Poems, on various subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems, on various subjects

by Ann Yearsley ... being her second work

Yearsley, Ann (1753-1806)

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ADDRESSED TO SENSIBILITY.

Oh! Sensibility! Thou busy nurse
Of Inj'ries once receiv'd, why wilt thou feed
Those serpents in the soul? their stings more fell
Than those which writh'd round Priam's priestly son;
I feel them here! They rend my panting breast,
But I will tear them thence: ah! effort vain!
Disturb'd they grow rapacious, while their fangs

Strike at poor Memory; wounded she deplores
Her ravish'd joys, and murmurs o'er the past.

Why shrinks my soul within these prison walls,
Where wretches shake their chains? Ill-fated youth,
Why does thine eye run wildly o'er my form,
Pointed with fond enquiry? 'Tis not Me,
Thy restless thought would find; the silent tear
Steals gently down his cheek: ah! could my arms
Afford thee refuge, I would bear thee hence
To a more peaceful dwelling. Vain the wish!
Thy pow'rs are all unhing'd, and thou wouldst sit
Insensible to sympathy: farewell.
Lamented being! ever lost to hope,
I leave thee, yea despair myself of cure.

For, oh, my bosom bleeds, while griefs like thine
Increase the recent pang. Pensive I rove,
More wounded than the hart, whose side yet holds
The deadly arrow: Friendship, boast no more
Thy hoard of joys, o'er which my soul oft hung;
Like the too anxious miser o'er his gold.
My treasures all are wreck'd; I quit the scene
Where haughty Insult cut the sacred ties
Which long had held us: Cruel Julius! take
My last adieu. The wound thou gav'st is death,
Nor can'st e'en thou recall my frighted sense
With Friendship's pleasing sound; yet will I clasp
Thy valued image to my aching mind,
And viewing that, forgive thee; will deplore
The blow that sever'd two congenial souls!

Officious Sensibility! 'tis thine
To give the finest anguish, to dissolve
The dross of spirit, till all essence, she
Refines on real woe; from thence extracts
Sad unexisting phantoms, never seen.

Yet, dear ideal mourner, be thou near
When on Lysander's tears I silent gaze;
Then, with thy viewless pencil, form his sigh,
His deepest groan, his sorrow-tinged thought,
Wish immature, impatience, cold despair,
With all the tort'ring images that play,
In sable hue, within his wasted mind.

And when this dreary group shall meet my thought,
Oh! throw my pow'rs upon a fertile space,

Where mingles ev'ry varied soft relief.
Without thee, I could offer but the dregs
Of vulgar consolation; from her cup
He turns the eye, nor dare it soil his lip!
Raise thou my friendly hand; mix thou the draught
More pure than ether, as ambrosia clear,
Fit only for the soul; thy chalice fill
With drops of sympathy, which swiftly fall
From my afflicted heart: yet—yet beware,
Nor stoop to seize from Passion's warmer clime
A pois'nous sweet.—Bright cherub, safely rove
Thro' all the deep recesses of the soul!
Float on her raptures, deeper tinge her woes,
Strengthen emotion, higher waft her sigh,
Sit in the tearful orb, and ardent gaze
On joy or sorrow. But thy empire ends

Within the line of spirit. My rough soul,
O Sensibility! defenceless hails,
Thy feelings most acute. Yet, ye who boast
Of bliss I ne'er must reach, ye, who can fix
A rule for sentiment, if rules there are,
(For much I doubt, my friends, if rule e'er held
Capacious sentiment) ye sure can point
My mind to joys that never touch'd the heart.
What is this joy? Where does its essence rest?
Ah! self-confounding sophists, will ye dare
Pronounce that joy which never touch'd the heart?
Does Education give the transport keen,
Or swell your vaunted grief? No, Nature feels
Most poignant, undefended; hails with me
The Pow'rs of Sensibility untaught.

Bedlam.

ON THE DEATH OF HER GRACE, The Duchess Dowager of PORTLAND.

That sigh's the last! Illustrious spirit fly,
Nor pause, nor “cast one ling'ring look behind.”
The doors of life are clos'd: the harps on high
Vibrating wait till with thy raptures join'd.

Upborne on soaring exstasy she dares
Her slight progressive, ting'd with heav'nly rays;
Behold! refulgence on her form appears,
More bright than that which Iris' bow displays.

Beneath her far, wide beds of waters lie,
Distant she sees obedient lightnings bound;
Whole seas of fire strike on her wond'ring eye,
And winds, and thunders, breathe a dying sound.

Celestial beings gliding to and fro,
Hail the fair stranger, and with smile divine,
Point where the dazzling emanations flow
From Deity,—where worlds of glory shine.

With angel troops thro' light she roves afar,
And her lov'd Lord with added raptures spies,
Reclin'd in bliss, while seraphs sing the war,
When Heav'ns bright rebel lost his native skies.

The happy spirits, each with transport hail'd,
Both join the seraphim's exalted tone,
Whose beauteous faces, tho' with pinions veil'd,
They ne'er oppose to Great Jehovah's Throne.

Hail, Portland, hail! and should'st thou pause in joy,
In that short moment to my numbers bend;
Time ne'er my strong effusions shall alloy,
My soul exults that thou wert once her friend.

Her Grace the Duchess Dowager of Portland subscribed twenty guineas to the Author's first work, and was the only subscriber with whose generosity Mrs. Yearsley was ever made acquainted.

TO A SENSIBLE BUT PASSIONATE FRIEND.

Trivial circumstances rising
Strike thy soul with lightning's haste;
Quick sensations, Rule despising,
Give thee strongest, keenest taste.

Exquisite thy mental pleasure,
Common transports are not thine;
Far surpassing vulgar measure,
All thy joys are near divine.

Keep thy heights of bliss, nor venture
On the scene of painful thought;
Think how deeply grief must center
In a soul so finely wrought.

Oft I've seen thy bosom heaving,
Oft have mark'd the sigh suppress'd;
Still the senseless eye deceiving,
When the pang has rack'd thy breast.

--- such souls as thine must languish,
Like majestic ruin lie;
None but equals share thine anguish,
Fools deride thy deepest sigh.

Yet Philosophy despairing,
Mourns thy richest feelings lost;
When from self-denial veering,
Thou'rt on storms of passion tost.

Shou'dst thou view a weaker spirit,
Moving in her sphere confin'd,
Be it still thy greatest merit
To forgive, and be resign'd.

TO THE BRISTOL MARINE SOCIETY.

Come, thou unconquer'd pow'r! that nid'st the line,
And boldly bidd'st the wild idea rise,
Rush on my sense! swift o'er my tranquil soul
Breathe thy strong influence, till her deepest springs
Are all in motion set. Lo! the calm sea,
Like me, inactive, waits the breath of Heav'n;
Once caught! obedient to his cause, he rolls
His aged billows to their destin'd shore,
Bearing the wishing rover to his home.

But you! who mourn the majesty of man,
Too early marr'd in the fair shameless youth;
You, who have sigh'd, when in the list of sin,
A blooming champion in her cause he stood,
Till vengeance met him in her full career,
And hurl'd him blotted to a timeless grave;
To you I bend, to you I strike the lyre,
Rustic and unharmonious—from your walls
Lo! shrieking Infamy for ever flies,
Whose poisons long sate heavy on the winds,
While from her blister'd tongue the furies fell,
More thick than motes, which revel in the sun.

Fame bears your plaudit o'er the freezing wave,
Where shiv'ring seamen wait their friendly star
Which warns them from the statue-forming coast,

Nor there alone, beyond the burning line,
Her breath more fragrant than Arabia's gale,
Shall waft your name, and sing the social joy
That vibrates on the heart, when Pity strikes
The trembling chords. Ah! what the transient gleam
Of falsly-glaring Greatness—what the bliss
Of loud unfeeling Mirth—opposed to this
Of reaching out your friendly hand, to save
The sinking form of Innocence, ere Vice
Hath dragg'd her down to misery and shame?

What roaring hurricane, or lightning blue,
Can fright the soul, who, thro' the op'ning clouds,
Discerns the arm of Deity? Oh, Faith!
Thou buoy of mortals, firmly fix'd on thee,
Triumphing, we bestride the storms of life,
Nor quit thee wreck'd on Death's unjoyful shore.

Tremendous scene! when the unwieldly hulk
Sleeps on the breast of Ocean, nor obeys
The eager efforts of despairing man.
Bereft of her tall mast, and friendly sail,
Like a too stubborn beauty stript of pride,
She disobeys, or runs to wild misrule.
Then, what's her giddy motion? Who shall steer
The crazy helm of Hope? Yon liquid hills
She lazily attempts, or having gain'd
Their wanton summit, lo! she sinks again,
More faintly moves. The next approaching wave
Breaks on her bosom, and she strives no more.

In that sad moment, the devoted youth,
Whom your strong hand snatch'd early from the jaws
Of soul-devouring Guilt, shall tranquil meet

The death he cannot shun; and hope to rise,
When Jesus, walking on the wave, shall bid
The deep throw up her treasures. Awful thought!
Then shall old Ocean end his wonted toils,
And wond'ring, hail Omnipotence: huge seas,
Rise o'er the promontory's hoary brow,
Where girt by pow'r, they never more shall rush
Down to their long-lov'd beds, but leave exposed
The monst'rous phocæ with their horrid forms.
Here mingled atoms in formation pant,
Impatient for perfection; here the whale,
Rapacious shark, and crocodile, more false
Than lover's tears, are suddenly arouz'd
By the tremendous uproar; loathing air,
They beat their sins and die. The em'rald, dropt
From Celia's ear, is seen; the lovely maid

Long, long, forgotten! Ingots rare, and gems
Of wond'rous price, by surly Nabob priz'd,
All meet the eye in vain. Oh hideous world!
Where ceaseless motion reigns; whence the wild roar
Of Chaos, chain'd to thy foundation, sounds
Thro' all thy regions; while triumphant Death,
Amid the lawless anarchy, awaits
The struggling mariner, and bears him down.

Ah! hapless Marcius! long thy faithful arm
Bore up thy sinking bride, till lost to hope,
Swift ye descended in a fond embrace:
Arise, ye pair! this is the fated hour,
When dreary Death throws ope his prison doors,
While spirits rush on day; and in this hour
The Sons of Commerce may with firmness gaze
On Heav'ns recording angel; who, with smiles,

Holds high their institution: strike, ye throngs
Of winged cherubims! yet louder sound
The strain of mercy, mix'd with grateful praise.

Hail, sacred few! who bade the sea-boy fix
His eye on attributes which strike his soul
With deep amazement! See he stands aghast!
While the red thunder-bolt is swiftly borne
Near his astonish'd ear: the dreadful sound
With horror chills his blood, nor dares weak sense
Rest on th'avenging herald, but shuts out
The image of his threaten'd dissolution.

'Tis past! and now the humbled soul would turn
Most willing to her cause. Hark, silent joy,
In the unbidden sigh, with force ascends;
The short ejaculation's breath'd in haste,

And half-pronounced, left the loud crew should feel
An unavailing fear. O hard Despair!
Too oft thou sitt'st in darkness on the mind
Of the old seaman, stubborn in his woes;
Who, when he braves the death he's sure to meet,
Will seldom own Religion. Happy ye!
Who gently shed on poor neglected youth
The joys of social love; but chiefly thou,
O Burke , whose sensibility is pain,
Melting with keenest agony, accept
The praises of this long-forgotten race.
Bristol shall hail thy name, and sacred hold
Thy records from oblivion's deep abyss,
While Glory, nurs'd within her merchants arms,
Shall blaze refulgent on a wond'ring world.

Recorder of Bristol.

FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,

Who appeared hurt on the Author's desiring him to Live “upon Remembrance.”

Lucius, suppress the sigh, nor let the pang
Rend thy too soften'd bosom: from my tongue
No accent, that envenom'd meaning bears,
Shall ever cut its passage to thine heart.

Why then this keen sensation? Why on earth
Fix thy late chearful eye, whose beams were wont
To light fresh rapture in the soul refin'd?

Thy mind so nice, starts at a feign'd alarm,
And shudders at an injury suppos'd.
Fatal mistake! for who would wound thy breast,
That feel by sympathy the pangs they give?

The subject was peculiar, and my friend
Sullenly trembled for his well-earn'd fame;
Yet why?—no vict'ry was by me pursued,
Nor would I, for her trophies, bid thee yield.

Ah! Lucius, think how rich the hoarded joys
Of dear remembrance! think when jocund youth
Sate on the cheek of Delia, how her eye,
Struck silent on thy heart, bidding it heave
With transport undefin'd, while mutual love
Taught her soft bosom to return thy sigh,

Soothing the guiltless rapture. Mem'ry holds
The charts of Innocence, when, through the shade,
Relying on thy virtue, and her own,
The Virgin, fearless, wander'd; Truth, like thine,
Chac'd ev'ry horror from the midnight hour;
Nor could the surly future blast your scene.

'Tis past! Time leaves the tender hour behind,
When Delia, borne upon the blasts of Fate,
Reluctant, left thine arms—nor fills them more.

Thus rent the fabric of thy promis'd joys,
E'er thy young mind could form her little plan.

Yet, shall poor Memory clasp thy Delia's form,
When stealing on thee, in the pensive hour,
She leads thee back to pure, untainted bliss.

The present is not valu'd; restless man
Lives for the past, and future, fix'd his eye
On op'ning prospects that shall never end,
Till, in the vast pursuit, the rover falls.

And would the future tempt the ardent wish
Did not completion live within the past?
Ask the old miser if he'd grasp at wealth,
Cou'd he but once forget it? “Ask the youth,
Who melts in softest languishment of woe,
Why he adores the maid? Ah! he shall own
His soul can ne'er forget her.” Would the sage
Tempt Nature's mineral depths, or trace the stars
Thro' their nocturnal course, was he deny'd
The joys of memory? Would the hero glow
Amid the mingled sound of Death and War?

Did he not hope to conquer, and reflect
On danger, bravely dar'd?—or could my soul
Keep up her friendly intercourse with thine,
Was bright remembrance lost? With pleasing strength
She bears me back, thro' Time's once beaten path,
Again to thee, and to thy social hearth.

Hail, happy spot! where Friendship strove to heal
The wound of recent woe, and to my soul
Apply'd her softest balm. Oh! 'twas the tear
Of Sympathy that fill'd thy manly eye,
When Mem'ry brought thy long-lost smiling boy,
In haste to thy fond mind, bidding thee feel
For sorrows like thy own. Sink! sink! my pen,
Nor jar the soul with unavailing strains.
May dark Oblivion's widest cavern ope,

And all our mis'ries hail the deep profound;
But Memory, keep thy more than vestal fire,
Burning eternal at the shrine of joy!

SONG.

[What ails my heart when thou art nigh?]

What ails my heart when thou art nigh?
Why heaves the tender rising sigh?
Ah, Delia, is it love?
My breath in shorten'd pauses fly;
I tremble, languish, burn and die;
Dost thou those tremors prove?

Does thy fond bosom beat for me?
Dost thou my form in absence see,
Sill wishing to be near?

Does melting languor fill thy breast?
That something, which was ne'er exprest,
Ah! tell me—if you dare.

But tho' my soul, soft, fond and kind,
Could in thy arms a refuge find,
Secur'd from ev'ry woe;
Yet, strict to Honour's louder strains,
A last adieu alone remains,
'Tis all the Fates bestow.

Then blame me not, if doom'd to prove
The endless pangs of hopeless love,
And live by thee unblest:
My joyless hours fly fast away;
Let them fly on, I chide their stay,
For sure 'tis Heav'n to rest.

To Mr. V---, On his pronouncing the Author to be in Love, when she wrote the preceding.

On the axis of Love, wheels the Universe round,
In rotation continued, and thrifty;
While some tender minds at fifteen feel the wound,
And some hold it out till they're fifty.

O ye Gods, then defend me from fifty, in love,
When that language has left the bright eye,
Which speaks to the soul, tho' our tongues never move,
And shall conquer, when accent must die.

Love was ever the touchstone to try the fine mind,
Sterling Virtue 'twill never debase;
No alloy can we know, from a passion refin'd,
But to Beauty it still adds a grace.

Corrosive, curst Av'rice, still preys on the heart;
Ambition high stretches the mind;
Loud Fame may awhile her false transport impart,
Yet all leave their torment behind.

But to love, and be lov'd, does the soul ask for more?
No; here to her summit she's rais'd:
With scorn she looks down on old mammon's bright store,
She's bless'd, and her Maker is prais'd.

And now, my good friend, your conclusion to prove,
(Perhaps, too, I hint it in spite)
From Precept, write Sermons; from Nature write Love;
And then you'll be sure to do right.

Yet, say, if on Love I most aptly define,
By that, can you fathom my soul?
No passion shall ever my spirit confine,
Independent, I smile at controul.

While a bosom like yours, soft emotions perplex,
When bright objects strike full on your eye;
And may Love's transitions continue to vex,
'Till in age ev'ry rapture must die.

EPITAPH, ON THE SUDDEN DEATH OF AN ACCOMPLISHED YOUTH,

(Designed for a Tomb-Stone.)

“Death (deem'd abrupt) sits on my mortal frame;
“But can aught fall as sudden from a God?
“Does not his pitying eye in mercy view
“Man in his swift progression? What avails
“The early year, or date of lengthen'd age?
“Merely to live, boasts a Creator's hand,
“And life's first moment stamp'd my soul immortal.

“Then trust Infinity, ye weeping friends,
“Nor spend that moment, in a fruitless sigh,
“Which to your soul belongs; already lodg'd
“Beyond the grasp of Death; my warfare's o'er,
“Then mourn but for yourselves, and own a God.”

ELEGY, Written on the Banks of the Avon, where the Author took a last Farewel of her Brother.

Oh! thou false wave, that seemd'st so wond'rous smooth,
When a lov'd brother press'd thy yielding bosom,
“What shall be said of thee?” Shall I arraign
Thee, simple instrument, that proudly bore
A darling boy from his fond mother's arms?
Ah, no! far, far remote th'all-powerful cause
Of thy officious zeal.—Yet in thy depths

Lives there a Nereid, or a Sea-god, stern,
Who bore the mandate down thy fatal stream,
Or, with their tridents, push'd the wand'ring youth
To his last port? O God, what tremors shook
The strongest pow'rs of my reluctant soul,
When, from his eyes, I took their farewel gaze;
So pensive, yea, so full of promis'd death,
That my sad bosom slow responses beat,
And all my mother shudder'd in my breast;
For her fond hopes I felt; for her my soul
Forgot its resolutions: sure, the pang
Of pity, pointed with another's woe,
Is then most strong. But, ah, too fatal wave!
Why tempt so oft the wild despairing wretch
To thy cold bed? Here sad Maria sought

Oblivion; here she dar'd the dreadful change,
From which poor Nature starts. Now o'er the mead,
Her shade, light-bearing on the silver dews,
Perhaps, may hail my pensive pitying lay.

Ah, hapless maid! should thy wan ghost be near,
And with me sigh to Cynthia's chilling beam;
Yet list, nor fly mortality; my soul,
Heedless of horror, mid the starless gloom,
Would hang on thy shrill sound: Oh! could'st thou dare
Unfold the charts of never-ending space,
How would my spirit strike the eager wing,
To claim her new creation! 'Twill not be:
Here must I joyless rove; yet, not like thee,
Will I throw off my Being. Mercy gave

Existence, as the origin of bliss,
And shall I cast it lightly? Shall I dare
This life-subduing wave? Yea, farther, dare
Presumptuously my God? No; 'tis enough
That I, one day, may find thee; near thee find
A kind Creator, who in pity strikes,
From thy account, this heav'n-opposed act.

Why glide thus swiftly from my mental eye?
Wouldst thou escape yon pale dejected form,
Who lightly treads on the unyielding stream?
It comes with tardy step; Ah! tis the shade
Of thy lov'd Brother: See! he waves his hand,
And beckons thee again to prove the deep.

Abrupt, he sunk in Friendship's strongest act;
When bearing young Philander to the shore,
He sigh'd his soul away. Oh! 'twas a scene,
Where Horror revell'd; on the margin stood
Horatio , smiling at the sportive youth,
Who fain would lash the wave with strengthless arm.
Ah, effort vain! Down! down! he hopeless sinks:
While in Horatio's bosom Nature swell'd
More strong than tempest wild; dauntless he plung'd
'Mid liquid death. Yet shall this wat'ry world
One day her cold inhabitants resign
To the demand of Mercy. Charming truth!
Here thou may'st blazon Virtue unresin'd,
And in a vulgar breast: Where shall romance
Strike weeping Fancy with an act like this?

Oh, Pity, dear tormentor! 'tis not now
My soul would hail thee; strike not my weak sense
With all thy pomp of sorrow. Why bend o'er
Yon wave-drench'd boy who sinks with seeming smile,
To clasp his much lov'd sire; in playful mood
The chearful rover felt the chilling death,
Nor paus'd repentant, listless of his fate.

Gone! ever gone! ye kindred souls: yet hear
My plaintive lay, should Cromartie's wan ghost
Flit thro' your airy paths, oh, bear my sigh
To that fond brother! Whither, whither fled,
Thou long-lov'd youth! 'tis dreary silence all;
No answer, save the hoarse-resounding Avon.

Yet here, with me, thou trodd'st the dewy mead,
When the bright daisy woo'd our infant hand,
In life's young hour; and oft the flow'ry wreath
I wrought for thy dear brow, when laughing May
Danc'd o'er the gay Creation; faded long
The blooming garland, wither'd soon, they fell,
Like thee, neglected, and are seen no more.

Ah, when! or where shall I now hail thy shade,
Or clasp thee to my bosom? Fancy, come!
Haste! haste! with all thy sorrow-soothing hues,
And paint the scene which yields a long embrace.
Oh, bear my spirit thro' the gulph of Death!
Where Being, from oblivion instant springs
Eternity's firm Heir; pointing my soul
To where a mother hangs on her lov'd boy;
Yet, trembling with her change ---

Mary Smith, who in a fit of despair, plunged into the Avon.

R. Smith, (Brother to Maria) who seeing their younger brother sinking, plung'd into the river with his clothes on; he saved the youth, but was drowned himself.

Son to R. Smith, drowned two years after, near the same place with his father.

The Author's brother.

TO MISS ELIZA DAWSON, OF OXTON, YORKSHIRE.

Come, fair Eliza! bless the vale,
And realize what fancy forms:
I hear thee in the whisp'ring gale;
I see thee weep the wint'ry storms,

Which on Lactilla's bosom beat,
While sleecy snows in haste descend:
They seek my heart—melting retreat,
For there's the image of my friend.

All glowing, 'mid immortal fire,
Eliza owns my rustic soul,
Before her light'nings pale expire,
And thunders seek the distant pole.

Oh! thou canst cheer the dreary wild;
Rememb'ring thee, my sorrows die:
Thy friendship renders horror mild,
And calms the rude inclement sky.

When wand'ring o'er yon rugged rocks
Unseen, Eliza hovers near.
Ah, no!—the lovely phantom mocks
My eager soul—she is not there!

Idea, die, nor falsely play
With tints which my Eliza grace;
Yon Eastern blush must sure display
A guiltless emblem of her face.

Yet deathless Fancy, near me live!
Lo! grateful Ardour lends her flame,
Bidding Eliza's charms survive,
And dying accents sigh her name.

TO INDIFFERENCE.

Indiff'rence come! thy torpid juices shed
On my keen sense: plunge deep my wounded heart,
In thickest apathy, till it congeal,
Or mix with thee incorp'rate. Come, thou foe
To sharp sensation, in thy cold embrace
A death-like slumber shall a respite give
To my long restless soul, tost on extreme,
From bliss to pointed woe. Oh, gentle Pow'r,

Dear substitute of Patience! thou canst ease
The Soldier's toil, the gloomy Captive's chain,
The Lover's anguish, and the Miser's fear.

Proud Beauty will not own thee! her loud boast
Is Virtue-while thy chilling breath alone
Blows o'er her soul, bidding her passions sleep.

Mistaken Cause, the frozen Fair denies
Thy saving influence. Virtue never lives,
But in the bosom, struggling with its wound;
There she supports the conflict, there augments
The pang of hopeless Love, the senseless stab
Of gaudy Ign'rance, and more deeply drives
The poison'd dart, hurl'd by the long-lov'd friend;
Then pants, with painful Victory. Bear me hence,

Thou antidote to pain! thy real worth
Mortals can never know. What's the vain boast
Of Sensibility but to be wretched?
In her best transports lives a latent sting,
Which wounds as they expire. On her high heights
Our souls can never sit; the point so nice,
We quick fly off—secure, but in descent.

To Sensibility, what is not bliss
Is woe. No placid medium's ever held
Beneath her torrid line, when straining high
The fibres of the soul. Of Pain, or Joy,
She gives too large a share; but thou, more kind,
Wrapp'st up the heart from both, and bidd'st it rest
In ever-wish'd-for ease. By all the pow'rs
Which move within the mind for diff'rent ends,

I'd rather lose myself with thee, and share
Thine happy indolence, for one short hour,
Than live of Sensibility the tool
For endless ages. Oh! her points have pierc'd
My soul, till, like a sponge, it drinks up woe.

Then leave me, Sensibility! be gone,
Thou chequer'd angel! Seek the soul refin'd:
I hate thee! and thy long progressive brood
Of joys and mis'ries. Soft Indiff'rence, come!
In this low cottage thou shalt be my guest,
Till Death shuts out the hour: here down I'll sink
With thee upon my couch of homely rush,
Which fading forms of Friendship, Love, or Hope,
Must ne'er approach. Ah!—quickly hide, thou pow'r,

Those dear intruding images! Oh, seal
The lids of mental sight, lest I abjure
My freezing supplication.—All is still.

Idea, smother'd, leaves my mind a waste,
Where Sensibility must lose her prey.

SONG.

[Hark!—Chloe, swells strong Vict'ry's ardent sound]

Hark!—Chloe, swells strong Vict'ry's ardent sound,
While Wolfe, and Manners, viewless hover round;
Music's harmonious God her bosom fires,
And Pallas bends, when War's loud strain inspires.

Wildest ardour strikes the breast,
Thro' the shiv'ring frame confest;
High the panting spirits fly,
Cut the air, and seek the sky!
Floating on her buoyant strain,
Ah!—no more they sink again.

For see, her much-lov'd youth with joy appears,
Her yielding soul dissolves in soft'ning cares;
Confus'd she trembling plays, the dying sound
First sooths, then melts each list'ning spirit round.

Now she breathes the pleasing woe;
Hark! her sounds are soft and slow;
While the tone of languid pleasure
Vibrates soft in Sappho's measure;
Sinking from the arduous strain,
She sighs, nor chants the bleeding plain.

To gentler love fair Chloe's heart's resign'd,
Lo, on the youth her tender eye reclin'd;
To hear his vows the loud delight is o'er:
Thus Music, hush'd by Love, is heard no more.

To those who accuse the Author of Ingratitude.

You, who thro' optics dim, so falsely view
This wond'rous maze of things, and rend a part
From the well-order'd whole, to fit your sense
Low, groveling, and confin'd; say from what source
Spring your all-wise opinions? Can you dare
Pronounce from proof, who ne'er pursu'd event
To its minutest cause? Yet farther soar,
In swift gradation, to the verge of space;
Where, wrapt in worlds, Time's origin exists:

There breathe your question; there the cause explore,
Why dark afflictions, borne upon the wing
Of Love invisible, light on the wretch
Inured and patient in the pangs of woe?

Or Wisdom infinite with Pride arraign;
Rebuke the Deity, and madly ask,
Why Man's sad hour of anguish ever ends?

What are your boasts, ye incapacious souls,
Who would confine, within your narrow orbs,
Th'extensive All? Can sense, like yours, discern
An object, wand'ring from her destin'd course,
Quitting the purer path, where spirit roves,
To sip Mortality's soul-clogging dews,
And feast on Craft's poor dregs? What tho' she own'd

An office, would have borne her to the stars
While list'ning Angels had the plaudit hail'd,
And bless'd her force of soul, unequal prov'd
Her strongest pow'rs, to top fair Virtue's height,
Or, on the act, to fix the stamp of Merit.

What's noos'd opinion but a creeping curse,
That leads the Idiot thro' yon beaten track,
When keener spirits ask it? Which of you
Dare, on the wing of Candour, stretch afar
To seize the bright sublimity of Truth!

A wish to share the false, tho' public din,
In which the popular, not virtuous, live;
A fear of being singular, which claims
A fortitude of mind you ne'er could boast;

A love of base detraction, when the charm
Sits on a flowing tongue, and willing moves
Upon its darling topic. These are yours.
But were the stedfast adamantine pow'rs
Of Principle unmov'd? Fantastic group!
Spread wide your arms, and turn yon flaming Sun
From his most fair direction; dash the stars
With Earth's poor pebbles, and ask the World's great Sire,
Why, in Creation's system, he dare fix
More orbs than your weak sense shall e'er discern?
Then scan the feelings of Lactilla's soul.

TO FREDERICK YEARSLEY,

On his return from the Sacred Font, where the Right Honourable the Earl of Bristol stood Sponsor, the Child being distinguished by taking his Lordship's Name.

Smiling, unconscious Boy! thy angel-mind
No great ambition fires; yet shall this hour
Be penn'd by Fame in thy unsully'd annals,
While Bristol's glories, blazing on the day
By strong reflection, strike thine infant brow.

Exulting rapture, strain'd to painful thought,
Yet is not thine, else would thy gentle soul
O'erstretch Olympus, pant to catch the flame

Which lights him down to ages. My fond heart
Throbs with unusual motion. O my babe!
This hour, Affliction, Poverty, or Ill,
Shall never own: then come, ye brightest forms,
Who, viewless, from the bosom of the air,
Behold fond man stretch out the web of Hope,
Ne'er to attain completion: quick direct
My lovely Boy to catch the pious deed,
White-wing'd Idea, Faith, and firm Resolve.
Point his dear eye to Bristol's wond'rous mind,
Where steady Principle, more fix'd appears
Than hoary Atlas, where the mighty thought,
With Virtue on its awful front, is seen
By souls congenial—by the slaves who gaze
Thro' optics false, Virtue is ne'er discern'd.
Spirits like his (my Fred'rick) calmly view

Grim-visaged Woe uplift her keenest dart;
To her worst anguish ope their dauntless breasts,
And boldly cry, “Thy Pangs were made for Man.”

Unyielding Fortitude! bright Cherub, haste!
Early support my Boy's infantine sense
With all thy stubborn pow'rs; be thine the task
To shut up ev'ry passage of his soul,
When guilty Mis'ry, dress'd in artful guise,
Would trifle with his justice: bid him sit
On Truth's most rugged point; his spirit guide
Thro' all the storms of wild tumultuous passion,
Nor grant him self-applause by ease obtain'd.

Yet, who would dare, for all the wealth of Ind,
Quench that bright spark which burns, and still shall burn

Eternal in the soul? To Glory dead,
Creation must be desart! Virtue sleeps
While all the finest faculties of mind
Rust, like the iron long unus'd; then turn,
My dearest Fred'rick, turn, when glory calls,
But seize that point which trembles to the soul,
With sympathy magnetic. Self-applause
Is her most valu'd gem; she holds it high;
For who the spirit-raising gift receives
From aught, but just conviction, falsely boasts.
For me the wing of Time is nearly plum'd;
For thee, yet scarcely fledg'd; yet, when the hour
Of Judgment comes, with filial feeling join'd,
Remember, Frederick, 'twas a Mother's wish,
That self-denying Virtue, rigid Rule,
And Heaven-attempting Hope be ever thine.

ON THE DEATH OF FREDERICK YEARSLEY.

Obdurate angel! spare my Fred'rick's heart;
Ah, yet forbear! Behold the infant smile!
His innocence will dull thy barbed dart,
And ev'ry horror of its sting beguile.

Oh clasp him not within thine icy arms!
But give him to my tender warm embrace;
Let me but breathe upon his op'ning charms,
And call the flying beauties to his face.

Down! down! he sinks on Death's ungentle breast,
Nor lists attentive to the voice of Fame;
While Glory weeping, from his infant crest,
Bears back to Bristol his too mighty name.

Distinguish'd Babe, farewel! a few short years,
And I will meet thee on a happier shore;
Thy angel smile shall there repay my tears,
Then shall this anguish of the soul be o'er.

ODE, TO MISS SHIELLS, ON HER ART OF PAINTING.

Long, dear Idea, gentle Love's soft nurse,
Lay silent, inexpressive in the mind;
Long did the Spirit wrestle with its force,
Till, dress'd by Art, it rises unconfin'd.
Lo, the tints of Clara flow;
Thoughts embodied, ardent glow;
Gently breathes the pleasing form,
And passions truly painted warm.

Ah! lovely Artist, see
The heav'nly band
Of Graces stand
In beauty clad by thee.

There, dire Alecto! stung by madness, shakes
Her gory ringlets, while her burning hand
Grasps in a twisted knot the writhing snakes,
Whose slender forms seem restless in command.
Hurl'd to poor Philander's breast,
In the ghastly look confest,
Deep they sink; awhile his heart
Swells with the strong envenom'd smart.
Ah! now he fainter feels
The furies die,
His placid eye
Returning peace reveals.

Thus bright Idea mingles with the shade,
Till Nature pausing, claim'd the pleasing line:
So true her beauties were, by Art display'd,
She gaz'd with extacy, and cry'd—“'tis mine!”
“Hold a moment,” Clara cries,
“Love and Virtue still shall rise;
“Friendship too, assist my Piece,
“And Industry its charms increase.
“The pleading eye of Love
“Shall silent wound,
“Tho' tender sound
“Must ne'er the bosom move.”

But, ah! what solemn beauty now appears!
'Tis Virtue; Love reluctant feels controul,
Dear social Pity hers—no more she dares!
But chains the Passions deep within the soul.

Lo! Resolve directs her eye,
Chill'd she sees the murm'rer die;
Yet with Love her pow'rs oft blend
To form the Husband, and the Friend.
Happy Union hail!
Ah, Carlos, see!
She points at thee;
With thee her pow'rs prevail.

Again, my Clara's pencil strongly forms
Friendship, the noblest proof of manly minds,
In whose soft arms, from life's afflicting storms,
The faint, despairing wretch a refuge finds.
Surely this is more than shade;
Quickly say, enchanting Maid,
From what substance hast thou stole
The flame which burns but in the soul?

“From Carlos,” she reply'd,
“His gen'rous breast,
“Is here exprest,
“And Nature is my guide.”

Last, Industry, with features coarse and strong,
Rises behind, shaking his blister'd hand;
The slow unwilling plough he drives along;
The dews of Labour on his forehead stand.
“Seize him, Clara!—make him thine!
Health and Beauty soon shall join;
With him o'er yon hillocks run,
To meet the early blushing sun!”
Now down the pencil's laid;
At rising dawn,
She hails the lawn,
And Nature charms the Maid.

Lines, composed in a Carriage, on seeing an Half-blown Primrose in the Mouth of a Peasant; the Author being on the Road to Bath.

Upon the Rustic's ruddy lip,
I've seen the Primrose mourn
That ruthless hand, which thus could nip
Its beauty—soon as born.

The lovely Flow'r, emblem of Youth!
Struck on my pensive mind;
Whisp'ring, “there's nought but blooming Truth,
Shall leave a rack behind.”

To thee, my Clara, Fancy flew,
Painting thy faded cheek,
On which the Rose, with pride once grew,
Nor richer soil could seek.

Ah! fell Disease, no more return!
Bid all thy pangs retreat;
Let vital warmth yet gently burn,
And leave her pulse to beat.

Else, like yon Flow'r, she soon must fade,
Before thy chilling breath;
Her beauties strew the dreary shade,
Press'd by the foot of Death.

Forbid it Heav'n! Come, blooming Spring,
Re-cheer her guiltless soul;
While hoary Winter plumes his wing,
To seek his frozen pole.

Let him fly on! Unwelcome guest!
I hate his freezing toils;
But Rapture fills my rural breast,
When beauteous Flora smiles.

To Mr. ---, an unlettered Poet, on GENIUS UNIMPROVED.

Florus, canst thou define that innate spark
Which blazes but for glory? Canst thou paint
The trembling rapture in its infant dawn,
Ere young Ideas spring; to local Thought
Arrange the busy phantoms of the mind,
And drag the distant timid shadows forth,
Which, still retiring, glide unform'd away,
Nor rush into expression? No; the pen,

Tho' dipp'd in awful Wisdom's deepest tint,
Can never paint the wild extatic mood.

Yet, when the bolder Image strikes thine eye,
And uninvited grasps thy strongest thought,
Resolv'd to shoot into this World of Things,
Wide fly the gates of Fancy; all alarm'd,
The thin ideal troop in haste advance,
To usher in the substance-seeking Shade.

And what's the Shade which rushes on the world
With pow'rful glare, but emblem of the soul?

Ne'er hail the fabled Nine, or snatch rapt Thought
From the Castalian spring; 'tis not for thee,
From embers, where the Pagan's light expires,

To catch a flame divine. From one bright spark
Of never-erring Faith, more rapture beams
Than wild Mythology could ever boast.

Pursue the Eastern Magi through their groves,
Where Zoroaster holds the mystic clue,
Which leads to great Ormazes; there thou'lt find
His God thy own; or bid thy Fancy chase
Restless Pythag'ras thro' his varied forms,
And she shall see him sitting on a heap
Of poor Absurdity; where chearful Faith
Shall never rest, nor great Omniscience claim.

What are the Muses, or Apollo's strains,
But harmony of soul? Like thee, estrang'd
From Science, and old Wisdom's classic lore,

I've patient trod the wild entangled path
Of unimprov'd Idea. Dauntless Thought
I eager seiz'd, no formal Rule e'er aw'd;
No Precedent controul'd; no Custom fix'd
My independent spirit: on the wing
She still shall guideless soar, nor shall the Fool,
Wounding her pow'rs, e'er bring her to the ground.

Yet Florus, list! to thee I loudly call;
Dare thee, by all the transport Mind can reach,
Yea, by the boasted privilege of Man,
To stretch with me the spirit-raising wing
Of artless Rapture! Seek Earth's farthest bound,
Till Fancy panting, drops from endless space.

Deep in the soul live ever tuneful springs,
Waiting the touch of Ecstasy, which strikes
Most pow'rful on defenceless, untaught Minds;
Then, in soft unison, the trembling strings
All move in one direction. Then the soul
Sails on Idea, and would eager dart
Thro' yon ethereal way; restless awhile,
Again she sinks to sublunary joy.

Florus, rove on! pluck from the pathless vale
Of Fancy, all her loveliest, wildest sweets;
These best can please; but ah! beware, my Friend:
Timid Idea shrinks, when coldly thou
Would'st hail the tender shade; then strongly clasp
The coy, reluctant fugitive, or seize

The rover, as she flies; that breast alone
Is her's, all glowing with immortal flame;
And that be thine.

ON BEING PRESENTED WITH A SILVER PEN.

Fair proof of Friendship! be thy numbers strong,
Paint high her raptures in thine artless Song;
Her beauties ask, Idea all divine,
While Passion daunted, drops beneath the line.

But can thy lovely form, pointed by Art
More deeply strike the feelings of the heart
Than this poor quill? Which now neglected lies,
Tho' oft it bade the willing transport rise?

No; avaricious souls alone can know
Superior ardours, if from thee they flow.
Yet, Friendship consecrates thee at her shine,
And while her blaze ascends, the off'ring's mine.

O, Friendship! social angel, never seen,
But thro' the mists of woe and anguish keen;
Soul of this lower world! whose genial ray
Strikes more refulgent than the God of Day;
On gloomy space thy brightest glories rest,
With flaming light on firm Rinaldo's breast:
Come then, thou emblem of his purest thought!
First-born of sentiment, with essence fraught;
Warm my chill'd soul, from Insult languid grown;
Seize all her pow'rs, and seal them for thine own.

I hold thee! on thy strongest plume I go!
Before thee melt vast worlds of frozen woe.
Lo! down they sink—while clasp'd in thy embrace,
Old Time smiles on me and forgets his race.

My God! what is this life to Friendship lost?
Like spirits stranded on a joyless coast,
We solitary pine our hours away,
To Doubt, Suspicion, and Despair a prey.
We see those virtues, which we dare approve,
In some unnotic'd mind; our wishes move,
With rapid haste, her kindest thought to share,
And lose Affliction in her pitying tear.
But oh, Distrust! thou basilisk most fell,
In whose death-darting eye destructions dwell,
Thou, fast'ning on the soul, freezest her joys,
While thy curst breath her infant hope destroys.

What's Wealth enjoy'd, unsocial and unknown,
Meeting the tear of Merit with a frown?
Ungenial Miser! thou shalt never know
The secret raptures which spontaneous flow
From Friendship's bosom; but thy date expir'd,
Sink down, nor lov'd, lamented, nor admir'd.

But, ah! what wild emotions sill the breast,
When we behold a valu'd friend distrest!
Rule, from the ardent soul is quickly thrown,
She rushes on, makes every woe her own;
Strangles the images of grief which lie
At his sad heart—by Friendship's hand they die;
Lull'd by her voice the sigh forgets to rise,
And the full torrent leaves the trembling eyes.

Extatic, dear employ! would gracious Heav'n
Add to those blessings it has kindly given,
These raptures should be mine; but who can prove
Thy force, O Friendship, in ideal Love!

Too pow'rful Wealth, thou must this Angel guide,
Yea, raise her hand to Mis'ry's bleeding side;
Else all her tender murmurs are in vain,
For pow'rless feelings must support their Pain.

Yet, Friendship! without thee, who would receive
That balm, which haughty Wealth with scorn may give;
Her cures may reach externals, leave them whole,
But never! never! heal the wounded soul.

The cooly-wise, with self-applauding glance,
And taunting air, cries, “Friendship's all romance!
“It ne'er existed, but in pleasing sound;
“Nor has it been, or ever will be found.
“Have we not seen the World? Do we not know,
“How far its rapid streams exactly flow?
“'Tis to relieve Distress—this is the sum,
“But let your Prudence point out what's to come.
“Keep wretches humble, for when once reliev'd,
“They oft-times prove our Charity deceiv'd:
“Therefore be cautious, nor their merits trust;
“They may have very few—if poor—they must.
“Think not a savage virtuous—but confine,
“His future acts by obligation's line:
“He surely must be humble, grateful, true,
“While he's dependent—the superiour you.”

Hence, hoary caitiff! where's the gen'rous flame
Which fills two bosoms, lively and the same;
That dear seraphie ardour, strength of soul,
On which we shoot from Indus to the Pole?

Grant me, ye Pow'rs, the sympathetic bliss;
Oh! let my highest privilege be this,
To snatch my Friend from Mis'ry's iron breast,
And point his joyless eye to future rest.

When, in lethargic woe, the Passions sleep,
When all we own, is but to think and weep,
Soft Friendship's voice is heard: but you, who rest
On doubtful colours; you, who make a jest
Of purer Friendship—conscious of your fault,
It is not souls like your's, I would assault.

With sentiment unknown, by you unfelt,
Virtue alone could ne'er your bosoms melt.

But giving Passion her delusive reign,
With bandag'd eyes she drives you o'er the plain;
Nor know you when to pause, or where decline,
But by your hasty journey—measure mine.

Away, ye dupes! yet hail, ye sacred few,
Who feel those mental joys to Friendship due,
And on them moveless rest; to you, my lay,
Tho' rough, congenial, would its tribute pay.

My late-discover'd soul, like Nature's mine,
With gems, you boast, may yet too faintly shine;

But give your polish'd lustre, tho' I claim
No native glory, I will catch your flame;
Like Luna shine, rememb'ring whence I stole
The brightest ardours of the Female Soul.

Ah, valued Pen! why thus the task decline;
Will not thy beauties swell the glowing line?
Lo, Rapture dies!—hast thou the magic pow'r,
To raise my spirit in her drooping hour?
No; rest—while thought to rural toil descends,
Resigning ev'ry Image—but my Friend's.

ADDRESSED TO IGNORANCE,

Occasioned by a Gentleman's desiring the Author never to assume a Knowledge of the Ancients.

Lend me thy dark Veil.—Science darts her strong ray;
In the orb of bright Learning she sits:
Haste! haste! Cloth'd by thee, I can yet keep my way,
Still secure from her Critics, or Wits.

All slight thee; no Beauty e'er boasts of thy pow'r;
No Beau on thy Influence depends;
No Statesman shall own thee; no Poet implore,
But Lactilla and thou must be friends.

Then come, gentle Goddess, sit full in my looks;
Let my accents be sounded by thee:
While Crito in pomp, bears his burden of books,
On the plains of wild Nature I'm free.

When Ign'rance forbids me in ambush to move,
Or to feed on the scraps of the Sage,
I am blind to the Ancients—yet Fancy would prove,
That Pythagoras lives thro' each age.

She shews me blind Homer, who ne'er must be still,
To motion perpetual decreed;
Forgetful of Ilium, he now turns a mill,
While old Nestor, quite dumb, roves the mead.

In a Tyger, Achilles bounds o'er the wide plain;
As a Fox, sly Ulysses is seen;
Doubly horn'd, Menelaus now scorns to complain,
But more blest, in a Buck skips the green.

Fond Paris, three changes with sighs has gone through,
First a Goat, then a Monkey compleat;
Enrag'd, to the river Salmacis he slew,
Wash'd his face—and forgot his fair mate.

But Zeno, Tibullus, and Socrates grave,
In the bodies of wan Garreteers,
All tatter'd, cold, hungry, by turns sigh and rave
At their Publisher's bill of arrears.

Diogenes lives in an ambling old Beau;
Plato's spirit is damp'd in yon fool;
While the soul of Lycurgus to Tyburn must go,
In yon Thief that is hang'd by his rule.

Longinus now breathes in a Huntsman, and swears
“That each Critic rides over his brother;
“That Muses are jilts, and that poor Garreteers
“Should in Helicon, drown one another.”

There's Virgil, the Courtier, with hose out at heel,
And Hesiod, quite shoeless his foot;
Poor Ovid walks shiv'ring, behind a cart-wheel,
While Horace cries, “sweep for your foot.”

Fair Julia sees Ovid, but passes him near,
An old broom o'er her shoulder is thrown;
Penelope lends to five lovers an ear,
Walking on with one sleeve to her gown.

But Helen, the Spartan, stands near Charing-Cross,
Long laces and pins doom'd to cry;
Democritus, Solon, bear baskets of moss,
While Pliny sells woodcocks hard by.

In Billingsgate Nell, Clytemnestra moves slow,
All her fishes die quick in the air;
Agamemnon peeps stern, thro' the eye of old Joe,
At Egysthus, who, grinning, stands there.

Stout Ajax, the form of a butcher now takes,
But the last he past thro' was a calf;
Yet no revolution his spirit awakes,
For no Troy is remember'd by Ralph.

More modern Voltaire joyless sits on yon bench,
Thin and meagre, bewailing the day
When he gave up his Maker, to humour a wench,
And then left her in doubt and dismay.

Wat Tyler, in Nicholson, dares a King's life,
At St. James's the blow was design'd;
But Jove lean'd from heaven, and wrested the knife,
Then in haste lash'd the wings of the wind.

Here's Trojan, Athenian, Greek, Frenchman and I,
Heav'n knows what I was long ago;
No matter, thus shielded, this age I defy,
And the next cannot wound me, I know.

101

ADDRESSED TO REVENGE.

A FRAGMENT.

Why dost thou glare at me! holding the brand
Of Insult to my sight? Its burning pow'r
Scorches the eye of Virtue. Oh, be gone!
Thou dire tormentor of the injur'd soul.

I loathe thy curst acquaintance urg'd by thee,
The wounded Victim plucks the arrow forth,

102

Writhing with anguish strikes the guilty Foe,
Then groans in horrid sympathy. 'Tis thine,
To hang up human frailty to the view,
Of a poor pitiless World. Seize Virtue, fled,
And place the Fugitive full in the eye
Of the fond Fool that scorn'd her. O, Revenge!
This were a prospect, where thy tints would glow
With fatal warmth; but my cool spirit turns
From fire-ey'd Fury, tho' refulgent Truth
Might mingle with her flames. Cruel the hand!
Which tears the veil of Time from black Dishonour;
Or, with the iron pen of Justice, cuts
Her cypher on the scars of early Shame.

I charge thee not with Inj'ries; 'tis not thou,
Canst ease my lab'ring heart: the wounds I feel,

103

In base Revenge, shall never find their cure.
My soul sits conscious of a nobler claim,
Firm in her full meridian, thence looks down,
Smiling on thy dark labours. Her strong height
Thou shalt not reach.—Then fly me, fell Revenge;
Seize more defenceless holds, where Honour mourns
Internal desolation. There assume
Malignant empire; fix thy burning throne
On injur'd Innocence; press thy hot foot
Upon the martyr'd friend; thy sceptre deck
With Serpents, while, with Gorgon pow'r, thou turn'st
The heart to adamant. Whole legions there
Shall hail thee; there vile Calumny sends forth
Red blasts of pestilence, which dim the eye
Of fair Opinion, while her pois'nous dews
Fall heavy on the frugal crop, that springs

104

From rough, uncultur'd Virtue. But, beware,
Ungentle Fiend! Ah, spare the slave of Fame,
Whose wishes, 'mid ideal banquets pine:
Be not loquacious on a tender fault,
Nor whisper aught of inadvertent Love.

105

THE MATERIALIST.

Behold yon wretch with silent horror fill'd,
And sullen in extreme! His doubts are hell,
Whilst each discordant pow'r of his dark soul,
Performs its office but to yield him woe.

Vile ravager of Order! who shall hold
Thy line of false Morality? Who boast
Of Virtues which exist without a cause?

106

Perfection, be it trifling as the mote
Which revels in the Sun-beam, cannot own
Its essence self-originating. Vain
Are all thy pleas to social rules of Man!
Vain are thy toils in Science! Vain the web
Hoary Philosophy shall ever spin,
If, in thy future views, thou ne'er canst form
Some good to hope for!

107

LUCY,

A TALE FOR THE LADIES.

When first young Reason lends her ray,
We chearful hail each rising day;
Raptures our guiltless bosoms fill,
Whilst roving o'er the lawn or hill.
The bird, the lamb, the fearful fawn,
The starry night, the breaking dawn,
Dew-drinking cowslip, primrose pale,
Each trifling flow'ret of the vale,

108

All give us joy, when tender Thought,
With careless innocence is fraught.
The dream is pure, the slumber light,
No fears add horror to the night;
But shelter'd by paternal care,
No forms of future woe appear.
Hail, sacred shades of fondest love,
Where Infancy may safely rove
Unheedful, tho' the distant storm
Destroys a king, or whelms a worm.

Beneath a Father's rev'rend arms,
Young Lucy slept secure from harms:
On her soft cheek bright Beauty sate,
To melt the frown of surly Fate;

109

For swift her infant moments waste,
While blushing Youth approach'd in haste;
Bidding her quit the lov'd retreat,
Each self-conducted joy to meet:
Whispers, that Knowledge swells the Great,
That Fortune must the Busy wait;
Yea, more, that Love shall crown her hour,
Nor dark Distrust the blessing sour:
Then adds, that Precept, long possess'd,
From Guilt defends the virtuous breast.

New wishes now exulting play;
The doll with scorn is thrown away:
Romance she reads, and gently sighs,
When weak impatient Werter dies.

110

Deplores Philosophy profan'd,
Religious duties deeper stain'd;
But pities Charlotte, and defends
The Lady 'mid her prudish friends:
Pleads loudly for Platonic Love,
Is sure her bosom ne'er could prove
A passion of less spotless kind,
Than that which sooths the noblest mind.

Alas, dear Maid, thy gentle soul
Views nought but Virtue thro' the whole;
But coarser wretches will not join,
Their pois'nous breath to pleas like thine.

When at the Altar thou hast bow'd,
And Hymen's rites with awe avow'd;

111

From friendly converse thou must haste,
Tho' ev'ry thought is coldly chaste.
Tho' Lelius proves, from sense refin'd,
That Honour fills his manly mind;
And that each wish from guilt is free,
Yet Malice strikes at him and thee.

Hard lesson!—Yet, dear girl, 'tis true,
For marriage-rights are very few.

Lelius had bid each passion bend,
In him the richest virtues blend;
And when, at morn or ev'ning pray'r,
Lucy each vagrant sigh would share;
But from the lap of Fortune thrown,
By a stern Father's rigid frown,

112

He scorn'd that Lucy e'er should share,
With him, the bitter bread of care:
Big Silence swell'd his noble breast,
His eyes, Despair and Love confest;
Yet from his lip no accent flow'd,
That purest Friendship disallow'd:
Hopeless, at length, he sigh'd, adieu,
And o'er the distant hills withdrew.

Lucy oft sought the leafy shade;
Her Father sees the pensive maid;
He, from Experience, cold and wise,
Now lightly weigh'd a Lover's sighs;
But in warm youth, for Celia's sake,
Had restless mourn'd whole nights awake.

113

And ere the midnight bell had rung,
While Philomel yet loudly sung,
That mimic witch, we Fancy call,
Would bear him o'er this gloomy ball,
To where fair Celia sleeping lay,
In dreams of love dissolv'd away:
He heard the sigh, which gently stole,
Scarce-breathing from her gentle soul;
Ran swiftly o'er each graceful charm,
Which can the gen'rous bosom warm;
Then proudly cry'd, “tho' sunk to rest,
I ever fill my Celia's breast.”

'Twas Fancy all, for Celia's heart
Was fix'd on one less wise, but smart;

114

For him she murmur'd thro' the night,
For him she curst approaching light,
That chas'd his lovely form away,
While hated lectures waste the day.
Nor did her poorest thought e'er fix
On Mevius, but contempt would mix.
He knew his worth,—was mighty sure
That Wisdom must the heart allure;
That thro' her ear he could impart,
A genuine passion to her heart;
Nor once suspects—most women prize
The arrow pointed thro' the eyes.

By Celia scorn'd—he sought the grove,
And liv'd awhile on mental love;

115

But as her Image left his mind,
Susceptibility declin'd.
He weds,—but holds this frigid rule,
“Who weds for Love, is quite a fool.”
Nat'ral effect! for Age came on,
And all his dear delights were gone:
That glowing Passion, which had fed
His youthful joys, is ever dead:
Nor can it leave a trace behind,
When Av'rice chills the hoary mind.

Thus wise, by past infatuation,
He views his daughter with vexation:
Yet independent Love would rise,
In silent wishes to her eyes.

116

Why should it not?—'tis Nature's plea,
And struggles strong with you and me.

But throwing all her hopes aside,
Old Mevius dooms her Cymon's Bride,
A stupid money-loving man,
Whose soul ne'er stretch'd beyond the plan
Of vulgar sense, and customs own'd,
Nor one rich mental joy had found;
She sighs!—yet hopes one day to prove,
The fair, once wed, may learn to love.

Heroic thought! dear Self-denial,
Sure proof of Virtue's strongest trial!
May future conflicts ne'er molest
Thy mind, of Honour thus possest!

117

The joyless hours now slowly roll;
Confin'd Idea swells her soul:
She pants for converse, soft, yet strong,
In vain!—none flows from Cymon's tongue.
They silent sit; he sinks to sleep,
Leaving the choice—to think, or weep.
Ah! fatal leisure, lost in thought;
Of woe she drinks a deeper draught:
She sees her prospects waste and drear,
In anguish paints each coming year.

Heav'n sympathetic Joy denies,
While Sentiment expressly dies;
Yet oft, with smiles, she strove to cheer
The gath'ring frowns which would appear

118

On Cymon's brow; the sullen Brute
Can find no joy, but in dispute.

Soon to his Gothic mansion rude,
Built in the breast of Solitude,
In haste he hies; and near the seat,
Lelius unknown, had hail'd Retreat.
Wealth smiling came, but came too late
To render wish'd-for joy compleat:
Tho' o'er the hills his flocks were spread,
And Ceres strew'd th'extensive mead.
The golden harvest, fleecy tribes,
Refulgent store which Av'rice bribes,
Eve's gentle hour, or blushing morn,
Ne'er sooth, for he was doom'd to mourn:

119

Books gave relief, to those he flew;
While Virtue nourish'd, strongly grew.

Cymon retir'd, no joy can find;
His best support, a vacant mind:
His gentler neighbour soon addrest,
And Lelius was his chosen guest.

When Husbands choose a pleasing friend,
Much, sure, must on the Wife depend;
Yet surly tyrants ne'er will own,
Platonic Love exists alone.
In this the Men are fairly out,
For Sterling Virtue solves the doubt.

Lelius on Lucy six'd his eyes,
But check'd the painful, vain surprise.

120

A fix'd despair was now his own,
Whilst Honour bade him stand unknown:
From his wan cheek fair Health was fled;
Resistless Languor o'er him spread;
And oft the deep-laid sigh would start,
Unbidden from his burden'd heart:
Yet the soft converse pleas'd he hears,
When Cymon's wife the story shares:
And when the charming pleader ends,
He ev'ry moral proof defends.
Congenial Sentiment appears,
In all he sees, in all he hears.
The gentle balm sooths ev'ry grief,
Granting a poor, a short relief;
For still a prey to latent Woe,
Death's stride was sure, tho' seeming slow.

121

To Lucy oft he'd faintly read,
Athwart the lawn and dewy mead;
Or gaze, reflecting on the stream,
Emblem of life's too fleeting dream;
On which Event is borne away,
Scorning with fool, or sage, to stay;
But when the thunders roll'd around,
While Nature trembled at the sound;
He rais'd her timid Fancy higher,
To catch the pale electric fire.

Hark, Lucy! Censure lifts her tongue;
On its fell point thy name is hung.
Now striding o'er the villa's near,
Nor thee, nor Lelius, will she spare;

122

But breathing strong the venom'd blast,
Fame's brighter trophies down are cast.

Good Wives, whose wishes ne'er were try'd,
And therefore on the surest side;
Who ne'er could dare e'en Friendship's ray,
Lest weak Resolve should melt away;
Now meet, and whilst the dish goes round,
Their darling topic loudly sound:
Religion, Politics, they hate;
Their early faults they throw on Fate:
But Scandal! dear delightful strain,
Sounds thro' the roof—nor sounds in vain.

To Cymon's ear it wings its flight;
He, conscious of a husband's right,

123

Stares full on Lucy with vexation,
Talks loudly of lost Reputation;
Swears he'll no British husband prove,
And coarsely rails at Wives and Love.

With cold contempt, the fair one hears
Her husband's threats and jealous fears;
Yet the weak sigh, or tear, restrains,
For real Virtue ne'er complains.
A chillness o'er her bosom stole,
While blank Indiff'rence fill'd her soul:
But Cymon ne'er knew how to prove,
The languid spark of dying love;
He snatch'd from Duty's with'ring hand,
Pale Joy, which shrunk from stern command.

124

To Lelius flew the line severe,
Enrich'd with Lucy's silent tear:
The mandate rous'd his fainting thought,
Which back each guiltless pleasure brought.
Conscious of injur'd Fame, he tries
His rectitude of soul, but flies
The task—for public Fame he knew,
To secret Virtue ne'er was true.

To heav'n he cast his mournful eyes;
All joyless seem'd the earth and skies:
“It's past,” he cry'd, “Friendship's no more;
Nor dare I murmur, or implore.
Oh! stubborn Honour, fix'd on thee,
Th'immortal spirit dares be free:

125

'Tis thou canst bid my soul ascend,
Far o'er the weak or guilty friend.
And when my shorten'd voyage is past,
Thy bright reflection still shall last.”

More languid grown; his heaving breast,
By pond'rous death, is closely prest:
He gives the struggle o'er, and cries,
“A last adieu,”—then groans, and dies.

Now stab his Mem'ry! ye that quote
Cold lines from slighted prudes, by rote;
Or ye, who preach in language faint,
Of early dupe, since made a saint;
Be this your task: for well you know,
Quick to convert our bliss to woe;

126

Be't yours to blast Life's purest joy,
And Friendship's dear delights destroy.

The Parthian thus from conflict flies;
Yet flying still, the foe defies.
He backward shoots the random dart,
And wounds a more deserving heart.

“Our flight is conquest;”—true, my friends,
When Vict'ry's wreath on flight depends:
But when the glory must be won,
By conflict, or the mind undone;
Then, dare you conquer? Dare you own
Poor Virtue for herself alone?
No; 'tis not your illiberal souls,
The angel on her list enrolls.

127

Lelius is gone; sad Lucy hears
His passing bell at morning pray'rs;
Her spirit faints; Devotion fled
Before the Image of the dead;
Lelius usurps the vacant seat,
Bidding e'en charming Faith retreat.

Ah, unavailing Mem'ry, cease!
Nor thus intrude on wounded peace;
But bid thy tints of pleasure last!
Ah, animate the joy that's past!
Ne'er let thy Pencil fainter grow,
But give to Time thy richest glow:
Then shall thy Images delight,
And Fancy sooth the wretches' night.

128

Intent on present grief, the mind
Ne'er heeds her hoard of bliss behind:
Or taught by freezing precept, deems
Her once-lov'd pleasures, fleeting dreams;
Ye Sages say, which should we mourn,
Those valu'd joys that ne'er return?
Or ills, which passing swell the store,
Of hated sorrow gone before?

To me, thy joys, dear Mem'ry give!
For while thy purer transports live,
Anguish shall fade at Friendship's name,
Till Death's fell dews shall quench her flame.

Now Lucy joyless spends the hour,
Still Cymon grew more stern and sour:

129

She reads, and o'er her prospect mourns;
He burns her book, her mildness scorns.

Repeated insult wounds her mind;
Too swift her lovely form declin'd.
Bright wit in languid silence dies;
The pointed rapture leaves her eyes;
Her heart with deep affliction heaves,
Whose pang soft sympathy relieves;
But wanting that congenial tear,
Ne'er hails the gross or vulgar ear.

She dies! and Cymon's poignant grief,
Is finely wrought in bas-relief.
To prove he does his wife lament,
How grand, superb, her monument:

130

There weeping angels cut in stone,
The rose snapt off ere fully blown,
The empty urn—must surely prove,
Cymon's deep sorrow, and his love.

131

ON JEPHTHAH'S VOW,

TAKEN IN A LITERAL SENSE.

What sudden impulse rushes thro' the mind,
And gives that momentary wild resolve
Which seals the binding vow? Alas, poor man!
Blind to a dark futurity, yet rash
To mad extreme; why thus, with impious soul,
Throw up to Heav'n the edict of thy will;
Erase humility, and madly call
Events thy own, which may be born in woe?

132

Or what sad wretch dare lift th'accusing eye
To an insulted Deity, when torn
By dire effect, recoiling Nature feels
Those horrors he with loud presumption claim'd?

O, Jephthah! the soft bosom melts for thee;
When stung with ardour 'mid the din of war,
Thy spirit panted for the wreath of glory,
Trembling, and eager, lest her trophies crown
The brow of Ammon's King. In blind despair
Thou bargain'dst with thy God. Ah, yet retract!
In vain! the vow is breath'd, and, awful, borne
Most rapidly to Heaven! Now the deep groan
Of dying foes reverb'rate on the ear
With pleasing horror. Israel's hero feels
Fresh inspiration from his ill-tim'd faith.

133

Dealing each stroke with death, the thirsty plain
Drinks deep of Ammonitish blood: their Chiefs
Yield with reluctance to the chance of war,
And murm'ring kiss the ground. The tawny slave,
With faithful arm, supports his dying Lord,
Heedless, in grief; while whizzing thro' the air
The arrow flies, which soon shall meet his heart.
'Tis come! See how it revels in the flood
That carries life away. Jephthah returns
With vict'ry nodding on his gaudy plume;
While his exulting troops, with ruthless foot,
Press out the soul, yet quiv'ring on the lip
Of Ammon's sons, disfigur'd in the dust.

Hark! babb'ling Echo, riding on the blast,
Bears far the plaudit. Ammon, sunk in death,

134

Heeds not the sound: hush'd as the infant babe,
The Warriour slumbers in eternal rest.

Now Mizpeh's native spires salute the eye;
While Jephthah's bosom swells with glowing thought,
The soft parental rapture, fond embrace,
Kind gratulation, smile of filial love,
All form a deep impression; quick his soul
Dissolves in pleasing imag'ry. Arriv'd!
Behold his gates are widely thrown; the song
Of joy is louder, with the clarion shrill,
The cymbal, psalter, and the fav'rite harp.

Hence, Jephthah! turn thine eye;—yet, yet prolong

135

The hour of Fate! for lo! thy daughter comes
Rich in the sweets of Innocence: ah, turn!
Nor meet the blooming maid. Unconscious she,
With fatal haste, now rushes to thy arms.

He droops! the soft sensation instant dies,
And awful terrors shake his inmost soul.
Swift from his brow, in anguish torn, he hurls
The laurel dearly won; yet, in his arms,
For one fond moment, clasps the tender maid.

Short transport! Recollection blasts the scene.
He holds her from him; and with looks of woe,
In which the pangs of Pity, Love, and Death,
Alternately appear. He murmurs loud

136

Against assiduous Duty; wildly asks,
Why She, the first, to welcome Jephthah home?

Alas! the question freezes; these are sounds
Stern and unusual to her list'ning ear,
Which oft had hung on accents breath'd in love.
She stands amaz'd: her sire, with sighs, exclaims,
“Oh, thou hast brought me low! my soul desponds,
For I have pledg'd thee to the Lord of Hosts,
A victim to my conquest and ambition;
Yes, thou must die: the registers of Heav'n
Are ope'd, nor dare I trifle with my God.”

The blush in haste forsook her lovely cheek
At the too rigid sentence: yet resign'd

137

To all a father ow'd, or Heav'n would ask,
She meekly cry'd, “Thy will was ever mine.”
An off'ring chearful on the altar laid,
This frame shall soon consume; my soul to God
Shall fly with speed; yet will I slowly rove
O'er yon high mountain, till the moon hath spent
Two portions of her light. Ye Virgins, come!
Let your soft notes the fatal vow deplore,
Without accusing Jephthah.” On she goes,
Leaving her father fix'd in speechless grief.

Bright Cynthia twice had fill'd her wasted horn:
When the sad hour approach'd, she quits the hills,
And Israel's priests lead on the charming maid.

The fillet, censer, frankincense, and myrrh,
Are all prepar'd; the altar's blaze ascends

138

In curling flame; while bigots dare pronounce
The sacrifice acceptable to Heaven.

Hence, dupes! nor make a Moloch of your God.
Tear not your Infants from the tender breast,
Nor throw your Virgins to consuming fires.
He asks it not; and say, what boasting fool,
To great Omnipotence a debt can owe?
Or owing, can repay it? Would'st thou dare
Barter upon equality! Oh, man!
Thy notion of a Deity is poor,
Contracted, curb'd, within a narrow space,
Which must on finite rest. Hark! Jephthah groans!
And 'tis the groan of horror. Virgins, sigh
For the fair victim: vain the melting tear!
She's gone, while Jewish records hold the vow
To future ages, penn'd with cruel pride.

139

WRITTEN ON A VISIT.

Delightful Twick'nham! may a rustic hail
Thy leafy shades, where Pope in rapture stray'd,
Clasp young-ey'd Ecstasy amid the vale,
And soar, full-pinion'd, with the buoyant maid?

Ah! no, I droop! her fav'rite Bard she mourns;
Yet Twick'nham, shall thy groves assist my song;
For while, with grateful love my bosom burns,
Soft Zephyr bears the artless strain along.

140

Through Maro's peaceful haunt with joy I rove:
Here Emma's spotless lamb forgets to bleat;
Nor heeds her native lawn, or woolly love,
But gently breathes her thanks at Beauty's feet.

Emblem of whitest Innocence! how blest!
No cruel mastiff on thy heart shall prey,
Nor sanguine steel e'er rend thy panting breast;
But life, with happy ease, still glide away.

Far be the hour that must demand thy breath;
For, ah! that hour shall claim my Emma's tear:
E'en Maro's manly eye shall grace thy death;
Nor will the pang Lactilla's bosom spare.

141

But hence, Melpomene! to cells of woe;
I would not now thy melting languors own:
Here Friendship bids exulting Rapture glow,
While Sorrow, list'ning stills her deepest groan.

Protected thus from ev'ry barbed dart,
Which oft from soul-corroding passion flies,
I own the transport of a blameless heart,
While on the air the pow'rless fury dies.

Hail! steady Friendship, stubborn in thy plea!
Most justly so, when Virtue is thy guide:
Beneath your mingled ray my soul is free,
And native Genius soars with conscious Pride.

142

See, Maro points the vast, the spacious way,
Where strong Idea may on Rapture spring:
I mount!—Wild Ardour shall ungovern'd stray;
Nor dare the mimic pedant clip my wing.

Rule! what art thou? Thy limits I disown!
Can thy weak law the swelling thought confine?
Snatch glowing Transport from her kindred zone,
And fix her melting on thy frozen line?

As well command the hoary Alps to bear
The Amaranth, or Phœbus-loving flow'r!
Bid the Behemoth cut the yielding air,
Or rob the Godhead of creative pow'r!

143

Yet, Precept! shall thy richest store be mine,
When soft'ning pleasure would invade my breast;
To thee my struggling spirit shall resign;
On thy cold bosom will I sink to rest.

Farewel, ye groves! and when the friendly moon
Tempts each fair sister o'er the vernal green,
Oh, may each lovely maid reflect how soon
Lactilla saw, and sighing left the scene.

145

ELEGY, ON MR. CHATTERTON.

Forgive, neglected shade! my pensive lay,
While o'er thy tomb I hang my rural wreath;
The modest violet to thee I'll pay,
That bloom'd and dy'd upon yon barren heath.

Bring, artless Virgins, ev'ry rural sweet,
And cull the hare-bell from the mountain's brow;
On whose brown breast, untrod by cautious feet,
The languid flow'r is fainting seen to blow.

146

Ah! see in vain it plays on Zephyr's wing,
In vain it humbly bends to ev'ry blast;
Its beauties drop ungather'd as I sing,
And o'er the precipice by winds are cast.

Emblem of Merit in a frozen world,
Thine azure tints shall yet our garland grace;
Like thee this joyless Youth was quickly hurl'd,
From Hope's fair height, to Death's unlov'd embrace.

“Blush! blush! ye patrons of the tuneful Nine,”
(Hark! his sad Ghost sings on the buoyant air)
“Ye saw me feebly grasp Apollo's shrine;
“Ye saw the God 'mid all his rays appear.

147

“Wrapt in his glories did my Spirit stand;
“Breathless I panted with the transport new;
“But Mis'ry came and seiz'd my helpless hand:
“She led me on; I vainly shriek'd to you.

“Why did you see the haggard fiend prevail,
“When Phœbus gave whate'er a God could give?
“With cruel Mis'ry, Song could ne'er avail;
“She pierc'd my heart, my raptures ceas'd to live.

“Scorning to fawn at laughing Insult's knee,
“My woes were doubled, deeper rais'd my groan;
“More sharp, more exquisite, came Agony;
“And latent Anguish seal'd me for her own.

148

“I ask no laurel, claim no late-born sigh;
“Yet should some rustic Muse, in Nature drest,”
“Strike her soft bosom with a tearful eye,
“While keen Emotion's in her strain confest,

“Resting on yon white cloud, I will be near.”—
Hush'd dies the sound, shrill as the midnight wind;
Now deck the garland, nor your flow'rets spare,
With mournful Cypress, and the Yew entwin'd.

High on this Willow hangs the silent lyre,
So late attun'd to faithful Ella's woe;
Still is that finger, quench'd that heav'nly fire,
Whose touch commanded our best tears to flow.

149

Yet soft, ye Maids! press the green turf with heed,
Where hapless Genius lies by Pride opprest;
Nor hail yon pow'rful Wretch who urg'd the deed,
But leave to Heav'n his cold ungentle breast.

Here strew your flow'rs—here plant the earliest rose
That grew unknown near Clifton's green-clad hill:
Her languid hue shall cank'ring Grief disclose;
Her fall—the mind with just reflection fill.

Now rest, too hapless Chatterton, whose strain
My bosom warms while singing Bawdin's fate;
Yet shalt thou live! nor shall my song be vain
That dares not thine, but dares to imitate.

Primrose.

151

ABSENCE,

A JUVENILE PIECE.

Why droop my thoughts inactive, calm and low?
Or why this languor on my sinking mind?
Deaf, when from converse trisling accents flow;
I wander pensive, but no joy can find.

Ah! why does Fate congenial spirits form,
Who rush to meet each other from the eye?
In vain does Sympathy each bosom warm,
For, oh! her transports are but born to die.

152

Bid Silence sit upon the trembling tongue;
Yet shall the look pierce to the melting heart:
Till then unconscious, when the sigh had sprung;
Till then unconscious, what could joy impart.

Ah, doubtful Joy! poor pleasing pain at best,
When all our soft emotions swiftly rise;
To ask Expression while the pang supprest,
To the fond heart ebbs back and silent dies.

Silence, mute blessing, covert of our woes,
Soft nurse of dear Idea, near me stay;
To thy dark bosom ev'ry sorrow flows,
On which the vulgar mind would furious prey.

153

Be ever mine; with thee I'll gently rove
O'er Clifton's native heights, or flow'ry plain:
And when cold Absence desert makes the Grove,
My Soul may languish, but thou still shalt reign.

Hence, ye fair fools! who noise with nonsense join,
My spirit lists not to your witless tale;
Nor will her long-lov'd Images resign,
But silent bears them to the dewy vale.

Pure is that sigh unwilling breath'd in air,
When Hope denies and Absence chills its flight;
When nought assists it but a true despair,
Ye Prudes, forgive the breast it renders light.

154

The Mind that's form'd to Virtue, silent mourns
The object she had dress'd in mental charms;
Yet scorns the wish with which that bosom burns,
Whom Love with wilder tumult still alarms.

155

On being introduced to a Gentleman, who had laboured under an Affliction sixteen Years.

Why mourns my soul thy cureless woe;
Why heaves my vain unwilling sigh;
Why should my tear of anguish flow
For thee, whom Joy must ever fly?

I see thee struggle to conceal
The inward pang with watchful care.
Ah, well thou know'st how few can feel,
How few dear sympathy can share.

156

Yet shall thy calmness teach my soul
Silent to bear her lot of pain;
And when tumultuous passions roll,
Or latent Griefs more deeply reign.

I'll think on thee, lamented youth,
With thine compare each trivial ill;
Like thee repose on sacred Truth,
And with thee own an heav'nly will.

What less supports thee?—What the boast
Of hoary self-denying Sage,
To all but stoic wisdom lost,
He vainly fills the study'd page.

157

His stubborn soul resists the plea
Of Mis'ry when she owns her God:
Checking with pride the bending knee,
He feels, yet scorns th'uplifted rod.

Hence, stern Philosophy!—or turn
And see how Patience owns thy guise:
Here view a victim, taught to mourn,
Ere thy rough precept made him wise.

Then hush thy sounds of classic lore,
Where demonstrations seldom join;
Religion boasts a stronger pow'r,
Proving her ardours all divine.

158

When rack'd with pain, thro' tedious nights,
The frame no balmy comfort shares;
Estrang'd from ease, or soft delights,
We wake to nurse a brood of cares:

Much do we need a pitying friend,
To sooth and share distracted thought;
In whose soft breast the virtues blend,
To fill the sympathetic draught.

Ah! wish too vain—yet ever new,
For where resides the equal mind?
Ye sons of woe, I ask of you,
Where shall the wretch this comfort find?

159

Each born to bear his load of ill,
He weakly dares the surge of Fate;
Time swiftly does Life's journal fill,
And trembling Sorrow seals his date.

Then where's the bulwark of the soul,
When close besieg'd by troops of woe;
Who shall her horrid band controul,
Or turn aside the destin'd blow?

Exulting Faith! Heav'n's strongest child,
Shall, in her arms, thy spirit bear;
While soothing Hope, with accent mild,
First chides, then dries the fruitless tear.

160

Yet calmly suffer—quickly flies
Time's shuttle on, for thee and me.
Reflect: like us the monarch dies;
Like him we share Heav'ns grand decree.

161

ON THE REMEMBRANCE OF A MOTHER.

Still wilt thou hang upon my joyless soul
That clasps thy dear impression;—who shall prove
Thou art not borne beyond the gloomy grave,
When thou art ever living to my mind?
Ah, yet be with me, kind instructive shade,
And sooth the mis'ries of successive hours;
Rove with me through the vale; paint the sad scene
When dreary Winter sits upon the world.
Chilling creative pow'r, such cruel Time

162

That robb'd me of a mother. Painful thought!
With what reluctance did my soul discern
Thy faculties decline; thine eye, thine ear,
Thy long-try'd mem'ry, sentimental pow'rs,
All sunk in calm gradation, while the sigh
Stole in soft silence from my youthful heart.
Mine was th'improving melancholy task,
To guide with pensive care thy feeble foot
Down life's descent, tho' I with horror saw
The grave that op'd beneath. Ye giddy minds,
Who place the essence of fallacious joy
In gaudy pomp, to you it is deny'd
To feel with pining Age, or sooth the pangs
Which Mem'ry leaves behind of jocund Youth.

163

Why pass ye by the venerable head,
Grown white with age and sorrow? Why despise,
In flippant mirth, the period ye must find,
With all its cold companions? Hard the heart
Who smiles at hoary weakness; base the soul
Who scornful throws at dear declining Age
Her weak petitions. Think, my youthful friends,
That Time, to purity attunes the thought,
Robs the warm breast of passion, points the soul
To her last refuge, bids her hate the day
When Pleasure met her on the silken wing,
That droops beneath Remembrance. Oh, beware,
Impetuous youth, and taste the draught of joy,
With Meditation sitting on the cup.
Yet will I hold thee, kind lamented shade,
That whisper'st o'er the grave: there didst thou sink,

164

And there I'll follow thee; but while I tread,
In pensive mood, the tedious round of life,
Let Fancy bring thee to my humble hearth.
There, hear unseen, my blooming boys repeat
Thy name half-broken, with unconscious sighs,
While thy firm precepts vibrate in their ear.
Transporting Thought, preserve the pleasing view!
Tho' Reason flies the scene for colder shades
Of rigid demonstration, which, more rough
Than frowning Alps, o'er-shadows warmer joy.

How oft, with thee, when life's keen tempest howl'd
Around our heads, did I contented sit,
Drinking the wiser accents of thy tongue,
Listless of threat'ning ill! My tender eye
Was fix'd on thine, inquisitively sad,

165

Whilst thine was dim with sorrow; yet thy soul
Betray'd no innate weakness, but resolv'd
To tread thy sojourn calm and undismay'd:
Thy fortitude threw on my weaker cheek
Confusion's tinge; even now I faintly feel,
Thus wanting thee, wrapt in whose soft'ring wing,
I found a shelter from inclement skies.

Now who shall shield me, who direct the storm,
When mental conflicts rend my suff'ring soul,
Hurling her far from ever-gentle Peace!

Ah, unavailing question! Fancy paints
A Mother's frown on her denying brow,
That bids me rest on virtues all my own.

166

EFFUSION.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF BRISTOL, &c.

Bristol, my soul hangs back on thee, and breathes
Her sorrows o'er the past; yet while I droop,
Thy gentle voice sounds in each passing hour,
Till Melancholy lull'd, gives transient ease.
Ah, who shall sit on Meditation's height,
With stoic firmness, when the piercing shriek

167

Of Agony is heard? In vain we boast
A fortitude of soul, in vain we turn
From sad obtruding Mem'ry. Oh, my friend!
Thine are the stores of ev'ry classic sage,
Thine ev'ry virtue which the mind can own,
When strong Resolve would fix—but all is weak,
Oppos'd to latent Woe; yet shall my soul
Sing ever-mournful notes o'er Mis'ry's stream,
Frighting soft Peace? No, Bristol's arm has borne
My spirit from the scene, placing it high
On Hope's unmeasur'd height; and here I'll stand
Till Time shall roll his thousand worlds, in rage,
Down vast Eternity: in that loud hour,
When Nature throws her dark foundations up
To meet the liquid skies, thy form rever'd
Shall strike my grateful soul; no livid glare,

168

Mingled convulsion, element unhing'd,
Swift-falling orb, when old Creation reels,
Shall hide thee from my view; of essence form'd,
More pure than ether in its finest sphere.
I then may hail thee; but till then accept
The language faint of an untutor'd mind,
Whose pow'rs have found their best support in thee.

FINIS.