Store;
Perhaps my Aza doats on me no more;
But, why should I anticipate my Care!
I'll kneel to Heaven in most pathetic Prayer;
'Till listening Angels shall observe my Grief,
And bring thee, anxious, to my quick Relief.
Where her Misfortunes may adorn the Stage,
Where Cusco's Fate, in Time, may entertain,
With Virgins, Yncas, reverend Mamas slain,
And the Sun's Temple be prophan'd again:
Oh! could they add, how providential Fate
Reliev'd the Sufferers from their slavish State;
410
For Peace, Religion, Liberty restor'd;
How royal Aza, from his Bondage free,
Releas'd his Zilia from Captivity;
How, by their Virtues, the Peruvian Throne,
In them restor'd, with double Lustre shone:
Oh! flattering Hopes! how soon do ye subside!
How fade the Prospects of such airy Pride!
Perhaps, my Fate has no such Joys in Store;
Perhaps my Aza doats on me no more;
But, why should I anticipate my Care!
I'll kneel to Heaven in most pathetic Prayer;
'Till listening Angels shall observe my Grief,
And bring thee, anxious, to my quick Relief.
Last Night, I dream'd,—oh! horrid, horrid Night!
My waking Soul still trembles with the Fright—
While in the Temple's Floor methought I stood,
(Still flow'd the Streams of visionary Blood)
All on a sudden, Peals of Thunder broke,
And the vast Dome from its Foundations shook,
When, thus, the God, in doleful Accents spoke:
‘'Tis past, 'tis done; forbear, fond Maid, in vain,
‘To hope for Blessings thou can'st ne'er obtain:
‘The Lot is cast; nor can my Power divide
‘The sacred Knot, that Heaven itself has ty'd,
‘Can senseless Idols, form'd by mortal Hand,
‘In Competition with the Godhead stand?’
This said, he fell spontaneous on the Floor;
The golden Lamps display'd their Fire no more;
When, lo, methought, upon the Altar's Height,
A bloody Cross beam'd forth celestial Light:
Alas! I fear, this Prodigy may prove
Obnoxious to our Faith, or to my Love;
Perhaps the Crisis of my Fate is nigh;
Ah! love me, Aza! love me, or I die!
My waking Soul still trembles with the Fright—
While in the Temple's Floor methought I stood,
(Still flow'd the Streams of visionary Blood)
All on a sudden, Peals of Thunder broke,
And the vast Dome from its Foundations shook,
When, thus, the God, in doleful Accents spoke:
‘'Tis past, 'tis done; forbear, fond Maid, in vain,
‘To hope for Blessings thou can'st ne'er obtain:
‘The Lot is cast; nor can my Power divide
‘The sacred Knot, that Heaven itself has ty'd,
‘Can senseless Idols, form'd by mortal Hand,
‘In Competition with the Godhead stand?’
This said, he fell spontaneous on the Floor;
The golden Lamps display'd their Fire no more;
When, lo, methought, upon the Altar's Height,
A bloody Cross beam'd forth celestial Light:
Alas! I fear, this Prodigy may prove
Obnoxious to our Faith, or to my Love;
Perhaps the Crisis of my Fate is nigh;
Ah! love me, Aza! love me, or I die!
| The Shamrock | |