Poems on Various Subjects | ||
To amuse, instruct, and to reform Mankind.
Churchill.
1. VOL I
CONSISTING OF TALES
POEMS.
EDMUND AND ROSALINDA.
“With evening's blushing ray:
“The moon a feeble light bestows,
“To paint the pathless way.
“With lengthen'd toil oppress'd,
“In all this dreary forest meet
“A place secure to rest?
“And rapine's desp'rate race;
“And prowling wolves, more fierce and fell,
“Infest the houseless place.
Fair Ros'lind said, and sigh'd.
“Ah cease thy moan, my love, my saint!”
The gentle Edmund cried:
“Who pities the distress'd,
“And leads us to an humble bow'r
“Of safety and of rest.
“Before the fanning breeze,
“I see a little cottage send
“Its smoke above the trees.
“To yon sequester'd shed;
“Where we perhaps secure may lay,
“Or hide the weary head.”
Such fresh'ning strength affords,
Nor to the turf descending show'rs,
As to her mind his words.
To gain the low retreat;
Till faint and sad, they reach the place—
Of weeping age the seat.
Part hollow'd from the hill,
Part built with planks, all rudely cut,
More form'd by want than skill.
A wrinkled dame appears;
Neat was her look, her habit bore
The signs of better years.
The matron freely grants,
And gives them every friendly proof
Of pity for their wants.
A napkin clean and neat,
Then brings a loaf of barley bread,
With fruits, a wholesome treat!
Her friendly heart she shows.
The fire, with added faggots fed,
A cheerful light bestows.
Withdrew in silent haste;
But with a bowl soon back she came,
Which she before them plac'd.
“Behold the wholesome draught.
“With this your craving thirst assuage:—
“Such our forefathers quaft;
“All luxury unknown,
“Then charity unmix'd with pride,
“And simple virtue shone.
“Of all my former store,
“Supplying this, secures me health;
“Nor do I wish for more.
“Some sadly wand'ring guest
“For shelter to my cot repair,
“I give him, and am blest.
“When I the udder press;
“O'erjoy'd the pow'r I still preserve
“The needy to redress.
“To minds with feeling blest,
“Than to revive the drooping heart,
“Or succour the distrest?
“And gather thence their sweets,
“And kindly scent each gentle gale
“That fans their gay retreats.
“Their bliss to all impart;
“Melodious soaring o'er our head,
“They glad the drooping heart.
“A sordid mind retain?
“See others with misfortune press'd,
“And not relieve their pain?”
The while each youthful guest
Griev'd, to behold so good a mind
By poverty opprest.
Delight each lover's mind:
Yet in their eyes the tear oft stood,
And, trembling, sadly shin'd.
Bespoke the lover's flames:
But ah! the frequent moisten'd eye
A sadder cause proclaims.
With tender woes opprest,
Reclined, and there its sorrows shed,
On Edmund's throbbing breast.
To wet the matron's cheeks;
And thus, emov'd with generous fears,
The kind enquirer speaks:
“If thwarted in your love,
“Ye fly some jealous guardian's care,
“A stolen bliss to prove?
“An angry father's doom
“Compels you, in his wrath unkind,
“Abandon'd thus to roam?
“The virgin to his bed;
“Some titled wretch her love pursued,
“And gold's allurements spread.
“His sanction to your joy;
“And for vain stores of useless gold,
“Your happiness destroy.
“Or silence discord's voice;
“That parents act this cruel part?—
“Oh avaricious choice!
“To make their fortunes more;
“That, like the bee, some spoiler may
“Destroy them for their store.
“I can your sorrows feel.
“Then listen to the tale of woe
“Which, weeping, I reveal.
“My father did preside:
“A valiant soldier in the field,
“And in the council tried.
“But only me surviv'd:
“Young Alwin woo'd me from his side,
“But nought his passion thriv'd.
“My father took his part;
“But to a youth of less degree
“I had bestow'd my heart.
“Were half so fair to view;
“Nor doves that seek the woodland shade
“So tender and so true:
“Which made my sire disprove;
“And long he sought to part the pair
“Combin'd in mutual love.
“But I his will withstand,
“And to my humbler lover fled,
“And gave to him my hand:
“Just at the break of dawn:
“The fields were white with pearly dew,
“And hung with tears the thorn.
“To shun my father's rage;
“In hopes that time his ire would melt,
“His cruel wrath assuage.
“A witness to our bliss;
“A daughter fair our love had crown'd
“With double happiness.
“Where we had liv'd so long,
“And with his vassals arm'd appear'd—
“A bold and mighty throng!
“Of him my dearest lord;
“For wedding thus his daughter fair,
“Against his known accord.
“And much my lord I pray'd,
“That thro' the same escape he would,
“And take our little maid.
“And with a heavy heart,
“He thro' the woods to exile went.
“We griev'd full sore to part.
“When burst the castle door;
“In rush'd my sire, with cruel glee:
“I sunk upon the floor.
“When I reviv'd, he said,
‘Who dar'd, ere I my blessing gave,
‘My only daughter wed?’
“O thou inhuman sire!
“By this he stems the briny tide;
“And mocks thy cruel ire.”
“And keep me there confin'd,
“And oft with threats, oft speeches fair,
“He'd tempt my constant mind.
“The pope should set me free,
“If I would his commands obey,
“And gallant Alwin's be.
“To him my dearest lord,
“Who now, by my hard father drove,
“Was wand'ring sad abroad.
“I from my father fled;
“All at the fearful, silent hour
“When darkness round was spread.
“I've shunn'd the public eye;
“Submissive to my hapless lot,
“Where I'll contented die.
“Oh may it happier end!
“May time your fond esteem improve,
“Your fortunes heav'n befriend!
“With tears and anguish wild,
“That I could yet no tidings learn
“Of Roldan or my child.
Her tears her words delay;
While quick from Rosalinda's sight
Each object fades away.
On every accent hung,
And toss'd on passion's tide appear'd,
And with impatience stung;
She sunk in Edmund's arms;
A sudden chilness seiz'd her frame,
And dimn'd her heav'nly charms.
When, on the maiden's breast,
A picture met her wond'ring eyes
With Roldan's form imprest.
“My child,” she cried, “my child!
“By heav'n's high will you hither came:
“Conducted thro' the wild.
“Thy infant neck around
“I hung this toy, which now I view.
“And art thou, art thou found?”
Her arms around her neck,
Each to the other's bosom grows,
And tears their utterance check.
“My Rosalinda dear!
“Does yet thy father live,—proclaim—
“And how he lives, and where?”
Of either youthful guest;
Forlorn and motionless they stood,
And sighs each voice supprest.
“As soon I hope you'll be,
“Thy Roldan lately press'd his bier,
“From guilt and terror free.
“And press'd my hand in his;
‘My Edmund, oh my friend!’ he cried,
‘May yours be every bliss.
‘And was again belov'd:
‘Our joys were short, and in their prime
‘The source of sorrow prov'd.
‘I've wander'd sad and poor:
‘But now I seek a peaceful home,
‘Where sorrow is no more.
‘But oh! when I'm no more
‘Let Ros'lind share thy nuptial bed,
‘Nor broken vows deplore.
‘And do not blast her fame,
‘Nor forfeit, by her injur'd tears,
‘The guerdon you may claim.
‘To blast his closing day,
‘Who wooes the maid, and basely dares
‘Her easy heart betray.’
“I will be just and kind.—
‘Ah yet’ he rear'd his head and sigh'd,
‘One wish remains behind:
‘If yet my dearest lives,
‘And wipe from tears her aged cheek,
‘If yet forlorn she grieves.’
“His faultering accents cease;
“He smil'd serene, with aspect bland,
“And sunk to endless peace.
“To his departed shade,
“We cross'd the sea, and journey'd on
“To seek you as he'd said.
“Had pass'd the middle day,
“Our guides we left, the sylvan scene
“Invited us to stray.
“Neglectful of the road,
“We wander'd inconsiderate on,
“And lost us in the wood.
“That led our wand'ring feet,
“To end with joy thy years of ill,
“Whom here forlorn we meet.
“Who led us on our way;
“Whose hand extracts affliction's dart,
“And wipes our tears away.”
With mingled joy and woe;
She clasps her child, her husband grieves,
And tears descending flow.
“And full of years,” she cried;
“May ne'er misfortunes sorrow ye,
“Nor angry fate divide!
“In all your offspring fair:
“His sweet endowments bless your line,
“Without his weight of care.”
ALLEN AND MATILDA.
“'Gainst storms and tempests proof,
“Round which the grape-vine long has thriv'd,
“And climb'd the rushy roof!
“With gosses fenc'd around,
“Where flow'rs in scented beauty vie,
“And useful herbs abound!
“Whence I full oft, with care,
“The sweetest fruits of brightest hue
“Have pluck'd to please my fair!
“As slow it roll'd along,
“Full oft inspir'd my moral theme,
“Or tun'd my mournful song!
“Shall brouze upon thy side,
“Or sportive on thy margin play,
“Or drink thy cooling tide;
“That flock is Ella's now.
“That roof shall Cedrec hence defend;
“For him the grape shall grow:
“And mocks my little store:
“Then shall the wars my state improve,
“Or I return no more.
“With which she kens me oft,
“The swelling breast, the stifled sigh,
“Bespeak emotions soft.
“To my unskilful theme;
“And sure the praise my pipe receives
“Are tokens of esteem.
“With flow'rets gaily twin'd,
“To deck my lambs beside the brook,
“Bespoke a partial mind.
“With wreathing flow'rets hung;
“Nor did she lend a partial ear
“When Edwin sweetly sung.
“To wed a swain so poor:
“Then shall the wars my state repair,
“Or I return no more.”
And issued from the grove,
Where sweet-briar with the woodbines vied
Which round the saplings wove;
“The morning scarce appears;
“No linnets yet their wings have spread;
“No lark the welkin cheers.
“Yet ah Matilda knows!—
“For by that look, that tear, is shewn
“The cause of Allen's woes.
“For fortune frowns no more;
“Matilda's love shall crown thy truth,—
“And wealth a plenteous store.
“Approach'd my cottage gate,
“In silver mail, and rich attire;—
“He seem'd of high estate.
“Were wont so oft deplore,
“Made pris'ner in my infant years
“All on a distant shore.
“His lands and castle seiz'd,
“Which, all in vain, I oft implor'd
“To be to me releas'd.
“And back to Mercia came,
“He challeng'd him who thus detain'd
“His true and lawful claim.
“Tho' now in arms grown old,
“He bravely prov'd his question'd right,
“And slew his rival bold.
“Nor to disarm would stay;
“For he had heard it told by fame
“I friendless pin'd away.
“For thou shalt surely share
“The blessings of my alter'd state,”
Exclaim'd the gen'rous fair.
Can greater joys impart,
Nor day-light to bewilder'd swains,
Than this to Allen's heart.
He clasp'd her to his breast;
He gaz'd on all her blushing charms,
And kiss'd and fondly prest.
Down either cheek it flows;
As dew-drops in the harebell lie,
Or on the blushing rose.
Can match Matilda's eyen;
Nor humid rose so sweetly shines
As does her blushing mien.
The happy Allen cried,
“A poor unfortun'd youth approve,
“And be a shepherd's bride?”
“The court's enticing pride:
“Let Allen be but only mine,
“I'll be a shepherd's bride.
“I left my sleepless bed,
“And tow'rds his cottage, o'er the dews
“With eager haste I fled.
“Or fortune's smile so fair,
“Till we can gild a lover's heart,
“Or chace a friend's despair?”
Their tender vows prolong,
Or woodlarks warble thro' the glade
Their loves in mutual song.
Their artless passion vow;
When rush'd Sir Thudor from the grove,
With anger on his brow.
“Thou art no child of mine,
“That dost no more thy honour prize,
“But wouldst disgrace thy line.
“Thy restless feet this way,
“I trac'd thee o'er the dew-white mead;
“And now thy shame survey.
“Of low and mean degree
“Wouldst give thy hand, my house to stain,
“And shame thyself and me.
“And will perform my word,
“To one of rich and high degree,
“A valiant Lombard lord.
“That durst so high aspire;
“No longer to my child presume,
“Or dread my rising ire.”
She sinks upon the earth;
And, while her eyes o'erflow with tears,
She mourns her lofty birth.
Droop weeping on the plain,
So look'd the fair, forlorn of hue,
And thus she vents her pain:
“A shepherd lass I liv'd,
“Than thus possess'd of wealth and store,
“And of my love bereav'd.”
A sword both sharp and keen;
And thus, with bended knee, he cried
To Thudor of the green:
“And plunge it in my heart;
“But do not, with thy keener word,
“Me from Matilda part.
“To me my father gave;
“And these the latest words he said,
‘My Allen, oh be brave!
‘Thy ravish'd lands reclaim,
‘Or breathless laid in honour's chace,
‘Transmit thy deeds to fame.’
“Preferr'd the arts of peace;
“A calm retirement was my choice,—
“But now that calm must cease.
“In pity plunge the sword;
“Matilda, when my soul's at rest,
“May wed the Lombard lord.
“Nor me his raptures hear;
“Lest I some frantic action do
“In madness of despair.”
The blade he knew full well:
“Thy father's name, and rank,” he cry'd,
“Oh quick young Allen tell.”
Reply'd the wond'ring youth;
“A title not unknown to fame
“For loyalty and truth;
“Of his paternal lands,
“He left me, in his latest hours,
“That sword, and those commands.”
“Shalt e'er my daughter wed:
“Rise, rise, Matilda, happy now,”
The joyous father said.
“And 'twas in war our pride
“Each other nobly to defend,
“And combat side by side.
“With jocund hound and horn,
“With mutual lance the wolf we prest,
“And wak'd with shouts the morn.
“We endless friendship vow'd;
(“Alas to think! we met no more)
“And each a gift bestow'd.
“A quiver and a bow,
“And in return this sword I gave,
“Whose make full well I know.
“Matilda's willing hand;
“And long and happy may ye live,
“In wedlock's purest band.”
The happy Allen cry'd;
“Yes, yes, my Allen I am thine,”
The blushing fair reply'd.
“Whose mutual bosoms burn;
“Estrang'd from ev'ry selfish care,
“For passions pure return.”
ELWIN AND ANNA.
A TALE.
Was deckt with primrose sweet,
With violets blue, and daisies pied,
There stood a lone retreat:
By arts of useless pride;
Yet was their want, nor be it scorn'd,
By neatness well supplied.
The humble roof despise;
For joy oft quits their downy state,
And to the cottage flies.
Oft shun the gay parade,
And fix their calm unrivall'd seat
Within the rural shade.
Were oft with Anna seen;
While modesty inform'd her eye,
And meekness grac'd her mien.
Was not like Anna fair;
Nor could the rose's ruddy hue
With Anna's blush compare.
Before her eye look'd pale;
Her breath surpast the sweets that flew
Upon the vernal gale.
That dwelt within her breast,
Outshone the brightest charms that were
Upon her form imprest.
Her infant beauties rear'd;
Of mind pedantic, manners bold:
Less to be lov'd than fear'd.
Fair as the whitest dove,
The season of desire confest,
Young Elwin sought her love.
He tried, the maid to gain;
And she return'd his flame at heart,
But fear'd to own her pain.
The feelings of her mind;
Her looks, her actions all reveal'd:—
And Elwin was not blind.
Which mutual passion bless.
Not woodlarks, who in thickets hide,
Such tender joy express.
Or trac'd the dell around;
Or by the bubbling runnells stray'd,
To mark the pleasing sound.
Where circling woodbines grew,
Would Anna oft reveal her mind,
Or hear her Elwin woo.
The want of words supply;
And, here conceal'd, the kiss would oft
Restrain the rising sigh.
Their tender hopes awhile;
More bright their dawn of passion glows
Than May-day's morning smile.
A cloud the sky o'ercast;—
But love—thy joys, more fickle still,
Are seldom known to last.
The tender Anna liv'd,
Had long observ'd the gentle pair,
And long with envy griev'd:
Would soothe her aukward pride,
Nor her pretended sense revere;
But often would deride.
With looks of envy view'd,
Because she was by all allow'd
With greater sense endu'd.
To blast their peace she strove;
Denied the fair her Elwin's sight,
And bade her cease to love.
Exclaim'd the weeping maid;
“No, let me first the desert rove,
“To friendless want betray'd.”
“Does Anna thus obey
“The last fond words which, ere she died,
“She heard her mother say?
“As thou full well dost know;
“She held you in her pale-grown hand,
“And gaz'd with tender woe;
‘My Anna, oh!’ she cry'd,
‘To Emma be obedience shown.’—
“Then sunk she down and died.
“Nor Emma's wrath deplore;
“Renounce for ever Elwin's love,
“And hear his vows no more.”
By heavy rain opprest,
So Anna dropt, and rain'd a show'r
Of tears upon her breast.
Her beauties fade away;
As fades the rose's beauties bright,
Debarr'd the light of day.
Where they so often stray'd,
Yet could he not his Anna meet,
By dell or wood and shade.
The angry lover cry'd;
“Hast thou my easy heart betray'd,
“My weakness to deride?
“Coquetted, slighted, crost?
“Let this by whining fools be born;
“But Elwin's not so lost.”
While Anna pin'd away:
Each hour encreas'd the virgin's pain;
Each hour her charms decay.
So fades the hawthorn bloom,
When pluck'd before its fated date,
Expires its sweet perfume.
Or lov'd so much as she;
Nor not the May-flow'r's gayest hue
Esteem'd so sweet could be.
Recalls each mem'ry sweet;
With past delight each grief enflames,
And haunts each lov'd retreat.
And sought each bushy dell,
Each glade, where she'd with Elwin been,
Their mutual loves to tell.
Where runnells bubbled round;
Where, giving loose to tender thought,
They'd frequent prest the ground.
Steals silent, would she stray;
Where thro' the trees no sun-beams gleam,
Or on the surface play.
“Did first his love declare;
“Here did he oft protest his truth;
“Here did we last repair.
“And Anna's heart must break:
“Yet, yet the fault was all my own;
“Why did I counsel take?”
To Devon's plains once more:
Then hope reviv'd her fading frame,
And bliss appear'd in store.
What time the sun appears;
So smiles the tulip when the dawn
With gladd'ning lustre cheers.
For Elwin slights her charms:
Affects her proffer'd love to fly,
And seeks another's arms.
Insults her easy heart;
And wooes Matilda of the grove,
And triumphs in his art.
To Anna Emma flies:
“Here Anna, with this gift be grac'd,
“To please young Elwin's eyes.
“And this his new made bride.”
A sigh poor Anna's bosom rends,
She faints by Emma's side.
“And is it true?” she said,
“If so unhappy Anna dies.
“And am I thus betray'd?
“Unhappy Anna's be?”
Pale shone her cheek with many a tear,
And trembled either knee.
Retir'd the hapless maid;
Nor long her slighted love repin'd:—
She flitted soon a shade.
I wept upon her grave;
While pitying crowds, in speechless woe,
Their silent blessings gave.
THE HERMIT OF THE RUINED PALACE.
“And in this cavern seek
“Protection from the storm severe,
“And windy tempest bleak.
“The dreadful lightnings fly;
“Lest, like our guide, we press the plain,
“And all untimely die.”
With fault'ring voice and weak,
“Where, where, my friend, would thy despair
“A dangerous refuge seek?
“Some hungry wolf were found,
“Whom nothing now prevents but fear
“To prowl the forest round?
“To cruel actions bred;
“By rapine who and murder live,
“To love and pity dead?
“Where safely we may rest:
“For ah my fluttering heart I feel
“Is fainting in my breast.
“How fierce the lightning flies!”
“Alas! I need thy feeble aid!”
The trembling maid replies.
Appears to move that way;
Sad terrors Anna's bosom seize;
Her sister faints away.
Two ruffians fierce and bold:
A torch one carries, by whose flame
The fair-ones they behold.
Each in his blood-stain'd arms
A wretched female, grimly pleas'd
To view their matchless charms.
With speed the hapless pair;
While struggling Anna wept full sore,
And rent with shrieks the air.
To 'lume the sister's eyes;
Fast fall the kind reviving tears,
Her bosom swells with sighs.
Who her so closely prest,
And felt his hand, with pressure rude,
Defile her snowy breast,
With frequent shrieks and loud;
Whereat the caitiff sternly frown'd,
And thus he vaunted proud:
“For none will bring thee aid:
“All know whoe'er assistance lends
“Must soon be breathless laid.”
And rush'd from out the shade;
Then fell'd to earth the ruffian's pride:
The other flew dismay'd.
Whose grateful hearts o'erflow,
In thanks to him whose timely care
Had snatch'd them both from woe.
“For to the feeling breast,
“'Tis joy beyond all meaner joys
“To succour the distrest.
“Who feel within my heart
“A greater joy, while you I serve,
“Than I to you impart.
“And if ye will repair
“To do my lone retirement grace,
“I will conduct ye there.
“My mould'ring cave can yield;
“But from the rain and chilling breeze
“My mossy roof can shield.
“Can nature's wants suffice,
“My roots ye shall with welcome share,
“And drink the spring supplies.”
The waving flow'rets bend;
Then leads he winding tow'rds the dale,
And they his steps attend.
The welkin grows serene;
The clouds disperse before the breeze,
The yellow moon is seen.
The op'ning view survey'd;
But ah! her sister veil'd her sight,
And trembled thro' the glade.
Heav'd with the swelling sigh;
Full many a tear her cheek did lave,
Or trembled in her eye.
Of grandeur once the seat,
And wind thro' many a Gothic isle,
To Rowland's lone retreat.
And to his room arrive,
Whose moss-grown walls, decay'd by time,
The nestling swallows hive.
Was one small casement seen;
Thro' one the moon obstructed shone,
And cast a checquer'd gleen:
And crept fantastic thro';
And close the shatter'd frame it bound,
And up the roof it grew.
The hermit now essays;
The dying embers wakes with care,
And bids the hearth to blaze.
The hermit's grief observe:
His sigh-swoln breast, his troubl'd mood,
His silence and reserve.
“Say why, thou man of woes,
“The peopled city you forsook,
“And this retirement chose?
“To me if thou'lt declare,
“With grateful heart, I'll night and day
“Remind them in my pray'r.
“In orisons to spend
“My wretched days, resign'd and meek,
“Till death my sorrows end.”
“How can I dare, for shame,
“To thy pure ears my tale confide,
“And guilt like mine proclaim?
“All in my youthful days;
“My meads did pasture rich supply
“For numerous flocks to graze.
“Heav'n's bounty I abus'd,
“And what for good was thus design'd,
“My misery produc'd.
“By grot or shady grove;
“And many, by my arts subdu'd,
“Fell victims to their love.
“A maid of modest air;
“The daisy on the mead that grew
“Was never half so fair.
“Had robb'd her of her friends—
“Alas to think! when wealth is flown
“How quickly friendship ends.
“Was built, secure from harms:
“An aged mother shar'd her lot,
“And watch'd her op'ning charms.
“The primrose early grows;
“So, guarded by the parent leaf,
“May's modest lily blows.
“In me a lawless flame;
“And ev'ry sacred vow I broke,
“To soil her virgin fame.
“And all her wants reliev'd;
“But ah! the while my cruel art
“The daughter's love deceiv'd.
“The cheerful village throng
“Desporting to the pipe were seen,
“Or to the rustic song,
“Who gain'd but me her hand?
“And who like we so fondly glanc'd
“Of all the youthful band?
“Had long assay'd in vain
“(For pure and spotless was the maid)
“Elfrida's love to gain.
“Which different did unfold:
“I fann'd the maiden's soft desires,
“He tempted her with gold.
“To move her had no charms,
“To tempt the aged dame he tried,
“To sell her to his arms.
‘My eager love to crown,
‘This cottage, and this glade, my right,
‘Shall be for aye thy own.’
“And scorn'd the proffer'd store.
‘'Tis well,’ the angry lord replied;
‘Thou shalt repent it sore.
‘To claim my annual right,
‘In pity to thy state forlorn:—
‘But mark it well ere night.
‘By my command shall wait.’
“He said, and turn'd with frown severe;
“Nor did his anger 'bate;
“Nor would he brook delay,
“But to a prison forc'd the dame,
“To pine in grief away.
“Of merry harvest-home,
“Did fair Elfrida stray with me,
“And thro' the meadows roam.
“Her parent's hapless plight,
“The roses on her cheek she drown'd
“In pity's gems so bright.
“To set her parent free,
“Unheedful of the dusky dew
“Which wet the darkling lea.
“Until returning morn;
“So back return'd I, as I came,
“To cheer the maid forlorn.
“Her cries assail'd my ear:
“I started at the sound, and flew
“To learn her cause of fear.
“Elfrida in his arms.—
“He strove, without her free accord,
“To rifle all her charms.
“And eas'd the maiden's fears;
“And, driving him the cottage, soon
“I kiss'd away her tears.
“E'en then, while in her eyes
“Love, gratitude, and sorrow shine,
“I seize the blushing prize.
“Ah me! how oft my soul,
“Repenting of the cruel part,
“Has pin'd in useless dole!
“In riot's noisy bow'rs:
“In banquets of lascivious pride
“Consuming all my hours;
“Had wasted all my store;
“Then stung by anguish and distress,
“I here the world forswore.
“I could no more endure,
“And so resolv'd to seek my fate,
“And ease by death procure.
“Beside the neighb'ring lake,
“When late you rent with cries the wood,
“Which did my purpose break.
“Self-slaughter I'll forego,
“And seek to wipe away my crime,
“By warding others woe.
“Despairing seek the grave,
“Since he, thro' heav'n, the means may be
“Wrong'd innocence to save.
“To lend the wretched aid,
“And rapine's lawless tribe restrain,
“Till life, or strength's decay'd.”
“Proceed from thy distress.
“Soon from this gloom would'st thou repair,
“Should smiling fortune bless.
“With blushes I propose:
“Accept my hand, accept my heart;
“I'll end at once thy woes.
“And golden stores also;
“These shall be his whose hand so bold
“Preserv'd me late from woe.”
“But never will I more
“Of love, or love's delights, partake;
“But Elfrid' I'll deplore:
“Broke is her tender heart:
“Then here I'll weep the injur'd maid,
“Nor ever more depart.”
And all her charms display'd—
It was Elfrida's self appear'd—
Elfrida of the glade.
Then caught her to his breast;
Again in speechless rapture gaz'd;
Again as fondly prest.
“Elfrida, yet once more?
“Can'st thou forgive my cruel art,
“And Rowland's peace restore?”
“I gladly will restore;
“Nor will I from the world depart,
“Or think of convents more.”
Than larks that soar on high,
When to the weary wanderers ear
They speak the morning nigh.
“For late a kinsman near
“Did call me to his dying bed,
“And name me for his heir.
“Had let me pine so long;
“And said he could not rest his sprite
“Till I forgave the wrong.
“While we united prove
“The joys, which but in death shall cease,
“That flow from mutual love.”
THE ZEPHYRS.
Tale the First.
Gay with ev'ry vernal dye,
Rich with every scented flow'r,
Two familiar zephyrs fly:
And the soft Amato this;
None who cool the noon-tide flame
Breathe so sweet the temp'ring bliss.
“How thy soft delicious gale
“Mine in sweetness so outvies—
“Richer flow'rs you can't exhale.
“Turns to me her blushing lip;
“Violet greets me with a sigh;
“Lily's fragrant soul I sip.
“All their treasur'd sweetness yield.
“Say what blossoms breathe for thee,
“That my sweets are thus excell'd?”
“I round lovely Delia fly;
“Watch her breasts, and when they rise
“Press her lips, and catch the sigh.”
Tale the Second.
Odorus the zephyr lay;
Round about the bushes dank
Mourn'd their dews not brush'd away.
Flitting to the river's side,
Saw, and stopp'd awhile his flight,
His untoward sloth to chide.
“Dost thou thus in sloth recline,
“Whilst forlorn thy slighted care
“For the wish'd refreshment pine?”
“For I droop by Cupid's pow'r:
“Aura sweet my suit denies;—
“Aura of yon jasmine bow'r.
“All its mantling sprays to guide,
“From unwholesome blights to save,
“Wake its bloom and scented pride.”
Smiling Ariel made reply;
“Brush these idle dews away,
“Then to gentle Aura fly.
“Nor for one denial droop:
“Frequent vows at last prevail.
“Gentle Odor rise and hope.”
Odor brush'd the lazy dew,
Fanning wak'd each roses blush,
And to gentle Aura flew.
And with kisses met his kiss;
All his tender fears reliev'd,
Melting in extatic bliss.
“Yester noon, her love away?”
“Grief had seiz'd me,” she replied,
“Worms had kill'd my fav'rite spray.
“Ev'ry tendril to improve;
“Pleasure therefore smooths my mien,
“And my soul's attun'd to love.”
Slaves to ev'ry varying wind,
They their lovers please or vex
As by chance or whim inclin'd.
Tale the Third.
“Glitter in the noon-tide ray,
“From whose motion coolness springs,
“Tempering soft the glowing day!
“Briskly flitting thro' the air,
“Dost thou all this scented show'r,
“All these vernal treasures bear?
“Primrose sweet, and violet blue,
“Mantling woodbine, lily bright,
“Cowslip yielding honied dew.
“Dost thou happy zephyr bear;
“Where thou may'st recline an hour
“With some lov'd and loving fair?”
Gaily tipt with Phœbus' ray,
(Bright above, the welkin shining)
Thus did zephyr Aura say:
“Fans so oft the verdant grove,”
Odor softly made reply,
“No such bliss I'm doom'd to prove;
“Fring'd with mossy verdure dank,
“With these flow'rets I repair,
“Gay to deck the smiling bank.
“Happy Damon! happy ground!
“Meet his Delia, smiling fair!—
“Flora then should bloom around.”
“Soon as e'er the lovely maid
“Meets her Damon's longing eyes,
“Flora there will seem display'd.
“Ev'ry soft perfume of May,
“Smile but Cupid—pleasure's king!
“Raptur'd fancy can pourtray.
“Mark yon roses red and white,
“And yon woodbines, how they smile,
“Twining close in sweet delight.
“Closely knit on either side?
“Scarce a sun-beam thro' can break—
“Thro' the blooms and scented pride.
(“For no zephyrs there attend)
“Be its inmost shade our care,
“Which from blights we will defend.
“Should for lack of tending pine,
“Drooping 'fore the noon-tide pow'r:
“Let us, Odor, there recline.”
Odor answers with a smile;
To the bower they swift repair—
Laughing Love admir'd the wile.
Hung its only entrance free;
Closely wove was either side;—
What they did could no one see.
Ye unharm'd indulge in joy;
Yield to soft desires the breast,
Free from guilt or fear's annoy.
How ye trust to man beware,
Where the bowery shades enfold:—
Dangerous 'tis for you, ye fair.
Guard, oh guard your blushing lips:
Censure watches still abroad,
Catching all that idly slips.
And your virtues fall essay;
Chaste esteem the fault will grieve,
Stretch her wings, and haste away.
“Actions chaste will not suffice;
“Words and looks the stamp must bear
“Of modest caution, scrup'lous, nice:
“Virtue wanton words impair,
“And to actions lewd entice.”
THE METAMORPHOSES.
A FAIREY TALE.
Full eft beside the tinkling stream,
Were wont the mystick dance to lead,
And gladsome hail the yellow beam,
'Twas, then, if legends truly tell,
That this adventure strange befel.
Had dofft, and ta'en her silver sheen,
And dancing on the glitterand brook
Her beamy rays were trembling seen,
A youth, deep shent with hopeless love,
Did by the dappled streamlet rove.
For drooping hung his doleful head,
His arms were cross'd, and eft he sigh'd,
And thus full eft he mournful said:
“Ah bright Egwina! cruel fair!
“Why wilt thou leave me to despair?”
Awak'd him from his walking dream,
A dapper train the youth surround
Of tripping fays who haunt the stream.
“Aread and quick,” the monarch said,
“Why dost thou thus our haunts invade?
“The winding streamlet babbling falls,
“What time the moon her lustre sheds,
“Her train the sov'ran Ouphant calls
“Their nimble sports around to make?
“Why didst thou then our gambols break?
“A single lie escape thy lip,
“All night shalt thou unpitied sigh,
“Tormented by a nettle whip;
“And prickly thorns, and thistles eke,
“Thy bed shall strew, thy slumbers break.
“An ouphe shall devil's-dung instil;
“And every time thou loudly groan'st,
“The nettle whip shall do thee ill;
“And up thy legs shall beetles crawl,
“And evets from the mouldering wall.”
“To thee I will the truth declare,
“Or may each torment on me light
“Which elfin magick can prepare.
“A youth I am, whom pining love
“Did cause unweeting thus to rove.
“Who efttimes in the listed fight
“Was wont the tilting lance to ply,
“And prove in war my mickle might;
“And eft I wont the woods to trace,
“With bow in hand the wolf to chace.
“But ah those deeds are now no more;
“For love has damp'd my hardyhead:
“I proud Egwina's scorn deplore.
“The bright Egwina of the grove
“My person flouts and slights my love.
“Declare how soote my sonnets been!
“Albe 'tis by the hamlet own'd
“There's none so bounteous on the green;
“Yet, for my person is uncouth,
“She slights my love, she scorns my truth.
“Proclaim I bear a gentle mind,
“Albe't, ere love did mirth restrain,
“Was none to pleasaunce more inclin'd;
“Yet—for my person is uncouth,
“She heeds not that my mind is smooth.
“Her cruel heart I seek to move,
“With wanton jest and bitter jeer,
“Her taunting words my shape reprove;
“And when love's softest arts I try,
“She bids me cease to look awry.
“Who, all unkenning where he stray'd,
“Bewailing his untoward plight,
“Did thus your sacred haunts invade:
“Nor let a slighted lover gain
“The hatred of the ouphant train.”
With smiles replied the elfin queen,
“For thou shalt bless the happy moon
“That lit thee to this fairey scene:
“And soon shall proud Egwina see,
“Who plainness scoffs shall plainer be.
“With ardent love for Egbert burn:
“As thou do'st now, shall she despair,
“Nor shall you deign her love return;
“For they who mock at others woe,
“'Tis fit the same mishap should know.”
She bade him to the night-mare go,
And prick her from her fenny delve,
To work on proud Egwina woe;
And her upon the squab fiend lay,
And jerk her there without delay.
And swift to Lincoln's fens arriv'd,
And marking round a mystick ring,
The ground unclos'd, and down he div'd:
In shorter time he there did flit
Than I have been relating it.
Where toads and evets crawl around,
And breathing eft a murky damp,
The fiend deform'd asleep he found;
While Will-o'wisps, with anticks strange,
Did round the dungeon trembling range.
Unwholesome damps and aguish dew,
Which numb'd the breast with baneful chill,
And ran the trembling sinews thro'.
Then did the elve the fiend awake,
And thus, with oafish stare, she spake:
“What is thy queen's supreme command?
“Who now must Mab's resentment rue?
“Who let her milk-dish empty stand?
“Or who hath hateful nightshade spread
“Around the place she loves to tread?
“Of late her sacred haunts defil'd?
“And must I gripe the wanton quean,
“And sore appay the losel vild?
“Or must I, from my doltish dug
“Some infant milking him beslug?”
Quoth elfin Puck, “and work thy spight
“On fair Egwina of the grove,
“And bring her to my mistress' sight;
“For she hath done Sir Egbert wrong:
“Then flit away, nor be you long.”
The fiend from cypress brush'd the dews,
And chilling drops from willows shed,
And damps that wash the baleful yews;
And froth of toads, and serpents tears
She gather'd in her shaggy ears.
Where they her sleeping charms survey'd:
One snowy arm beneath her head,
And one below her paps was laid:
May seem her dreams were sweet the while,
For on her face she wore a smile.
Upon her breast, the baleful dew,
And with her hoof her bosom strook,
That black the fading beauties grew;
Then Puck across the goblin threw
The stiffen'd maid, and off they flew.
Sir Egbert sought the fairey-hall,
Where thousand lamps with trembling sheen
Reflecting 'lumed the crystal wall.
Of shells was built the ouphant throne,
And colour'd glass that gaily shone.
A limpid fountain thence did well,
And pour its mazy streams around,
And water all the royal cell:
On this the fays would dance so neat,
And scarcely wet their nimble feet.
And thrice they drench him in the tide,—
Which him with sudden dread astound—
And three times thrice they round him glide;
And thrice they whirl their spells on high;
Then louting low away they fly.
Assumes the roses brightest glow;
His aukward limbs acquire a grace;
His length'ning locks in ringlets flow:
He views him on the streamlet's brim,
While manly grace adorns each limb.
With visage thin, and goggling eyes,
Approach'd him, and his form survey'd
With mingled rapture and surprize:
She fondly gaz'd, she seiz'd his hand,
And woo'd with words and actions bland.
And turn'd with pitying look away.
Then thus bespoke a fairey wight:
“Egwina there thou dost survey;
“Condemn'd for aye to pine and mourn
“At once her charms and heart forlorn.
“Whose heart has long been thine alone.
“How must she now with ardour burn,
“Whose gen'rous love before was shown?
“Thy mind before did her enthral;
“She now will love thee all in all.”
And sought and won Elgiva's hand;
Since when, by valley, hill, or shade,
Was none so blest thro' all the land.
Reader, may thee such bliss attend!
So please you here my tale I end.
THE SEDUCER; ;
OR, DAMON AND AMANDA
A POEM, In Five Cantos; WITH A PREFATORY ESSAY ON THE Crime and Consequences of Seduction.
Canto the First.
The bitter anguish of the injur'd fair,
His guilt who quits the fair-one he beguiles,
And his (the sire's) who leaves her to despair,
With all their sad effects, I fain would sing:
Assist ye nymphs of the Pierian spring!
With sport and revel in soft pleasure's train;
Slight'st the deep bowl, and pastime's jocund bow'rs,
Where banquets gay the social tribe detain;
Seek'st the dejected, friendless, and opprest,
And with thy dreams becalm'st the troubled breast.
Of one the meanest of the tuneful throng,
To whom the fair and sacred muse are dear;
Who scorns or sacred muse or fair to wrong;
Whose moral strain, tho' void of graceful art,
Shall still essay to mend the human heart.
I grieve to think no classic lore improv'd,
No timely learning cultur'd in my mind
The ray of science I so fondly lov'd!
Yet, tho' no classic elegance adorn,
Let none my well meant story treat with scorn.
The muse shall here exert her magick pow'r,
And forth to view a sad adventure bring
Which long oblivion labour'd to devour.
Yet Saxon legends may to scorn display
A vice too common in the present day.
Rest thy slow fingers from the weeping lyre,
And say, what waken'd Damon from his dream
Of thoughtless joy? Then to thy solemn wire
My voice I'll tune, and as the numbers flow
Each sympathetic breast shall melt with woe.
And thrice had spring her bosom'd sweets display'd,
And autumn thrice had been with fruitage crown'd,
And summers three in waving gold array'd,
Since to his arts Amanda fell a prey:—
Nor had reflection crost his heedless way.
Now smiles benevolent of breathing sweets;
Warbles each tuneful vagrant of the wing;
The foliage thickens in the green retreats;
Gay Flora sprinkles ev'ry verdant mead,
And sportive lambs in fertile pastures feed.
To far Northumbria Damon bends his way,
With young Pastorus, friendly and sincere,
Of blameless morals, as of manners gay;
Virtue and sense inspir'd his manly breast,
The Graces polish'd, and the Muses blest.
To wed the rosy-bosom'd June awoke—
From whose blest influence, when the world begun,
The twins had birth, while forth the violet broke,
The odorous hyacinth o'erspread the ground,
And each sweet flow'r luxuriant smil'd around.
With clust'ring stars the azure vault above.
To a thick wood arriv'd, that signal morn,
The road they quit, thro' many a wild path rove,
In converse bland, till they a thicket gain:
Here a small stile obstructs a verdant lane.
Just thro' the sapless centre, form'd the stile
With pliant ozier twigs a-cross impell'd;
Struck with the scene, they wond'ring gaz'd a while;
For some faint signs of culture here were found,
Far different from the savage scenes around.
The pleasing walk, and to a bow'r arriv'd,
The fav'rite roof of ev'ry bird of song,
Where each gay-flow'ring shrub luxuriant thriv'd:
From hence the various prospect open'd round;—
For high the bow'r was built on rising ground.
Shook on the mantled earth their balmy dews,
Pastorus of a faded bloom remind,
(Lost were its honied breath and glossy hues)
Which at his bosom hung; whereon the swain,
With prompt reflection, breaths this moral strain:
“Where is each charm that pleas'd my ravish'd sight?
“Where is the blush thy modest cheek display'd?
“Where the fresh odour that could once delight?
“No more you boast or breath, or colours gay!
“Then thus I cast thy worthless form away.
“Where frolics Flora in luxuriant hues,
“And once Lucina, solemn, plaintive pow'r!
“Has spangled with her beam the yellow dews,
“Since, tempted by thy charms, with eager haste
“That form I pluckt, and in my bosom plac'd:
“Not long the ardour of my wish restrain'd;
“Thy beauties fir'd; the difficulties found,
“I soon surmounted, and the prize obtain'd.
“Yet I who caus'd thy ruin, now, with scorn,
“Cast thee to earth, unpity'd, and forlorn!”
The wither'd flow'r that sick'ned at his breast,
While Damon's eyes the trembling tears bedew;
And scarce the groan of anguish he supprest—
Nor long supprest: for memory conscience woke,
And thus, with stifled sobs, he silence broke.
“All thy sad story to my tortur'd mind.
“Oh, grief of heart! the keen remembrance wrings
“My faithless soul, too long to justice blind.
“For yours surpast this flow'ret's freshest pride,
“Till cruel I each blushing sweet destroy'd.
“Had sprightly wit ne'er sparkled in thy eyes,
“Thou had'st not known the pangs of grief and shame,
“Nor been the victim of my artful sighs:
“I ne'er so much had labour'd to betray,
“Nor scornful cast thy rifled form away.
“That did not circle sweet Amanda round?
“What time, what subtile projects did it claim,
“Ere a fit scheme for my design I found?
“But ah! what human pow'rs can equal prove
“To baffle art, hypocrisy, and love?
“With ev'ry guile I cloath'd my treach'rous scheme:
“I gain'd the faith of her incautious youth
“With protestations of a chaste esteem;
“And ev'ry soft insinuation tried
“To make her think I woo'd her for my bride.
“To all my vows she lent a willing ear;
“When now the pearly drops I shed with art
“Call'd in her eyes the undissembled tear;
“And now, whene'er her hand I ardent prest,
“Love ting'd her cheek, and swell'd her panting breast;
“The downcast look of bashfulness reveal'd
“That tender wishes in her bosom rise,
“Which love inspir'd, but virgin shame conceal'd.
“I seiz'd the time (industrious to betray)
“And, weeping, begg'd my fortune she'd display:
“To hope from lov'd Amanda some return,
“Or black despair's all comfort-killing gloom,
“Decreed my ashes to a timeless urn?
“With well dissembl'd tears, and many a sigh,
“I urg'd the fair-one for a kind reply.
“And how unselfish I profess'd my flame?
“How many fraudful vows her faith abus'd?
“Attesting ev'ry sacred pow'r by name,
“To her alone, I said, my heart applied;
“On her free choice alone my peace relied.
“And by my fortune's dazzling splendour lur'd,
“Against her will, to force my lovely maid:
“But, ah! I scorn'd possession thus procur'd.
“I swore, I would not give Amanda pain,
“For all the blisses which immortals gain.”
“I hid my passion from her prudent sire.
“I curs'd the wretch who, trampling nature's laws,
“Would glut with beauty's grief his own desire.
“Let none, I said, who could so selfish prove,
“Presume to call their sordid passion love.
“The crimson flush which o'er her beauties came!
“The humid splendor in her eyes display'd,
“The heaving bosom, and the trembling frame,
“The interrupted sigh, the murmur weak,
“Which faulter'd on her tongue when she essay'd to speak!
“Ere yet Aurora's pearly drops are dried)
“Among the leaves, and wake the sanguine ray:
“Thus glows, thus swells, thus breathes in all its pride.
“And did I, oh inhuman spoiler! dare
“To blast this bloom, so bright, so sweet, so fair?”
On earth he fell, and tore his graceful hair:
He curs'd each charm by which his arts beguil'd,
His manly beauty, and his form so fair;—
But most he curs'd his soft persuasive tongue,
Its pow'rs perverted, and its syren song.
Canto the Second.
Who spurns for purpos'd bliss thy guiding lore:
Wretched are they who, heav'n's high will forgot,
In chace of joy the realms of vice explore;
For thou, oh conscience! with thy smarting goad,
Wilt meet and check them on the flow'ry road.
Could once receive from nature's smiling face
Sincerest joy, and, with enthusiast art,
In all its hues the various landscape trace,
Insensate now he lays absorpt in woe,
Nor sees bright Phœbus in the orient glow.
The honied gale fresh scented in the bow'r,
The bird soft warbling on the bloomy spray,
The air made vocal by the sky-lark's pow'r,
The rustic labours of the distant hind,
Tending his flock, or o'er the plough reclin'd;
The humid pearls soft dripping from the thorn,
Heav'n's cloudless vault, which glow'd in brightest blue,
Gay by the forest's edge the bounding fawn,
Who in the stream appeas'd his heated blood;
The stream whose murmuring tide meandering flow'd;
The various flow'rets, and the mossy bank;
The snow-plum'd cignets, with majestic pride,
New-wak'd, forth issuing from the oziers dank;
The brambled walk that parts the woodland shade,
The humble cottage in the smiling glade;
The rocky summit, from whose rugged brow
Jumps the surge rough, with course delay'd, and broke,
Hoarse roars, and foams in eddies rude below:
All, all these beauties Damon once could prize,
Now unregarded court his streaming eyes.
Where roses wild, and smiling jessamine,
In blooms luxuriant, twist the wanton spray,
And o'er the hazle climbs the eglantine;
Where cowslips, violets, harebells, breathe around,
And blue-flow'r'd alehoof mantles o'er the ground.
Or in his breast appease the rankling wound:—
Ah what avails it to the jaundic'd eye,
Tho' thousand rainbows circle it around?
When thro' each vein fierce hydrophobia strays,
What boots the purling stream that round us plays?
Contending passions waged a painful war;
Keen sensibility his voice supprest;
Nor knew he most to comfort or abhor:
Now pity sighs, now indignation frowns,
Horror now wakes, and all his bosom owns.
The sad repentant, with a trembling hand,
Embrac'd his friend's; his eyes roll'd ghastly round,
Which wont to languish with affection bland,
And “Oh, my friend! thy honest heart,” he cries,
“Must hate my crimes, and triumph in my sighs.”
His face deform'd, his eyes with tears enflam'd,
The drops of sympathy his cheek bedew'd,
And tender pity all his bosom claim'd:
Each thought indignant from his heart retires,
And sorrow's show'r extinguish'd anger's fires.
“And canst thou pity such a wretch as me?
“Alas! my guilt is but reveal'd in part!—
“Didst thou know all, where, where would pity be?
“My treach'rous arts would to thy breast recal
“Abhorrence just.—Yet will I tell thee all.
(“Faultering her tongue, her bosom heav'd with sighs)
“Reveal'd her heart with looks confus'dly sweet,—
“Love's humid gems bright sparkling in her eyes.
“With rapture, I the fond confession blest,
“And clasp'd the bright confusion to my breast.
“By bubbling fount recluse, or private bow'r,
“With dalliance light, and toying sports, I strove
“To waken passion, blind reflection's pow'r,
“And so the purpose of my arts obtain,
“The bashful fair would each approach restrain.
“If I too close her slender form embrac'd,
“Or, artful, o'er her snowy heaving breast,
“By seeming chance, my trembling hand I plac'd,
“The bashful frown, the blush of virgin pride,
“And coy-grown look my conduct seem'd to chide.
“Or dream I wish'd her innocence despoil'd;
“But that she held, ‘Meek modesty should shine
‘Spotless in seeming, as in deed unsoil'd.’
“To rigid virtue bred with maxims nice,
“She shunn'd the semblance as the act of vice.
“I us'd to triumph, balk'd and frustrate all,
“My curs'd invention gender'd other arts,
“More deep-laid schemes to work Amanda's fall.
“Her virgin purity, which should inspire
“More chaste esteem, but fann'd my loose desire.
“Which gave to branded scorn Amanda's name,
“For ever curs'd! and curs'd this heart that built
“Upon a short-liv'd joy her endless shame!
“Tho' free from dread, I wrapt in close disguise;
“As tho' I trembled at surrounding spies.
“And rayless darkness thro' the void prevail'd,
“Each guiltless brow sleep's poppied garland bound;
“Save only those whom jealous love assail'd,
“Or fortune's spite, or caitiff fear annoy'd,
“Or pale despondency, or pain destroy'd.
“No doubt perplexing of the wish'd success,
“(Her menial had her trust for gold betray'd.)
“With hasty strides towards the house I press;
“For since our eyes last met in fond survey
“Thrice glow'd the orient, thrice the western ray.
“Where all in tears Amanda I beheld;
“Her eyes deep riveted in tender thought,
“As in her hand my pictur'd form she held;
“Unlac'd, unrobed, loose flow'd her auburn hair,
“Her sigh-swoln bosom all expos'd and bare:
“The night-gown's folds in loose luxuriance flow'd.
“Me when she saw, she shriek'd, and gath'ring round
“Her scatter'd robe, with wild confusion glow'd;
“While I, with acted modesty, withdrew,
“And o'er my eyes the doubled kerchief threw.
“But when my garb and acted grief she view'd,
‘Whence this late visit? Whence this dress? she said,
‘And why that face with anguish thus bedew'd?
‘Meet we (by stealth, alas!) one day in three?
‘And meet we then with tears and misery?’
“Then, as with anguish dumb, I paus'd awhile,
“Farewel to love, to peace, to soft delight!—
“Fly must thy Damon; leave his native isle,
“Friends, kindred, fortune, and paternal home,
“A wretched, joyless exile wide to roam.
“No single sigh should heave this manly breast,
“These eyes should scorn to shed the coward tear.
“But, oh, Amanda dear! to think the rest
“Grief and distraction seize my tortur'd mind!
“Thee must I leave, Amanda, thee, behind!
“Supine, and breathless in my arms she fell;
“Clos'd were her eyes, her cheeks the roses fled,
“Her frozen bosom ceas'd awhile to swell,
“Till careful I recall'd the ling'ring life,
“Then heav'd convulsive, toss'd in passion's strife.
“How a lewd ribald had her name defil'd,
“Whereat, enrag'd the sland'rous lie to hear,
“I drew my rapier, and with fury wild,
“Assail'd, and slew him.—At each word I spake,
“Her sighs renew'd, as tho' her heart would break.
“With such a doating look of mournful love,
“While sweet confusion soften'd ev'ry grace;—
“Pity did almost in my bosom move.—
‘And shall we part?’ she cried, ‘my Damon, no;
‘Where'er you wander shall Amanda go.’
“Her generous soul to share my present flight;
“In vain my heart must for her converse bleed;—
“Nor time, nor yet conveyance meet invite.
“Yet, if so dear an exil'd wretch could be,
“Some future bark might bear my love to me.
“But ah! I fear'd, when rumour should proclaim
“To her more prudent sire, my fortune's loss,
“My exil'd person, and my blighted fame,
“Against her will, Amanda might be led
“A victim to some happier rival's bed.
“And now in vows pour'd forth her tender heart,
“My bosom bathing with her flowing tears,
“While nature banish'd all restraints of art;
“Around my neck her twining arms she threw,
“Hung on my lip, and to my bosom grew.
“She fondly languish'd on my fluttering breast;
“Each mournful look, with yielding softness fraught;
“Her swimming eyes her melting soul exprest:
“Thro' all her frame the fond emotions rove;
“Each vein was passion, every pulse was love;
“With ev'ry blandishment of strong desire;
“O'er all her charms, with fond endearments rov'd,
“And fann'd with ev'ry art the spreading fire:
“Then, half dissolv'd, half fainted in my arms,
“I press'd my suit, and triumph'd in her charms.
“Oh triumph that has stamp'd me for a fiend!
“Proclaim'd me worse than brute! Yet oh refrain
“Each judgment hard; nor in thy heart be skreen'd
“A thought can do the lost Amanda wrong.
“Could human virtue bear assault so strong?
“Each fond advance to amorous dalliance I
“With jealous doubts and anxious cares pursued,
“And arm'd with rivall'd fears each artful sigh.
“Thus gratitude and pity thought restain,
“And her own virtues were Amanda's bane.
“Scud the fleet shades impatient from the sky;
“Then o'er the humid hill Aurora springs,
“And the blithe lark proclaims Hyperion nigh.
“I left the blissful couch and nymph forlorn,—
“Nor ever view'd her from that cruel morn:—
“And far away my habitation mov'd,
“From Surrey's shades to Devon's sea-cool'd air;
“Where still in lawless pleasure I have rov'd,
“Nor ever once enquir'd Amanda's fate,
“Nor cast one thought upon her dubious state.
“Of pleasure all reflection's pow'rs confin'd.
“—And oh Pastorus! would thy moral lore,
“Thy virtuous converse, sentimental mind,
“Had early been familiar to my heart!
“Then had not conscience felt this scorpion dart.
“And dissipation ev'ry hour employs;
“While ribald-jest each sentiment restrains,
And sensibility and sense destroys;
“And decency and cool reflection's flown,
“What wonder vice should seize lost reason's vacant throne?
“(Oh how the doubt distracts my aching heart!)
“Breathes in this vale of tears the vital air,
“If my repentance can a joy impart,
“(For ah! till then I never can have peace)
“In these repentant arms Amanda's woes shall cease.”
As when some stag, by Arethusa's side,
Slacks his fierce thirst, or grazes void of heed,
If chance by Dian and her nymphs espied,
By clamorous horns alarm'd, he, starting, flies,
Speed in his pace, and anguish in his eyes;
Vaulting, he flies, each vig'rous nerve he strains;
At ev'ry bound the less'ning stream recedes,
At ev'ry bound back fly the less'ning plains
So Damon look'd, and such his trackless speed
As swift he darted tow'rds his generous steed.
Canto the Third.
Damon o'erhangs the steed's proud arching mane,
And here and there he turns his roving eye,
Doubtful which track might aid them to regain
The road frequented, for around display'd
Was many a labyrinth rude that cross'd the woodland shade.
The shady walks where bloomy hawthorns join'd
In smiling arch, through which soft zephyr flow'd,
And the awakening dawn bright spangling shin'd,
And banks, all redolent in gaudy pride,
Had led them, careless, from their journey wide.
From pipe melodious, dulcet, smooth, and clear,
Sad notes, soft warbling in the wanton wind,
Wild as mellifluent, smote his wond'ring ear.
Slow from his hand he drops the loosen'd rein,
And sinks supine and breathless on the plain.
Of cloud-topt Teneriffe, darts his piercing eye,
Stretch'd out impatient, meditates his flight,
And dooms in thought the grazing fawn to die;
The archer views him—swift the winged dart
Twangs from the bow, and quivers in his heart;
With clenching talons, fluttering pinions spread;
No more the lightning in his eye is found,
Now darkling clos'd,—loose drops his listless head:
So, to appearance dead, with deep dismay,
Pastorus sees his friend extended lay.
To rouse the fainting penitent to life,
Who soon unveils his wretched, languid eyes—
Then throbs his breast with passion's various strife:
Hope, tender pity, shame and love combin'd,
And weeping memory with contrition join'd.
Surprise deep printed on his weeping face,
He bears in silence passion's wild alarms;
While from the distant brakes, with dulcet grace,
(As wrapt in thought, all utterance he refrains)
The poor Amanda breathes the sweet disorder'd strains.
Light trip the zephyrs in the shady grove:
Now quick, short movements, with an accent sharp;
Now sadly slow the mournful numbers move;
And now serene as vestal's holy fires;
Now rambling, wanton, wild, as love's uncurb'd desires.
The SONG.
HENCE thou silly, wanton vine!To that maple cease to twine;
Twist no more thy tendrils round,
But, more wisely, on the ground
Thy unsupported branches spread,
Or grief shall reach thy 'spiring head.
That rav'ning thro' the dreary forests rove,
Or o'er the uplands scour, or pace the plain,
To rend with bloody fangs the bleeding drove:
With seeming love he boasts protecting aid;
Yet promises but to betray:
He grieves, he weeps.—Ah! hapless is the maid
Whose pitying hand shall wipe his tears away!
And his attention quickly drew,
Oh! how I felt the spreading flame!
What transports round my bosom flew!
Woke the embers of desire;
Around my heart,
In spite of art,
Swift rush'd the blood, each pulse beat higher.
I sicken at the rising sun,
And weep what time his course is done;
Trembling I view the darkling night,
And blush at pale Lucina's light.
Affliction from transport should spring!
That the summit of bliss is of anguish the brink,
And grief's bitterest tear hangs on joy's gayest wing!
Then lay she on the verdant sod and mourn'd;
Then burst the sorrows copious from her eyes,
And, as they fell, serenity return'd.
The fruitful show'r extinguish'd passion's strife,
And call'd the embryo senses into life.
Who here, within embow'ring shades forlorn,
With blighted peace, and faculties impair'd,—
What time the annual sun did twice adorn,
With waxing glory and with waning sheen,
The circling seasons—poor recluse! had been.
When time reveal'd the secret of her shame,
His hapless child, with meagre want to roam;
Of peace bereft, and reft of virgin fame;
Scorn'd by the world, abandon'd by her love,
The scoff of prudes, the snares of vice to prove.
Forlorn, deserted by her trusted guide,
Bleats on the barren wold, and needs thy care
To lead her back to virtue's fold, with pride
To bar compassion's doors, and drive away
To rav'ning wolves a trembling, helpless prey.
Which envious vice or passion's lawless train
To trap the wand'ring innocent prepares,
Forswore the city's throng and peopled plain:
Resolv'd, from human converse far away,
To waste the solemn night and lonely day.
Or form'd at erst by nature's wond'rous hand,
Or whilom by some rav'ning beast of prey,
(Ere yet king Edgar drove them from the land)
Unweeting I, nor does it boot to know;
But round enlabyrinth'd briars and hawthorns grow.
Surcharg'd the drooping flowers with fresh'ning dew)
Eludes the sickly blast, which might invade
Her sleeping form; and at the end there grew
A mossy bank, which yields those limbs a bed
That prest the cignet's down ere peace was fled.
A little garden, cultur'd by her care,
Did for her wants each wholesome root provide;
Some mountain goats she hamper'd in a snare
Yield to her hand a life-supporting food—
Her hand still guiltless of their younglings blood.
Conviction flash'd upon her lover's mind,
For her amusement had the maniac made:
The creeping tendrils oft her hand entwin'd;
Full oft the fragrant shrub afar she sought,
And from the dingles many a wild flow'r brought.
O'erpeer'd the circling verdure of her cave,
(Aurora's tears still glittering on the plain)
Amanda rose; and fondly would she rave,
As, with a slow, enfeebled, sorrowing pace,
Her bow'r she sought, to check each wand'ring grace.
Faint incoherent murmurs of despair;
Anon she'd rave in unconnected song,
Or moisten with her mournful sighs the air.
Yet still on Damon all her musings hung:
His was each sigh she heav'd, each theme she sung.
Arrest her step, and meditating stand—
Prone would she fall beside the murmuring stream,
And cull the flow'rets with her lily hand;
Then with her tears the mingling wreath bedew,
Till, grief thus vented, calm her bosom grew.
And mate ensnar'd by fowler's cruel wiles;
So throbs with various pangs her aching breast,
Nor time's erasing hand her woe beguiles;
Thro' groves recluse she bends her lonely way,
Mourns by each brook, and pines on ev'ry spray.
The cruel mischiefs of his selfish lust:
The injur'd object to delirium drove,
The sire perhaps sent timeless to the dust.
Such and ten thousand thoughts his bosom tear,
Perplex his mind, and drive him to despair.
Now pines with want, unpitied, and forlorn;
The bitter pangs of orphan'd misery proves:
No rays of comfort glad its hopeless dawn.—
Absorb'd he stood; insensate, rooted, dumb
As Parian matrons o'er an infant's tomb.
Wak'd from his trance, he vents his tortur'd heart:
Then tow'rds the nymph thro' brambled brakes he flies,
With eager hope soft comfort to impart,
With love-repentant soothe her griefs to rest,
And chace the wild delirium from her breast.
With love assiduous feeds her callow care,
If chance, among the circling foliage made,
A rustling noise assails her timorous ear,
Thoughtful of plund'ring hinds, around she'll start,
With looks of terror, and with fluttering heart.
While thro' the rustling bushes Damon sped;
And seeing man with hasty steps repair,
She paus'd not to observe, but trembling fled:
Wing'd by vain terrors rushing on her mind,
Her feeble feet outstrip the western wind.
Of gay Chrysonitus with gilded plumes,
(Where shelter'd close within the brambled shades,
Where berries ripen and the wild rose blooms,
Her scarce fledg'd young, with pinions yet untried,
In hopes of swift enlargement chirping hide)
The gripe despiteous, they with terror shake,
And trembling venture forth the feeble brood,
With doubtful pinions soaring o'er the brake;
Fear their sole guide, and all their strength despair,
With quick, short strokes they beat the yielding air.
So fares it with the feeble, frighted fair.
Canto the Fourth.
And her fleet steps pursu'd o'er smoother ground;
Cow'ring with frighted pace, the maniac flew
Thro' many a brambled alley winding round.
The trembling warbler thus affrighted flies
Before the kite, fierce tyrant of the skies!
His eager footsteps follow in the rear;
And now, not many shadows lengths behind,
These words addrest he to her listless ear:
“Ah turn, most injur'd of the lovely race!
“Turn, bless repentant Damon's fond embrace!
“No brutal force invades Amanda's peace;
“But love-repentant for thy pardon woos:
“Damon, who gave the wound, the wound would ease.”
So prays he, panting; but in vain he prays:
His pray'r she hears not, nor her speed delays.
Amanda panting flies, and he pursues:
Not clouds, when gales autumnal urge their chace,
Skim with a swifter pace their changeling hues.
Meanwhile Pastorus, on his foaming horse,
Wound round an op'ner road, Amanda's way to cross.
(Where savage nature wore her wildest look)
Eastward, a tow'ring, uncouth growth there stood
(Which ne'er for ages cleaving axe had shook)
Of trees gigantic, closely interwove
With gorse, thorn, briar below, and spreading boughs above.
Britannia's thunder o'er the raging seas;
Here the stout ash, the trembling aspen there,
Whose fine hung foliage shakes at every breeze;
The cypress, which bedecks the lover's hearse,
And laurel, meed of poets tuneful verse;
His cup the rustic carves with art uncouth;
And birch, sad terror of the truant's soul;
And lime, and sycamore of stately growth:
And here the beech, and here the elm-tree grew,
And here the lofty pine appear'd in view.
Whose boughs, entwisted, form the rustic throne;
And, white with bloom, the spreading elder stands,
Unprun'd, uncurb'd, to full luxuriance grown,
From whose ripe berries luscious bev'rage flows;
And graceful here the humid poplar grows.
And oft made tuneful to the lyrist's hand;
The weeping fir, the holm, whereof is made
The cornice gaily wrought. Here sallows stand,
And crab, whose boughs ungrateful fruits produce;
And box, whose close-wrought leaves the sunny beam refuse.
Which or wild roses yield, or berries black;
Sloe-bearing thorns, and woodbine, which aspires
To clasp the beechen bough; nor was there lack
Of gorse, whose fast-succeeding blossoms blow
Thro' summer's heat, and eke thro' winter's snow.
But, all confus'd, their uncouth shades display,
That not the mountain goat a path could force,
Nor stag high-bounding tread the gloomy way:
Each shrub, each tree of nature's giant birth,
Or dwarf-like sapling, hid both sky and earth.
A rugged, broken, steepy cliff arose,
With here and there a thorn,—a dreary sight,
Where never fruitage smiles, or flow'ret blows.
If browse it yielded, to reward his toil,
Scarce could the mountain goat find means to climb the steepy soil.
Which parts the cliff and gloom with rude descent,
Pastorus came in season to detain
The flying fair; her passage to prevent
To the rough wold which terminates the view;
For here with backward gaze she trembling flew.
She rapid pours along without one pause
To ease her wounded feet, which sorely ache
With the unceasing chace. She sees—she starts!—she draws
Her panting breath.—Then tremblingly her eyes
She rolls—thick throbs her fluttering heart with sighs!
Drive her, all trembling, o'er the printless plains,
If chance the shaggy lion furious bounds
Her way athwart, and all escape restrains.
With piteous shrieks, she rolls her tearful eye,
Then, muttering, gazes upward to the sky.
She borrow'd strength from madness and despair;
Death she determin'd in her gloomy thought;
Her frantic hands the rugged mountain tear;
With labour'd haste, with toil, with pain to climb,
Shrieking, she struggles to the hoar sublime.
To follow Damon toil'd, but toil'd in vain!—
Torn he beholds her hands, her feet sore rent;
And more than equal shares in all her pain.
—Once more he strives to follow—but again
Falls back to earth, and strives once more—in vain.
Why has the maniac such a wond'rous force?
Why should the frantic sally conquer more
Than yielded e'er to reason's stedfast course?—
Cool reason's strength does dread of suffering bind,
And coward thought intimidate the mind?
Some fiend supernal, who to desp'rate deeds
Still urges on, and tenfold strength imparts,
Which neither terror checks, nor force impedes?
How else could weak Amanda upward strain,
Where Damon's strong-knit muscles strove in vain?
He struck his head, and had himself destroy'd,
But that his friend restrain'd, and, looking round,
Not distant far, a winding path espy'd
Which to the mountain's top obliquely led:
Here, swift as lightning, breathless Damon fled.
And now, approaching to the summit brown,
The shock of boiling surges cleaves the ear,
Loud headlong tumbling many a fathom down;
Vex'd with rough rocks which broke their roaring way,
Loud froth'd their foaming tide, indignant of delay.
They hear her loud exclaim: “Oh friendly tide!
“Thou shalt preserve me from the spoiler's hand:
“Thy troubled surge Amanda's shame shall hide;
“Protecting death! Oh be thy shades rever'd!”—
Then, rushing downward, swift she disappear'd.
With hands to heav'n uprear'd, and swimming eyes;
Each pulse suspended, curdled was their blood,
Distraught at once with anguish and surprize.
Damon, at length, bounds forward in despair
To the same place whence plung'd the frantic fair.
With seeming transport, lifts to heav'n his eyes;
Then, rushing forwards, makes no longer pause,
But down the hoary steep impetuous flies.
His frantic friend a nearer way ascends,
Where o'er the sable tide the frowning summit bends.
Whose awful bed, by rocky fragments broke,
The tide obstructs. Waves roar, and frothing white
In whirlpools sweep impetuous. Down the rock
A hundred cataracts fall; then dashing flies
The wave contentious, foaming tow'rds the skies:
In cloud-like mists the spattering waters rise.
Along the cliff he roves, whose hollow space
Groans to the dashing surge, yet find his eyes
Of neither hapless lover mark nor trace.
Silent he mourns: such griefs his heart devour
That scarce to think is left the painful pow'r.
Down to the troubled waters seem'd to wind,
To tread the dangerous path his mind is bent,
The mangled body of his friend to find,
(Oh fruitless search!) and her the frantic fair;
And o'er their grave the pious marble rear.
The bird domestic cowrs, with troubled breast,
And anxious walks, while on the surface swim
The web-foot denizens of her fostering nest;
Studious to save them from imagin'd ills:
Such the kind care his generous bosom fills.
The winding pathway down, when—strange to say!
Alive he kneeling saw, with head low bent,
His weeping friend; and close beside him lay
The injur'd fair-one, fainting, but not dead:
A reverend hermit's lap supports her head.
Terms of such rapture, that the ardent joys,
The trembling transports justly can rehearse
Which in Pastorus' friendly bosom rise?
Can words his looks of joy and wonder paint?
Ah no!—the powers of language are too faint.
Who sadly drooping o'er some timeless bier,
From the child's, friend's, or lover's clay-cold breast,
Have deem'd the vital spirit fled for e'er,
And in distracting agonies have wrung
Your hands, expressive how your souls were stung;—
(Oh blest Philanthropy! thy agents here)
Have wak'd the dormant spark of life again,
And chang'd to transport horrors starting tear;—
Ye, ye can guess, from what yourselves have felt,
The mingled passions in his soul which dwelt.
Canto the Fifth.
With steps demurely slow, or frantic pace
Thou rov'st, or whether with thy falling tear
Thou troublest Castaly's translucent face,
Or stretch'd on earth, where cypress mourns around,
Thy throbbing bosom beats the humid ground!
Is op'd those dismal annals of distress
Recording spirits with their tears bedew)
What heav'nly arm, for sure it was no less,
Snatch'd from endeavour'd death the frantic fair?
—No arm immortal; but a father's care.
Within a gloomy cave, to sorrow wed,
Sir Thudor dwelt—a weeping hermit now!—
The cell his palace, and the rock his bed.
Here mourn'd the sire his child's uncertain state,
And his own rage, which drove her to her fate.
Then cool Reflection (sober matron!) came,
And brought contrition to the frantic sire:
He saw his folly had expos'd his shame,
And the dishonour of his house reveal'd,—
Which kind indulgence might have kept conceal'd.
Of woe-born spectres, haunts his cheerless day,
Invades the morphean hour, and his brain
Renews the scene soft sleep would chace away;
Weeping he'd wake,—but only woke to weep!
She haunts him waking, who disturb'd his sleep.
To lust promiscuous yield her loathing charms,
The bitter pangs of pressing want to ease;
And sees her now expire in famine's arms.
Struck with the fancied horrors of her fate,
Contrition seiz'd him,—but she seiz'd too late!
For his Amanda: all his busy care
No trace, no tidings of her fate can gain.
Then, all abandon'd to his deep despair,
Detesting life, forswearing mortal view,
Here, to the lonely cliff, he, sad recluse, withdrew.
Attentive to the rough waves boist'rous roar,
To keen reflection yields his tortur'd mind,
When lost Amanda stood the cavern o'er,
And rear'd her frantic voice. He starts, he flies,
(The voice rememb'ring) trembling with surprize.
The rock projects some paces o'er the wave;
As here the maniac bounds, trembling all o'er,
He follows swift, and, just in time to save,
Caught the white garment's plaited folds behind,
Which, as she plung'd, flew fluttering in the wind.
His rod inflected with the weighty prize,
With timid caution draws it by degrees,
While fear and transport mingle in his eyes;
In hope now sees it stretch'd upon the sand,
Now doubts his feeble line and slender wand:
Drew her, all trembling, up the hanging rock.
Unconscious she of the paternal care,
Thick beats her heart with strong convulsive shock:
The wild sensation throbs thro' all her frame;—
O'er all her form a chilly moisture came.
But meets the treacherous fowler's meshy art;
From dole to dolour flown, forlorn she lies;
Against the ground quick beats her panting heart.
By fear convuls'd, thus poor Amanda lay,
Till terror snatch'd the dizzy sense away.
When Damon, rushing tow'rds the boiling wave,
Saw,—paus'd,—no longer to destruction prone,
Bless'd the good chance which from a watry grave
Had snatch'd the fair, and rear'd to heav'n his eyes,
With grateful looks of transport and surprize.
To where supine the fainting fair-one lay;
Kiss'd her cold lips, and o'er her weeping hung,
And with his kerchief wip'd the dews away
That soil'd her bloodless face; her hand then prest,
Bath'd it with tears, then dried it in his breast.
His quivering tongue refus'd its wonted part.
Hoarse, hollow murmurs only fault'ring break
Their interrupted way. He smites his throbbing heart!
Then, frantic, strains her to his panting breast,
And bathes with flowing tears the fair distrest.
Her fleeting, wand'ring spirit to recal;
But long his tender offices of love
Want pow'r to wake her from the death-like thrall:
At length she feebly lifts her languid eyes;
“My father! Oh ye pow'rs!” she shrieking cries,
“My sweet Amanda! dear, lov'd child! Oh me!
“Does then thy soul indignantly retire
“When thy sad eyes their cruel father see?—
“Yes, I deserve thy scorn! thy hatred claim,
“More, more than he who soil'd thy virgin fame.
“Should make me plant fresh poignards in thy breast?
“To cruel crowds thy injur'd fame divulge,
“And bar the doors of virtue, peace and rest?
“Curs'd be my haughty rage! my fury wild!
“'Tis I that kill thee, I, my child! my child!
“Not yet for ever quits thy lovely frame,
“Ere yet thou seek'st the realms of blissful light,
“Return, return Amanda! (dear, lov'd name!)
“Say but you pardon my unsirelike part:
“Oh! give that comfort to my aching heart!”
Repentant death suspends his lifted dart;
Unveil her clouded eyes, whose tearful ray
Beam feeble hope on each afflicted heart.
So looks Aurora pale, when drizzling skies
Obscure her beamy beauties as they rise.
Oh, had I, Opie, thy distinguish'd skill!
Could I like thee the mournful draught pourtray,
And each charm'd heart with soft compassion fill
With pictur'd scenes, where art and fancy join;
Colours so just, and postures so divine!
In emulation of thy murder'd James,
My rival canvas should aspire to glow;
For ah! the scene an Opie's genius claims:—
Opie, who gives e'en death an envied life,
Shall triumph over time's destroying strife!
The favour'd vot'ry of Apelles' art.
Come then ye daughters nine of Castaly!
Let Opie's colours charm the gazer's heart;
The melting strain and numbers sad be mine,
Which make the list'ner's eye with pity's dew-drops shine.
'Tween her supporting sire and kneeling love;
Who her sad tears alternate wip'd away,
And to suppress their own alternate strove.
But ah! 'twas fruitless strife, they gush'd amain,
And by their flow awaken'd hers again.
With all the blooms of scented spring array'd;
Some o'er her bosom spread, some trail'd the ground;
Her heaving breast, to court the breeze display'd,
Shone thro' the parting locks which trembled there,
Shook by deep sighs, which her sad bosom tear.
Now on her father, now on Damon bent;
Her sire one arm embraces as she lays,
One trembling hand is to her Damon lent.
Such was the mournful scene, if numbers faint
The mournful beauties of the scene can paint.
Till Damon thus: “Amanda, oh my love!
“Can can you pardon me the cruel wrong,
“Which I, barbarian, by lewd passion drove,
“To thee have done? And to these guardian arms—
“These arms repentant, yield thy injur'd charms?”
“I pardon thee; yes, from my very heart;
“And may you live to taste sincerest joys!
“Thy bliss be great as poor Amanda's smart:
“I need not wish thee more. But oh too late
“Contrition comes; I feel the stroke of fate.
“Thy kind forgiveness for the blushing woes
“My indiscretion caused thee to sustain?
“My dawning shame stains thy life's honour'd close.
“Yet, yet, Oh pardon, ere the hand of death
“Seals these cold lids, and stops this fainting breath.”
“'Tis I, my child, must for forgiveness plead:
“Not Damon's treach'ry, but rash Thudor's ire
“Points the keen shaft by which you timeless bleed.
“But Oh, dear offspring of my tender love!
“These gloomy terrors from thy heart remove:
“Of her repentant sire;—she may, she must:
“Repentant Damon shall protect thy charms;
“Love and contrition yet shall make him just.
“Thou yet shalt live for happiness, for love:
“Heav'n shall for sorrows past thy future joys improve.”
“The idle terrors of a frantic mind
“Impell'd my feeble limbs to over toil—
“Oh had I known you when you chanc'd to find!
“Or had, my Damon, reason 'lumed my breast,
“I might have liv'd, and had perhaps been blest.”
The lover cries, “is this, is this the end?
“Is this the fruit of one delighted hour?—
“Said I the fruit? Ah me, fresh tortures rend—
“Perhaps another stab behind remains:
“A helpless babe, perhaps, forlorn complains.”
“Destroy'd the embryo in my woful womb.—
“But ah farewell!—I feel some pow'r suppress
“My lab'ring breath. Let those who hear my doom
“Confess no brand of guilt should mark my name:
“Pity and love my faults, my portion grief and shame!”
The tide of life no longer warm'd her heart;
In blissful hope her franchis'd soul repos'd;
Her wearied frame obey'd the fatal dart.—
Farewel, sad maid! may none hereafter know
Such bitter pangs of undeserved woe!
The frantic mourners o'er the breathless fair;
Each tortur'd breast with keen contrition stung.
Then thus the father vents his deep despair:
“Yes, yes Amanda, 'twas my haughty ire
“Gave the keen wound by which you now expire.
“Should shield from slander's shrinking breath thy name,
“Thy griefs allay, thy wants, thy cares remove,
“And hide?—but hold, my tongue! no more exclaim;
“Death, death shall give me ease!—Oh world farewel!
“Yet, yet with thee, Amanda, will I dwell.”
Sought from the gloomy surge a timeless end;
And after him himself had Damon thrown,
But that Pastorus held: “Ah me, my friend!
“Reflect a while: tho' heavy are thy woes,
“Wouldst thou fair mercy's gate for ever close?”
“Here, in my bosom, all its tortures glow:
“The wreathing damn'd feel nothing more severe:
“'Tis here the wild, unutterable woe.
“Unhand me then, and let me follow swift
“The murder'd Thudor down the rugged clift.
“With wild convulsive throbs, I feel it here:
“My heart, impatient to escape to rest
“From such wild anguish, torture so severe,
“Against my heaving side enanguish'd bounds;
“Thro' all my echoing frame each throb resounds.”
“But live, and let repentance wipe thy soul
“From guilt, and time from pearly griefs thy eyes.”
His hand then Damon seiz'd, his eyes wild roll:
“And what is time? and what repentance now?
“Where must I find them? or o'ertake them how?
“Regain the youthful hours unstain'd by crime,
“Those panther-footed hours of pure delight?
“Or can I backward force the preacher time?—
“Could I do this, contrition might repair
“My perjur'd wrongs, and banish black despair.
“Ah me! my heart distends my lab'ring side!
“I feel, I feel the mangled vitals bleed.
“Here for a moment let thy hand abide.—
“Tell me, what think'st thou of this bustling heart?
“Does it not struggle furiously to part?
“A speedy passage thro' this yielding frame?—
“It comes;—aye, let it,—let it, to my mind
“It can't too soon. Pastorus hide my shame.—
“Ah no! reveal it: publish to the world:
“Teach men, what vengeance on such crimes is hurl'd.
“To breathe my last sad fainting accents out
“In broken murmurs.—Oh the vengeful whip
“Which gorgon-frowning conscience whirls about!”
He ceas'd. Deliriums wild, & fierce convulsions seiz'd,
Till Death, in terrors clad, his body eas'd.
Grasping, in mad embrace, her murder'd charms.
The frighted Muse, in speechless horror, flies,
With eyes averted, and uplifted arms:
Forsakes the scene, to moralize a while
To those who revel gay in fortune's smile.
That thoughtless now, in chace of wanton joy,
Pursu'st the virgin, this sad story hear,
Nor dare the cause of all her peace destroy.
Think of the horrors that on Damon tend:
Think of Amanda, and her hapless end:
Whom now with perjur'd vows thy lust pursues,
Far, far superior anguish she may see:
Think of the horrors of the public stews;
Where health, where peace, and future hopes are sold,
A sad existence barely to uphold.
Of fell disease, and all her writhing train.
Think—but what boots whate'er the muse can sing?
Hast thou not read the plaintive Goldsmith's strain?
If what he sung cannot affect thy heart,
What can I hope from my inferior art?
Whom pride, resentment, or a stubborn mind,
Might prompt to drive thy ruin'd child to shame,
Reflect: and be the barb'rous thought resign'd:
Think, that for one offence our common Sire
Dooms not his children to eternal ire:
Has warn'd, in vain, from crimes of deeper dye;
Oh think, how long with thee he deigns to bear,
And views thy wand'rings with a pitying eye;
Nor e'er, till stubborn guilt provok'd him sore,
Did his indulgent hand close mercy's door.
One slip of prudence, plunge in endless shame
The darling offspring of thy soft delight?
Oh! wilt thou bar thy breast to pity's claim?
And wilt thou let, oh frantic wretch! thy ire
The prostitution of thy child conspire?
Oh hapless child whom such a mother bore!
Where shalt thou hide from fortune's savage frowns,
If once deluded from strict honour's shore?
A cruel world thy anguish shall inflame,
And they who should preserve shall damn thy fame.
Cold shivers, hunger craves, and thirst assails;
Temptation strong thy tottering virtue storms;
Strong pleads distress, and vice at last prevails.
A respite short abhorred lust obtains;
But soon destruction comes with tenfold pains.
In barbarous chace (inhuman sport!) pursu'd,
Alarm'd by terror scours the less'ning lawn
Till it arrives at some runcaria rude,
Which its advent'rous foot durst ne'er before,
In search of foilage green for browse, explore;
Of sloughy bog, wild bri'r, high bramble bush,
The foe close pressing, knowing life at stake,
Wing'd by despair, it makes a desp'rate push;
Bounds to the centre, foils the eager chace,
Nor heeds the circling horrors of the place;
Would fain return to browse on hill or lawn,
But can't, from twining brambles, get releas'd
Till by surrounding bri'rs in pieces torn,
With anguish, and with famine's double strife
The wretched fugitive resigns its life.
THE RED-BREAST; :
OR, DAMON OF THE GLADE
A SENTIMENTAL TALE. IN THREE CANTOS.
Canto the First.
A lonely cottage stands,
Whose master lov'd the silent shade
Which peace and thought demands.
Save only those which love
And Phebe's cruel scorn inspir'd,—
He, musing, oft would rove.
Thro' winding alleys green,
Where thrustles, larks, and linnets dwell,
He'd wander all unseen.
Of feather'd warblers free:
Yet not a bird of all the throng
Could sing so sweet as he.
He heard the blackbird sing,
Or soaring lark, so loud and sweet,
Long carol on the wing,
And thus he rais'd his song:
“Ye little warblers! here retir'd,
“Secure your themes prolong.
“Or fraudful horse-hair twine;
“No cruel hand shall lime the spray,
“Your pinions to confine.
“Who, for a selfish joy,
“Would tear you from your feather'd loves,
“And liberty destroy.
“Whose drooping pinions show,
“While thus she pines beneath the bush,
“Some inward cause of woe.—
“To this sequester'd shade,
“May, pining thus, bewail forlorn
“Her little mate betray'd;
“Now, warbling, mourns his fate,
“To please some thoughtless fair-one's mind;
“—The slave of useless state!
“Had lately warm'd to life,
“Robb'd of his care within their nest,
“May pine with famine's strife.
“Thro' meadows far and nigh,
“And bring ye grain or insects home,
“Your cravings to supply?
“A needful shelter bring?
“Or lend, when mid-day fervours reign,
“The shadow of the wing?”
Or trembled in his eye,
As thus the youth his theme pursu'd,
With many a pitying sigh:
“Must e'en the warbling choir,
“Pent from their loves, the welkin free,
“And peaceful nest, expire?
“To gain a fair-one's heart;—
“Oh sure like me they cannot love
“Who act this cruel part!
“The lov'd-one's presence gives,
“And did they know his woeful plight,
“Who for her absence grieves,
“Which rends the hopeless mind,—
“Sure they could never part the pair
“Whom mutual love had join'd.
“And city's selfish throng,
“For sympathy and love too proud,
“Each tender virtue wrong.
“E'en love is made a trade.—
“And yet for these, can Phebe slight
“My cottage in the glade.
“Thy meek, thy gentle breast
“Found pleasure in this tranquil scene,
“And was with feeling blest.
“With pensive look so sweet,
“While Philomel, some dell beside,
“Was wont her woes repeat;
“And charm'd the list'ning grove,
“Thy sympathising bosom heav'd;—
“Thy soul would melt to love.
“Thro' fields of ripening grain,
“To hear the linnet on the spray,
“Or lark's high-soaring strain.
“Secure from want or harm,
“Would sparkling pleasure gild thy eye,
“And heighten ev'ry charm.
‘With freedom blest, and love!
‘How gaily they, with nimble wing,
‘In sportive circles rove!
‘Who'd bid these scenes farewel,—
‘Resign these strains, these meadows flee,
‘In noisy towns to dwell?
‘Such cruel men there are,
‘Who, for their songs, or plumage gay,
‘These warblers would ensnare?’
“Who joy'd in giving pain;
“Then wouldst thou mock the giddy proud
“Who scorn'd the peaceful plain:
“And all its gay parade.—
“But now, for these, has Phebe flown
“My cottage in the glade.
“Of him, my little guest,
“To whom you wont the crumbs bestow,
“And praise his scarlet breast.
“This hand alone shall feed—
“For Phebe now the glade disowns;
“Nor thee nor me will heed.”
Would oft his sonnets be:
For tender was his artless mind—
An artless swain was he:
His words from guile so clear,
That of his heart, which knew not wrong,
They but an echo were.
And long had Phebe lov'd;
While she contemn'd, thro' foolish pride,
The youth her heart approv'd.
Seduc'd her to the town,
Where crowding fops obsequious bow'd,
Her matchless charms to own.
Their gilded pinions ply;
So fluttering play the courtly train
To catch the fair-one's eye:
With Phebe might compare;
Nor not a gilded fly so vain
As these her suitors were.
Who dwelt within the glade;
Whose vows were breath'd with artless truth,
Whose love could never fade!
Had waked a transient fire;
In him esteem and virtue meek
Had chasten'd loose desire.
Should pine with hopeless love,
While selfish foplings, false and vain,
Should oft successful prove!
The worthy mind to fly,
And modest truth and sense deride,
To please the youthful eye.
Whose leaves no sweets exhale,
Ere, tho' it boasts no flaunting dyes,
The lily of the vale?
But worthless is its bloom;
The other yields a sweet delight,
And precious its perfume.
No more let av'rice sway:
O banish vain and thoughtless pride,
And love's behests obey.
Canto the Second.
And mead of all its pride,
And all who social converse love
To hearths convivial hied,
Benighted to the spot,
Claim'd shelter for his hoary head
In Damon's humble cot.
'Twas giv'n with welcome true:
Careless from want to turn away
Our Damon never knew.
The guest was bade to share;
With converse each alternate tried
To drown the thoughts of care.
Each to the other new;—
The youth the sylvan scene had walk'd,
The sire the city knew.
The haughty and the vain;
And none from duty less had swerv'd
Of all the menial train.
For service all too weak,
He friendless on the world was thrown,
A means of life to seek.
(Ah hapless youth was he)
That Phebe soon would give her hand
To one of high degree.
Soon as the morning broke,
Forlorn and sad the eager youth
The cot and glade forsook.
To join the busy throng,
For Phebe now was full of pride,
And scorn'd his tender song.
To ease her Damon's pains;
And love (but love she would not heed)
Still held her heart in chains.
To glitter at the ball,
Preferr'd the false, the silly maid,
To love's and pity's call.
Her hand she meant to give;
And slighted Damon, whom she priz'd
Beyond all swains who live.
To mourn unseen his fate,
And left the silly, cruel fair
To misery and state.
He sigh'd, “what thou must prove;
“For thou hast chang'd for splendid woe
“Contentment, peace and love.”
His oaten pipe he took;
And, as he slowly trac'd the glade,
The dreary silence broke.
The nightly mourner sends,
When ev'ry heart the note of woe
With wildest cadence rends.
Thy plaint with morn shall cease;
But Damon's griefs no respite know;
He hopes no more for peace.
Thy plaints without a tear;
But Damon seeks from his relief
From sorrows too sincere:—
Affords his mind no ease;
E'en musick's charms increase his pain:
His grief can nought appease.
On all the dreary view—
The sorrows of his bosom rise,
And either cheek bedew.
“Where birds no longer dwell,
“Nor warble sweet their love notes wild,
“Ye paint my fortune well.
“I feel a swift decay;
“And nipp'd by disappointment's frost,
“I blighted pine away.
“One solace still remains:
“Thy bird shall comfort still supply,
“And cheer me with his strains.
“And still my bosom cheer.
“I'll smile my lonely bird on you
“Each morn when you appear.
“Resemblant of my fate!
“The note will be twice welcome now
“That hails my cheerless state.
“But spring shall thine restore;
“A harder fate I'm doom'd to moan:
“For mine return no more.
“And cloudy welkins clear,
“Another mate thy love shall please;
“Whose answering love shall cheer.
“Again thy transports rise;
“Again be crown'd thy little nest
“With all its social joys.
“In self-consuming woe
“An endless winter doom'd to pine,
“Nor spring of hope to know.
“Shalt soothe my constant grief.
“My little red-breast's grateful throat
“Shall often bring relief.”
The silent glade along;
For much the little bird he lov'd,
And much he priz'd his song.
His constant guest had been,
And with familiar warblings free
Had cheer'd the lonely scene.
And oft familiar he
Hopp'd round the board, to pick the bread
Which Damon scatter'd free.
He sought his sheltering cot,
And paid his host with warblings soft,
And cheer'd his lonely lot.
Who raise the lonely note,
Was none possessed so sweet a strain,
Or tuned so clear a throat.
His sweet, his artless lay,
Would start unbid a tender tear,
And thus he oft would say:
“Of all the warbling quire,
“This gloomy shade inhabit'st now;
“I here alone retire.
“We woo each other's aid,
“The lonely moments to improve
“In this sequester'd glade.
“Our joys proceed alone.
“How cheerless must the bosom be
“To sympathy unknown!
“Or soothes a mourner's woes,
“Gilds with reflected joy his breast,
“And feels what he bestows.”
So tender was his mind;
Still prone to feel another's pain,
And to relieve inclin'd.
Distress should ever know!
Or tortur'd with affliction's dart,
Should feel unpitied woe!
Prepar'd for heav'nly joys,
By sordid thoughts unclogg'd, with ease
On swifter pinions rise.
With sympathy must glow,
As heav'n, 'twill surely be believ'd,
No selfish joys can know.
Will much refining need
Ere it the realms of bliss can claim,
For generous souls decreed.
The feeling heart is giv'n;
They, when they quit this world of woe,
Are wing'd at once for heav'n.
Canto the Third.
With swift succession fade!
What art thou, Hope, with all thy pow'rs?
Vain shadow of a shade!
Our joys but visions are;
You—idle fancy's idlest birth,
But promise visions fair;
For, ere you're well believ'd,
You wake us with some real ill,
And teach us we're deceiv'd.
Oh youth by fortune crost!
Must yet more tears thy cheek bedew?
Must yet more joys be lost?
Stretch'd lifeless on the snow
The little red-breast struck his view:
Hop'd solace of his woe.
The lover's heart inflam'd;
And first he sought from tears relief,
And, sighing, then exclaim'd:
“Thy social blood congeal'd?
“Have I the only comfort lost
“This hated life could yield?
“Forsook my peaceful shade,
“To soothe the vain, fantastic fair,
“You pin'd for want of aid.
“I had not lost thee so:
“Yet might thy note have entertain'd
“And sooth'd my bosom's woe.
“And kept from pining death:
“My roof had sav'd from breezes chill,
“Which stopp'd thy tuneful breath.
“With negligence unkind
“The bird whose sweet, whose social lay
“Oft cheer'd my lonely mind.
“Nor strew'd with crumbs the ground?
“That so thy wants had been supply'd,
“And thou a shelter found.
“Was all my narrow heart
“My own misfortunes fill'd my mind—
“My red-breast had no part.
“For I, alas! I find,
“Thy thoughtless cruelty have caught,
“And thy too selfish mind.
“Like me, by thee is slain:
“Yet thou hast heard his song full oft,
“And prais'd his gentle strain.
“'Twas when my fair was kind;
“Ere she in cities lov'd to dwell—
“She'd then a gentle mind:
“Had whiten'd o'er the ground,
“And ev'ry stream and lake was froze,
“Each rill in fetters bound,
“My humble board around,
“While Phebe, seated on my knee,
“Bestrew'd with crumbs the ground.
“And, lured by usage bland,
“More bold, he near, and nearer drew,
“And fed from out her hand.
“And stretch'd, and plum'd his wing,
“Then swell'd his throat with all his might,
“His sweetest strain to sing.
‘Full well thy notes repay.
‘Who would not for thy wants prepare,
‘To hear thy dulcet lay?
‘Thy manners mild must be,
‘Who hadst the soft alluring art
‘To make this bird so free.’
“I stopp'd her with a kiss:
“Ah never more must I enjoy
“Such soft, heart-thrilling bliss!
“Her gentle Damon scorns;
“And can this feeling breast deride,
“For one whom lace adorns.
“Was never open set
“That red-breasts from the scatter'd floor
“The wanted crumbs might get;
“By hunger render'd bold,
“Would seize him, with oppression rude,
“And liberty withhold;
“And mourn his absent mate;
“His wings to droop, his head decline,
“And meet a timeless fate.
“No sympathy refines,
“Nor pities those with want opprest,
“While he in state reclines;—
“Ah Phebe, cruel maid!
“For such, with gaudy pride adorn'd,
“Is Damon's peace betray'd?
“Unless you lov'd the same?
“For ah! thy praise, so seeming kind,
“Has fann'd the tender flame.
“Unless the theme you lov'd?
“For sympathy grew doubly strong
“When you its force approv'd.
“Thou art no more the same.
“The town, with all its gay parade,
“Has deaden'd feeling's claim.
“But ev'ry virtue fades—
“Each virtue that so brightly shone
“Within these peaceful shades:
“And bosom free from guile;
“And modesty, with bashful gear,
“And blushing cheek the while.
“And truth, devoid of art;
“And constancy, with calmness blest;
“And sweet content of heart.
“And chastity has sold:—
“For her as chaste we ne'er can prize
“Who sells her charms for gold.
“And oft with tears shalt rue,
“To grief and woe thou wert betray'd
“When first thou prov'dst untrue.
“And grandeur's gaudy life,
“Not long the voice of love can drown,
“Or chace domestic strife.
“Thy beauty soon shall cloy;
“For love inspir'd by outward charms
“Possession will destroy.
“When grandeur's charms shall fade,
“Then shalt thou wish thy humbler choice—
“My cottage and my glade.
“Must, pining, droop forlorn,
“And nought my drooping heart shall cheer
“At even, noon, or dawn.
“Who cheer'dst my heart so oft,
“Wouldst mitigate my anguish now
“With plaintive warblings soft.
“That rent thy little breast,
“While wand'ring o'er the snowy plains,
“With cold and want opprest?
“Thou sought'st my cottage door;
“In hopes those scatter'd crumbs to share
“Thou shar'dst so oft before.
“In hopes to reach my ear;
“Repeating ev'ry tender note
“I wont with smiles to hear.
“And while the bleak winds blew,
“Thou cam'st my sheltering roof to seek,
“As thou wert wont to do.
“Perhaps with drooping head,
“Perch'd on the threshold, pierc'd with pain,
“Thou mourn'dst thy guardian fled;
“All stiffen'd on the snow,
“No friendly care to bring relief,
“Thy bosom ceas'd to glow.
“Shall cheer thy Damon's woe;
“No more, alas! thy liquid note
“In grateful thanks shall flow.
“I'll heave for thee a sigh;
“For thee, at silent eve forlorn,
“A tear shall fill my eye.
“And miss thy tender song.—
“But sure, unless my mind deceive,
“I shall not miss them long:
“My spirits inly faint.—
“My bird, thou shalt to Phebe go,
“And of my end acquaint.”
And wash'd with many a tear;
And enter'd, whelm'd with love and ruth,
His cottage lone and drear.
To frame a ditty neat.
Then did he all his thoughts impart
In roundelay full sweet.
Which scarcely might be read,
So blotted were with tears the same,
Adown his cheek which sped.
“For ever and for aye.
“The heart thy faithless love betray'd
“Is melting fast away.
“As this his bird so dear.
“Death soon his troubled heart shall free
“From all its pangs severe.
“Shall Damon's sorrows hide,
“This last small favour let me crave—
“Nor be the boon denied:
“Let this poor Red-breast lay;
“And let, to all who pass the glade,
“The mournful stanza say:
“Is laid a hapless swain;
“A tenant of this peaceful gloom;
“By love untimely slain.
“So often cheer'd his mind,
“Now moulders by his side away,
“For lack of whom he pin'd.
“For fatal is his dart.
“Learn hence ye maids: nor faithless prove,
“Nor slight the constant heart.”
Her heart was pierc'd with grief;
And soon to Damon's cot she fled,
To give his woes relief.
For Damon was no more.
Then did she loud her grief proclaim,
And her false heart deplore.
She mourn'd her foolish pride,
The while her tears the ground did lave;
She groan'd full oft and sigh'd;
She tore her flowing hair.
Her looks, her actions all confest
Delirium and despair.
With mingled tears and sighs,
Till, stretch'd upon her Damon's grave,
Death seal'd at length her eyes.
In time came flocking round.
They sung their sad funereal strains,
And laid her in the ground.
With flow'rs of ivy strew'd.
Then thus the hoary Thenot sigh'd,
With wisdom much endu'd:
“Will on the maiden light,
“Whoe'er for av'rice, pride, and show
“Would break her virgin plight.
“Would fond affection quell;
“The strong impression, soon or late,
“These tyrants will repel.
“His empire he'll regain,
“And wound with bitter pangs the breast
“Which dar'd his sway disdain.”
In an Oratorio, the name of which I have now forgot, are the following lines:
Is the pride of human wit;—
The shadow of a shade.
II. Vol. II.
A DRAMATIC POEM, FOUNDED ON FACTS, RECORDED IN THE REPORTS OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY.
- Sophia.
- Albert, her Father.
- Monimia, her Mother.
- Edmund.
- Roldan, the Seducer of Sophia.
- Chorus of Albert's Neighbours, Messenger, Medical Assistant, &c.
Dramatis Personæ.
Time, about six Hours.
The Outline of this Story will be found by those who consult the Reports of the Humane Society for the Year 1784. Case 481. Page 110.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
Albert, Sophia.Albert.
Thou darling comfort of my woeful age!
Why hang of late the humid gems of grief
So frequent trembling on thy pale-grown cheek;
Like morning dews wherewith Aurora bathes
The vestal bosom of the paler rose?
Why dost thou fly of late the social joys
My hearth paternal, and my smiling bow'r
Were wont to boast? That smiling bow'r, Sophia,
(The wild luxuriance of whose woodbine sprays
Now, long neglected, needs thy tender care,
To check the wand'ring tendrils, raise from earth
The infant shoots, and teach the jas'mine sprays
To mingle with the smiling eglantine.
Of woods impervious to the mid-day sun.
The solemn fall of waters down the steep,
The gurgling riv'let, murmuring as it flows,
The piteous wailings of the nightingale,
And the sad cooings of the widow'd dove,
Now seem alone possessed of charms for thee.
Slowly thou wanderest to the limpid brook,
Whose winding course among the antic roots
Of yonder ivy'd oaks obstructed mourns.
There have I mark'd thee, (for I careful oft
Pursu'd, with anxious love, thy wand'ring feet)
With sigh-swoln bosom, and with moisten'd eye,
Couch'd on the verdant sod, the flow'rets pluck;
And with a look so grave, as tho' thy mind
Knew not the childish conduct of thy hand,
Scatter the vegetative beauties o'er
The gliding surface of the dimpled stream.
Whose ivy'd trunk athwart the streamlet lays,
Thyself extend, and, dropping many a tear,
With widening circles print the troubled stream.
Sophia.
Let not this musing fancy, tho' at times
It may assume black Melancholy's garb,
Disturb the peace of my dear father's mind.
Albert.
This antic mood at first I heeded not:
For youth I know its musing moments hath.
Nay, some there are, and those of sprightly cast,
Who, in the sportive hey-day of their bloods,
Prefer, at times, by solitary brook,
Or shade umbrageous, prudently to woo
The mournful pow'r of contemplation sage,
To all the joys of pastime's jocund reign.
Sophia.
Oh my lov'd father, (whom not ties of blood
So much endear as rev'rence for thy virtues)
Think that whatsoe'er of grief's resemblance
The mind which virtue fills, and sense refines,
Feels more of pleasure and substantial joy
In cool Reflection's sober haunts recluse,
Than in the bow'r where revelry abounds,
And jest, and vacant laughter shake the roof.
Albert.
'Tis wisely spoken. Yet, my gentle girl!
Thou hast indulg'd this mournful mood too far,
And almost waken'd in the doating breast
Of a fond sire who only lives in thee,
A painful doubt, that in thy tender heart
Some grief was deeply rooted. Oh, Sophia!
Since my dear boy, my Edmund, from these arms
By cold Misfortune's hand was forc'd away,
To seek new stores upon that ruthless sea
Whose greedy jaws soon swallow'd up the bark
Where rested all the treasure of our hopes—
But cease the sad remembrance! cease the tale!
The tender subject has, I see, provok'd
The floods of grief adown thy cheek to flow—
And my own soul is rushing to my eyes.
Oh, Sir! that dear, lov'd name within my breast
Wakes the remembrance of the woeful day
When first the dismal story pierc'd our ears
Of the wreck'd vessel, and my drowned brother;
And pained Memory, with her magic key,
Unlocks the floods of grief, and drowns my soul.
Albert.
Peace to his much lov'd ashes! Rest his soul
In everlasting peace! while we below
Drain without murmuring life's remaining cup.
Sophia.
Heav'n to my father make its remnant sweet!
Albert.
Look on these hoary locks, this wrinkled brow,
And this plain garb of homely russet hue.
Once in my form were strength and beauty seen,
And silken grandeur cloth'd my youthful limbs:
Like a young oak, the forest's rising pride,
But when decay approach'd, the fatal blast
Of swift misfortune, like the lightning's gleam,
Seer'd all my cheerful verdure. Now alas!
I, in myself nor life nor comfort have.
Thy charms, Sophia,—thy unsullied worth
(Like mantling ivy to the leafless trunk)
Give the sole comfort to my cheerless age:
In thee I smile, I flourish, and I live;
And should some envious chance thy verdure blight,
Alone I stand, deserted, and distressed,
To ev'ry joy, to ev'ry comfort lost.
Let not the pictures of desponding age
(Too often prone to look for distant woes,
And dwell on fancied evils) chill thy breast.
Sophia.
I needs must weep, to think thy joys depend
On such a frail foundation. Oh my sire!
To such transcendent virtue, heav'n methinks
Should deal its bounties with a larger hand.
Tax not, my child, the just decrees of God!
Know that whate'er his providence ordains
Is for our good; tho' oft our headstrong wills
Defeat his kind intentions, and pervert
His proferr'd boon to an unwilling curse.
Sophia.
Thy just rebuke, my father, speaks at once
The piety and wisdom of thy mind.
But heav'n's paternal goodness sure'll forgive
The rash arraignment of its high decrees
Which filial love extorted from my lips.
Albert.
'Tis true, of all our rich possessions stripp'd,
Here in a humble solitude we live.
But what of that? Still thro' our azure veins
The ennobled blood of our high ancestry
Flows undefil'd by folly or by guilt.
And tho' perhaps to narrow-minded pride
We shine less awful, to enlighten'd souls
Our lowly station gives us double worth.
No tinsel ornament, to set it off;
But in its native lustre still the same,
Sparkles as brightly in the trampled dust
As on the golden circle of a crown.
Which our proud ancestry could ever boast,
Still, still remains, and in thy tender charge—
I need not tell thee 'tis a spotless name.
Our friendly cares have tutor'd and refin'd:
These shall to day our humble banquet share.
In celebration of thy natal hour,
Our roof, Sophia, shall with joy resound:
With harmless joy that leaves no sting behind.
SCENE II.
Sophia,solus. [After a pause.]
“And should some envious chance thy verdure blight,
“To ev'ry joy to ev'ry comfort lost.”
Launch thy destroying lightnings at this head.
Oh let me die, ere yet my shame be known!
That name, he deems so spotless, and so pure,
Shall soon be branded with a harlot's shame.
Oh Roldan! Roldan! wherefore didst thou thus
My peace destroy, and then to branded Scorn,
To Grief, to Anguish yield me up a prey?
Declare the long-expected season past
When the dear traitor promis'd to be here.
Alas the while! how is he alter'd now!
The time has been when, with impatient step,
And mind distract with thousand hopes and fears,
He, full an hour before the appointed clock,
Would to the spot repair, and chide the sun,
Whose envious chariot, he would swear, stood still,
To intercept the season of delight.
Which skirt on either side yon narrow walk,
Methinks I hear—'Tis so. My Roldan comes.
With which Impatience us'd to aid his feet?—
Alas! this coldness doubles ev'ry pang.
Oh anguish! cruel Roldan! Oh despair!
[Leans in a disconsolate attitude against the scene.]
SCENE III.
Sophia, Roldan.Roldan.
In tears, Sophia, wilt thou still defile
The gentle lustre of thy matchless charms
With such unpleasant vices? Grief and Care
At once are odious, in their foolish selves,
And mar the lovely workmanship of heav'n.
Sophia.
Oh Roldan, if these tears, these silly crimes,
Offend thy sight, 'tis in thy pow'r alone
To dry my cheek, and terminate my guilt.
Roldan,
(aside.)
But I have steel'd my soul by thy advice,
And should be happy thy commands to hear:
But brief, I pray, for I am hence engag'd.
Sophia.
There was a time, Oh Roldan! well thou know'st,
When no engagement could have drawn away
Or Roldan, or a thought of Roldan's mind,
While the now slighted, the forlorn Sophia
Would deign her converse. Yet my Roldan say,
How am I alter'd? Has this hapless face—
Where thou wert wont to swear the rival flow'rs
(The factious blooms of York and Lancaster)
Fought o'er again their long disputed right,
And strove for mastery with such lovely grace
As made Rebellion seem the child of heav'n—
Say, has it lost its wonted vermile blush?
Oh think, dear youth! the tears, which love of thee
Has caus'd so oft to lave this pale-grown cheek,
Have damp'd the fires of youth and cheerful health.
The tender languish thou wert wont to praise,
Now reigns perhaps no longer in these eyes.
Alas! if now dim sadness there pervades,
Which dulls their once-lov'd azure.
Roldan.
You wrong yourself. I mean not to dispraise
The matchless beauty of the fair Sophia.
But, to the purpose of this invitation.
Sophia.
Freeze on my tongue the purpose of my mind.
(By love of thee, and thoughtless youth betray'd)
Drew me unheedful from strict Honour's shore,
How many joys encircled me around:
How many comforts in my bosom reign'd.
But now where are they?—
When all the secret of our love's reveal'd—
What then must be the lost Sophia's lot?
O think thou see'st me, by my father curs'd,
Deserted by the venerable dame
Whose tender paps my infant food supply'd,
Driv'n to distraction, with a frantic hand
And—Oh! where roves my madd'ning fancy now?
Justice will surely prompt thy tender heart
To a poor, hapless female to restore
The peace and honour you have robb'd her of.
Roldan.
I have no time, Sophia, now to talk
Upon so stale a subject. So farewel.
(Going.)
Sophia.
Yet stay, my Roldan—dear barbarian! stay.
Oh hear me yet. Thus prostrate at thy feet,
(A suppliant now to one whose docile form
Once thought no posture meek enough to shew
The humble ardour of his boasted love)
The poor distress'd Sophia lowly begs
Thou yet wilt pity an unhappy sire,
The social pleasures of whose cheerful board
Thou hast so oft with seeming friendship shar'd.
Roldan,
(aside.)
The lovely syren clings around my heart;
I soon should melt to pity.
Nor waste such dulcet sounds in bootless pray'rs.
Sophia.
Not for myself I beg: my conscious soul
Rests in such firm security that thou
(If God's commands are to his creatures law)
Art in the eye of Reason, and of Heav'n,
In strictest truth my husband, that I'd scorn
To stoop so lowly for a worldly name
Which thy inhuman bosom had refus'd.
But oh my parents!—Think, Oh Roldan, think
Thou see'st my father, by Affliction stung,
Sink down dishonour'd to a timeless grave;
While a poor mother, feeble and forlorn,
Pursues, with broken heart, his hapless shade.
Roldan.
Fair damsel cease; nor waste thy words in vain.
Think'st thou that I, for all the humid pearls
Which thy fair eyes so copiously can show'r,
Which Fortune offers.
Sophia.
Oh you oft have sworn
That you preferr'd the poor Sophia's love
To all the affluent gewgaws of a court.
Roldan.
When thus I swore, I swore but what I thought:
'Twas then the dream of love. But, lady, thanks;
The vision's charm thy kind indulgence broke;
And now I plainly see, that love's a toy,
Too light to be preferr'd to honour, wealth,
And grandeur. So farewel.
Sophia.
Inhuman! stay.
Recal to mind, I had a brother once,
Tho' buried now beneath the whelming wave,
To whom thy youthful heart appear'd conjoin'd
By sacred Friendship's adamantine chains.
Wilt thou then stain thy Edmund's memory thus?
Pardon me, Madam; but I mean to act
As I suppose that haughty brother would,
Were he alive to hear Sophia's tale.
Farewel, for ever.
SCENE IV.
Sophia; Chorus.Chorus.
Did you mark, my friends,
How the false wretch the weeping fair-one spurn'd?
Alas the while! to jest and sportive glee
Our neighbour bade us welcome; but I fear
To grief and anguish will his joys be turn'd.
Sophia,
(not seeing them.)
From breathing curses on his perjur'd soul?
Why do I not upon the lightnings call
To blast his impious head? Oh me, my heart!
Spite of his cruelty, and perjur'd crimes,
Still, still I find the dear destroyer reigns
Sole lord and monarch of this foolish breast.
Say, black Despair, hast thou no pathless wild;
No forest to the cheerful eye of day
Impervious, where dark Horror reigns alone,
And where no single ray, no feeble beam
E'er interrupts the terrors of thy sway?
There would I fly, and from the world conceal
My shame and woes. Alas! my hapless sire!
My tender mother too! Ah, break my heart!
Chorus.
Say, neighbours, shall I soothe with comfort's voice
This child of Misery? Or shall we stand,
Yet unobserved, and let the hapless fair
Give, unrestrain'd, her bitter sorrows vent?
But see again she rears her woful head,
And to heav'n's high tribunal lifts her eyes,
With tears envelop'd. Pretty soul! alas!
Hard is his heart who could such tears resist.
Now see, with what a frantic attitude,
With what a glare of madness in her eye,
She to the thickest of the wood retires.
Let us not follow; for such heavy griefs
Need much of Solitude's composing calm,
The healing balm of Comfort's soothing lore.
SCENE V.
Chorus.STROPHE I.
Oh Solitude, ordain'd to beThe nurse of thought, and Reason's friend,
How many virtues join in thee!
How many rare endowments blend!
By thee the philosophic mind,
O Science! tow'ring on thy wing,
And leaving Error's train behind,
And Prejudice, and Custom blind,
Has dar'd of awful truths sublime to sing.
ANTISTROPHE I.
Oh Solitude! by heav'n design'dReflection's sober pow'r to wake;
To soften the obdurate mind,
And Vice's firm fix'd throne to shake!
How often has the ribald lewd,
With trembling soul, Conviction view'd,
And loth'd the path so long pursu'd,
And weeping own'd Contrition's pious pow'r!
EPODE I.
Then comes Repentance, cloth'd in sable stole,And with her leads fair Peace, and Virtue bright,
Who gently soothe the agonizing soul,
And chacing Guilt's tempestuous night,
The bosom cheer with heav'nly light;
And fair Religion fills the breast with pure, serene delight.
STROPHE II.
Oh Solitude! by heav'n endow'dWith pow'r to lull the stormy train
Of passions, furious, wild, or proud,
And bow them all to Reason's reign!
How oft Revenge his bloody spite
Has thrown away, and quench'd his brand,
When, riding on the wings of Night,
(All active bustle put to flight)
Thou hover'dst whispering o'er with influence bland!
ANTISTROPHE II.
Oh Solitude! by heav'n endu'dWith pow'r to soothe the stormy breast,
By Grief, Despair, or Anguish rude,
Or fickle Fortune's frown opprest!
Whose lenient pow'r can charm the heart,
Can stop Affliction's bitter tear;
And, by thy shame-concealing art,
Can lessen Disappointment's smart,
And blunt Ingratitude's fell dart severe.
EPODE II.
Oh! if beside some gurgling runnel laid,Beneath the pendant willow's weeping sprays,
Or in some grotto's more sequester'd shade
The poor forlorn Sophia stays,
While on her cheek keen Anguish preys,
Each torturing fancy, nymph divine! from her sad breast erase.
ACT II.
[SCENE I.]
Chorus; Albert.Chorus.
Behold, my friends, with pleasure in his looks,
Where our good, venerable host approaches;
Vigorous in age. Alas! how soon those locks,
Which deck with hoary dignity his brow,
Torn by his wretched hands, shall strew the earth!
Into whose bowels he, with broken heart,
Will soon I fear descend.
Albert.
How now, my friends!
What sunk in sullen and desponding thought!
Does this our once glad mansion yield no cheer
To rouse the sluggard sparks of sprightly glee
Within your drooping bosoms?
Chorus.
Wretched man!
What can this mean?
Chorus.
Oh man, to misery born!
Albert.
Almighty Pow'r! confounded and amaz'd
I stand. Oh friends, relieve my tortur'd mind!
Has any sad calamity befall'n
My aged wife? or she, the tender maid,
Whose dawning virtues are the only joy,
The only comfort of my wintry years?
Chorus.
The daughter whom you mention, if aright
These aged eyes discern, now bends this way.
SCENE II.
Albert; Chorus; Sophia.Albert.
What can this mean? Those loose, dishevell'd locks,
Those antic braided flow'rets, and those eyes
With varying passions, on the traceless void,
Are tokens strong of a disorder'd mind.
How now, Sophia!
Sophia.
Said'st thou not, my friend,
Roldan, my love, would instantly be here,
To end my woes, my honour to restore,
And snatch my soul from Shame? See, see, how gay,
And yet how simple is my bridal dress?
Do not these red and purple flow'rets smile,
Among their verdant foliage, doubly sweet
Upon this vestal robe?—But ah! I fear
Roldan, my love, is false, and will not come.
They say Possession damps the flames of Love.
And, now I think me, he's grown cool of late.—
Oh I'm undone for ever.
(Weeps.)
Albert.
Out, alas!
Where does Conjecture lead? Alas, Sophia!
Dost thou not know thy father?
Oh forgive!
My wilder'd fancy, by this briny show'r
Now almost back to Reason's rule reclaim'd,
Perceives its wild mistake.
Albert.
But speak, my child;
For on the rack of doubt thy rambling words
Have stretch'd my tortur'd soul—Of Roldan what?
Thou hast not, surely, dar'd to plunge thy sire,
Thy hoary mother, and thy spotless race,
Thyself, and all into the pit obscene
Of Guilt and Shame.
Sophia,
(aside.)
Now am I curs'd indeed.
Oh break my heart!
Albert.
Ha! dost thou tremble, wretch?
And does the harlot blood forsake thy lip?
Oh guilt! guilt! guilt!—Thou stigma to my blood!
Oh be more gentle! See, thy harsh rebuke
Has chac'd the fainting spirit from her lip;
And deadly Terror seals her hapless eyes.
Albert.
Oh that these pale-grown lids had long been seal'd
For ever!
Chorus.
Oh be calm! Thy child revives.
Sophia.
Oh me! my sire, disarm thy bending brow;
And pity thy poor, wretched, injur'd child,
Whom Love and Treachery at once have spoil'd
Of peace and honour.
Albert.
Torture! Say no more.
Let loose my hand, lest I should dash thee off,
And bruise thy wanton form to—
Oh have mercy!
Yet, yet oh hear!
Albert.
No, not a word, by heav'n!
Hence, from my sight, and never see me more.
Chorus.
Rash man, forbear! Cast not thy hapless child,
More by Misfortune than by Guilt betray'd,
To public Shame and Misery a prey.
Sophia.
Let not a hapless wretch, whose feeling heart
(Too much to sensibility attun'd)
Owes all its woes to Tenderness and Love,
Now fail within a parent's breast to wake
The soft emotions of relenting grief;
By the excess of which alone she fell.
Like thine, been barr'd to Pity's tearful plaint,
Could I, like thee, have turn'd a careless ear
And moving arts of prostrate Tenderness,
I had not fall'n—I had not now become
Thus, in sad turn, a supplicant myself.
Oh then, if Pity has not fled to heav'n,
And left this sublunary world for e'er,
Chace this obdurate vengeance from thy mind,
And let Compassion soothe the rankling wounds
Compassion caus'd.
Albert.
Vile strumpet! hence, be gone.
Sophia.
My father! Oh, in pity—
Albert.
If thou but let me hear one accent more,
Or tarry longer in my blasted sight,
I'll breathe such curses on thy hated head—
I made so lately of a spotless name!
SCENE III.
Albert; Chorus.Chorus.
See, with what feeble and distracted steps
The wretched offspring of thy tender loves
Slowly withdraws. Ah yet thy rage restrain;
And let me back recal the trembling wretch:
For sure enough of anguish must she feel
From the base treachery of a perjur'd lover,
Without the sad addition of thy hate.
Albert.
Oh cursed Fortune! Is it come to this?
Is this the fruit of all my tender hopes?
Is this the end of all my boasted joys?
Is this—Oh wanton! murderess of my fame!
Curs'd be my hoary locks, for they no more
Shall claim respect and reverence from the crowd.
Curs'd be the hour that gave the harlot birth!
And curs'd be Roldan!—damned, impious fiend!
Oh that I had the treacherous villain here!
Old as I am, and feeble with my woes,
For crows to feed on, and for flies to taint.
Chorus.
Oh calm these boisterous passions! Ill befit
The frantic bellowings of ungovern'd Rage
With those white locks. List then to Reason's voice,
And calm the raging tempest of thy ire.
Albert.
He who has always sail'd on glassy seas
May mock the storm-toss'd sailor for his fears.
Chorus.
The prudent sailor, in the worst of storms,
Leaves not his bark to mercy of the waves,
Ply then the compass of unbiass'd Right;
And where that points thee steer by Reason's helm.
This would assur'dly teach thee to restore
Thy wretched daughter once more to thy love.
Albert.
Shall the ungrateful strumpet blast my sight.
Has she not turn'd the sole surviving hope,
The only comfort of my hapless age,
To grief and anguish? Oh ye cruel pow'rs!
Is this the meed of all my tender care?
Were all my sage instructions then too weak
To guard her honour? Was it, say, for this,
That from the earliest birth of infant thought
I careful strove her tender mind to form?
Pouring the prudent counsels of my soul,
With ev'ry soft, insinuating art,
Which youth is ever pleas'd with, in her ear!
How has she oft with seeming rapture stood,
And mark'd, attentive, each instructive tale.
Then with the sweetest blandishments of love
Which infant fondness to a parent e'er
Could offer, would she pay my tender care;
Hang on my arm, and fondly kiss those lips
Whose honied lore she said her heart refin'd,
Lifted her soul to Virtue, and her breast
From ev'ry narrow sentiment sublim'd.
And now, when flattering Fancy painted all
The wish'd for virtues budding in her mind,—
Deform the scene, blast all my tender hopes,
And mar the promis'd harvest. Base Sophia!
Bane of my soul! polluter of my blood!
Never, oh never will I view her more.—
Oh hapless wretch! where shall I comfort find?
Where, where are Hope and Consolation flown?
SCENE IV.
Chorus.
Canst cast away thy lost, thy injur'd child,
A prey to Want, to Anguish, and Despair.
For, in my thought, more guilty is the sire
Who thus abandons his deluded child
Than is the youth whose passion was her bane.
To impious actions e'en the worthiest minds,
And makes us deaf to Reason and to Truth.
STROPHE I.
Oh Rage! of all the fiends of hellWho rule the wretched mortal's mind,
Most stubborn, inconsistent, blind!
How curs'd are they
Who own thy sway?
How doubly curs'd the wretched thralls
On whom thy prompted vengeance falls!
ANTISTROPHE I.
'Tis thou, who, doubly furious madeBy lofty Pride's imperious flame,
Hast hoary Albert's soul betray'd
To barbarous Guilt and public Shame.
Oh wretched child!
By Passion wild
Excluded from the shores of Peace;
Where shall thy growing sorrows cease?
EPODE I.
Oh Pity, on whose cheek divine,Like gems, the trembling dew-drops shine;
Whose humid lustre soothes the heart
Impierc'd by keen Misfortune's dart;
Chace from the furious Albert's mind
Each passion, and each thought unkind,
And let his fierce resentment quickly die.
STROPHE II.
Yes, Pity, as the furious train,Who prowling hunt their midnight prey,
Retreating shun the peopled plain,
When fair Aurora's humid ray
Benignly gilds
The cheerful fields;
So, where thy mournful beauty shines,
Resentment flies, and Rage resigns.
ANTISTROPHE II.
Oh! if at some fair virgin's ear,Who, coyly cruel, slights the swain,
Nor answers to his love sincere,
Thou weeping pleadest, not in vain;
Forsake a while
The tender toil;
And oh! exert thy gentlest art
To soften Albert's cruel heart.
EPODE II.
Or if, some forfeit life to spare,You now, with soft, persuasive pray'r,
With sigh-swoln breast and loosen'd zone,
And 'shevell'd locks approach the throne;
Oh hither haste! thy care forego—
Thy needless care, for Brunswick's breast,
Already with each virtue blest,
Spontaneous melts at real woe.
No need of Pity's melting pray'r,
For George and Mercy are the same:
And Envy must herself proclaim,
“Compassion's not more prone to plead than he is prone to spare!”
ACT III.
[SCENE I.]
Chorus; Roldan.Chorus.
Neighbours, is not yon same, with folded arms,
With head low bent, and pace dejected, slow,
And intermitted, the inhuman wretch
Whose selfish lust the heavy sorrows caus'd,
Beneath whose weight the child of Albert bends
Distracted? 'Tis the same. The graceful locks,
In curls Hesperient negligently dress'd,
The bloomy peach which ripens on his cheek,
The graceful limbs, and brow, where manly Grace
Commanding sits, I can remember well.
Roldan.
To cast her off to Misery and Shame?
But must I, barbarous! to Injustice add
The unmanly insult of a mean reproach?—
Reproach for what?—For confidence in me.
Be Lewson curst, and curst the prudent lore
A weeping maid, disconsolate, and fair,
In humble robes of spotless white array'd,
Among the winding lab'rinths of this wood
Unguarded stray?
Chorus.
Mean'st thou the hapless child
Of hoary Albert, who yon mansion owns?
Roldan.
The same.
Chorus.
Driv'n from her sire, with curses loud,
Some short time since, distracted and forlorn,
The wretched outcast left the spot we tread.
Roldan.
And whither went she?
Chorus.
Where a frantic mind,
Thy treacherous cruelty, and a father's rage
I have no power to guess.
Roldan.
Distracting thought!
What if the wretched fair, to madness stung,
Should perpetrate what she did more than hint!
Chorus.
Tell me, base libertine! dost thou suppose
That the hot vengeance of th'Almighty Pow'r
(Whose potent word the forked lightning forms,
And sends it hissing at the guilty head)
Will sleep for ever o'er thy impious crimes?
Roldan.
Oh me!
Chorus.
Thou guilty wretch! who, with pretended love,
Didst win the heart of the deluded fair,
And, for a short-liv'd transport, plunge her down
At once to Shame, and Guilt—perhaps to Death—
The worst of deaths—to suicide.
Alas!
Now glares my guilt in all its proper hues!
Yet let us hope—.
SCENE II.
Roldan; Chorus; Messenger.Messenger.
Oh horror! Oh my friends!
Sophia!
Roldan.
Ha!
Messenger.
The sweet Sophia! She,
The loveliest flow'r of all Salopia's plains!—
Roldan.
Speak. What of her? Oh torture! Oh my fears!
Messenger.
She's dead! she's dead!
Roldan.
Oh God!
Where? where? and how?
Messenger.
By me accompanied, the forest rang'd,
To seek, and bring her back, we found the fair
Suspended to a bough; a cruel cord—
His breathless child.
Chorus.
This instant fly to where,
Beside the hill, Pharmacinus resides:
The pupil he of sage Humanicus,
'Tis like the hapless female may restore.
SCENE III.
Roldan; Chorus.Albert, with the body in his arms.
Roldan.
Oh agony! Oh horror! Sweet Sophia!
Oh let me—.
Monster hence! nor howling thus
Disturb the torpor of my dumb despair.
Roldan.
Oh kill me! kill me!
Albert.
My heart's too full of anguish; I've no time
For vengeance now. Th'Almighty settle 'counts
'Tween thee and me.
Alas the sad effects of haughty Rage!
See, in my aged arms, the mighty curse,
The deadly fruit of ill-advised Ire,—
Of guilty Ire, which kin with nearest kin
At variance sets, and the paternal hand
Bathes in the heart's blood of his dear-lov'd child.
Not by thyself, but by thy father slain.
Chorus.
Oh grief of heart! now dost thou see, too late,
The just resentment of offended Heav'n.
Oh torture! anguish! Groaning, yes, I feel
GOD in his anger (on my furious head
Heaping his pond'rous vengeance) weighs me down.
Oh poignant thoughts of Horror and Remorse!
Oh scorpions gender'd of ill-grounded Wrath!
Oh grief of heart! Stript of my only joy!—
Alas, the anguish of a wretched man!
Chorus.
When she, the wretched partner of thy bed,
Shall view her breathless, and self-murder'd child;
How will her agonies thy pangs encrease?
Albert.
Oh Death, grim tyrant! thou hast swallow'd up
The dearest treasure of my bankrupt heart:
Then, in compassion, ope thy friendly port,
And let this shatter'd, storm-toss'd vessel in.
Chorus.
But bear thy seeming lifeless daughter hence,
And on a couch, her head with pillows rear'd,
For one hard by, who, by th'instruction sage
Of good Humanicus, has haply learn'd
The life-restoring art—an art long time
To Pharmacy unknown; till, of late years,
Philanthropy, of Christian virtues first,
Some generous sons of Æsculapius urg'd
To institute, that honour of their tribe,
That glory of the happy age which gave
Such worthies and such worthy schemes a birth,
The bless'd HUMANE SOCIETY, design'd
To snatch the frantic suicide from hell,
As he seem'd rushing thro' its inmost gates;
To warm once more the breast which whelming tides,
Which cold intense, or suffocating fumes,
Or vivid lightning's desolating flash
Had robb'd of vital functions. Should I tell
The wond'rous triumphs of Resuscitation,
Thou'dst think I dealt in legends far more wild
Than Monmouth, or than Baker ever wrote.
The wish'd assistance here.
Hopeless, and sad,
I will obey. Oh that the shaft of Death
Would pierce my cruel heart; for I, alas!
Never, no never shall, I fear, behold
These lov'd, these beauteous eyes unclos'd again.
SCENE IV.
Roldan; Chorus.Chorus.
Rise from the earth, thou poor, distracted wretch!
While I the comfort-giving words of Hope
Pour in thy frantic ear.
Roldan.
No, here, for ever, on the earth I'll sit,
Tearing the locks from this detested head,
And weeping till these guilty eyes, dissolv'd
Themselves to tears, no longer—Oh Despair!—
—What was I saying?—Whither rove my thoughts?
Clos'd are thy eyes, and livid are thy lips.—
Till warmth and animation shall return.
Chorus.
Why hold'st thou converse with the senseless earth? The Messenger and Medical Assistant cross the stage.
Skilful Pharmacinus, beneath that roof
The hapless female lays. O enter quick;
And Heav'n thy efforts crown with kind success.
Roldan.
Alas! no ray of Hope illumes my soul.
Oh! is there none whose hand compassionate
Will plunge a poignard in this aching heart?
For I, a wretch in sorrow overwhelm'd,
Loath the bright glories of the splendid sun.
Chorus.
Take comfort, wretched man! resign not Hope.
Roldan.
Talk not of Hope or Comfort, 'tis in vain:
Despair's cold gripe my aching heart benumbs.
Close on me, earth, for I am now no more.
Chorus.
Wilt thou not suffer Hope's soft, soothing voice
Thy anguish to suspend?
Roldan.
There is no hope.
Let this black day of horrors and of guilt
Close the short period of my wretched life—
Wretched thro' sin. Oh strike me, vengeful Heav'n,
Nor let the setting sun behold my woes.
Chorus.
Hear, wretched youth, and learn from thence to hope,
What wonders the resuscitating art
Has oft perform'd.
Roldan.
Sophia! oh Sophia!
Monster that I am! whither shall I turn?
Heav'n on all sides is up in arms against me.
Open and receive me.
(Throws himself along on the ground.)
Chorus.
A guilty mind
Has render'd him to Consolation deaf.
Yet let us soothe him with such sounds as may
Most tend to 'waken Hope and chace Despair.
Relate the youth whose frost-suspended life
On Thames's peopled strand was late restor'd.
Semichorus.
Let not Despair possess thy soul: but mark
The triumphs of Resuscitation's arts.
Ere yet the feeble, distant sun
His second monthly course had run,
A friendless boy, whom cruel Fate
Compell'd with early toil and late
To ply on wintry tides the cheerless oar,
Sunk from his seat of vital pow'rs forlore.
Full bleak the frigid Erus blew;
The chilling fleeces gleaming flew,
And scarcely could the clouded eye
The ice-clogg'd stream from the white shore descry;
Thus, till the distant port was gain'd,
Unaided the poor youth remain'd.
When now the boat arriv'd at last;
The tempest bleak, and stormy blast,
Had curv'd the stiffen'd breathless form.
No pulses beat; no part was warm:
The marbled corse no sign of life retain'd.
Clench'd at each ear a shrivell'd hand remain'd,
Nor all the strength which man could lend
The arms contraction could unbend.
Entire the sanguine blush was fled;
A livid pale each limb o'erspread;
Each limb appear'd irremediably dead.
On the left breast the chin reclin'd,
There seem'd indissolubly join'd.
Lock'd was the jaw; the features all
Distorted, shrivell'd, shrunk, and small.
The neck's contracted muscles felt like stone;
His open eyes with no bright lustre shone;
But, in the head retreated far,
The lessen'd balls were fix'd in horrid stare.
And on the frost-contracted frame
Each art resuscitating tried,
The corse, at length, with warmth supplied,
Groan'd death-like; while by slow degrees
Spasms the rousing body seize.
With shrieks full loud, and bitter moan,
And limbs in writhes convulsive thrown,
Expressive of excessive pains,
Life her wonted seat regains.
Chorus.
Say, thou despairing wretch! who, prostrate still,
Seem'st to be digging for thyself a grave,
Reap'st thou no comfortable hope from this?
Roldan.
Or deep emersion in the 'whelming wave,
May lock the soul within the cold-grown corpse,
And, life suspended, still keep Death at bay,
This cannot give in other cases hope.
These hated locks; sad emblems of my hopes,
Are torn and scatter'd from my wretched soul.
Chorus.
Patient submit to Heav'n's supreme decree.
Meanwhile once more we'll try to quell Despair
Within thy wretched bosom. Thou shalt learn
There is no case, how desperate so e'er,
That is not gilded with a ray of Hope.
STROPHE
Despair! of Guilt thou frantic child,In storms and dreadful lightnings got
By fierce Disease, Affliction wild,
Or keen Misfortune's swift embrace,
And in tempestuous whirlwinds born.
How wretched is his lot
Who trembling views thy frantic face,
And owns thy sway with heart forlorn!
Oh Roldan! lift thy pale, desponding head,
And hear how Heav'n's high grace before,
When ev'ry sign of life was fled,
Has deign'd lost Animation to restore.
ANTISTROPHE.
Returning from the banquet gay,As late a son of Bacchus came,
The forked lightnings cross'd his way;
The awful thunders roll'd on high,
The tempest rag'd on ev'ry side.
And now the gleaming flame
Did round his black'ning temples fly,
And stretch'd him senseless on the ground.
Trembling, aghast, his pale companions stood:
No succour, no relief was near.
The breathless corse, with curdled blood,
They, homeward bearing, drew with many a tear.
EPODE.
Yet even he, tho' many hours he laidEre could be got the wonted aid,
Was to his wond'ring friends restor'd:
The blest resuscitating art
The soul-secreting caves explor'd,
Vibrates again the panting heart.
And now, renew'd in second life,
Restor'd to a delighted wife,
An aged mother and a wrinkled sire,
To tender relatives, and loving friends,
Among the social tribe he blends.
But to that Power thy fervent pray'rs express,
Who crowns the toils of Charity with such unhop'd success.
This instance of restoring animation to a body struck with lightning was related by Dr. Hawes, in his last course of lectures on the subject of Suspended Animation. Imparted to me by a Pupil.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
Roldan; Chorus; Edmund.Edmund.
Nor burst, thro' eagerness, thy swelling side!—
It will not be; the transports unrestrain'd,
Now as I nearer to the spot approach,
Grow doubly great. Oh agony of joy!
Oh bliss too great! Now, after four long years
Of tedious absence, thus to be restor'd
To a lov'd father and a doting mother.
Thou dear-lov'd playmate of my infant years—
My lovely sister! And my bosom friend,
My Roldan too! him shall I see once more.
What joy to dart impatient to their arms,
Ris'n as it were from death! My dear Sophia!
How will thy tender bosom bound like mine!
How will thy lovely eyes with transport shine!
How will delight run thrilling thro' each vein,
Thy long-lost brother once more to thy breast!
Roldan.
Oh wretch! wretch! wretch!
Edmund.
Alas! what moan is that?
Almighty Pow'r! he bears my Roldan's form;—
But Heav'n preserve him from such bitter woe!
For ah! his griefs would blight my budding joys.
Poor wretch! who, stretch'd all frantic on the ground,
Breath'st forth thy dolours to the public day,
What art thou? What thy plaint? Reveal and—Ha!
Roldan.
Shield! shield me, Heav'n! Have then my horrid crimes,
From the deep bottom of the briny tide,
Recall'd the ghost of my much injur'd friend?
Edmund.
What mean'st thou, Roldan?
Yes; I know thou com'st
To scourge and torture the detested wretch
Who dar'd, in violation of all laws
Of Friendship, and of Truth, of God, and man,
Despoil the sweet Sophia, hapless fair!
Of the rich treasure of her virgin fame;
And—
Edmund.
Ha! her virgin fame? Infernal villain!—
But thou shalt find in me no lifeless ghost,
Sent from the dreary mansions of the grave
To scare thy scoundrel soul with idle shrieks;
But one, oh monster! still possess'd of strength
To send thy howling soul to shades below;
There, in the ever-flaming depths of hell,
To mix with spirits of congenial stamp,
And clank thy burning chains, oh thou detested!—
With such devils as thyself.—Oh torture!
My sister, oh!
Chorus.
Alas! fresh woes remain.
Say'st thou fresh woes? What in the book of Fate
Can still so black be found as to increase
The more than Stygian horrors of my mind?
Roldan.
Oh wretch accurst, and impious as I am!
My cruel treatment drove the frantic fair
With desperate hand to terminate her woes.
Oh fatal cord!
Edmund.
My much-lov'd sister self-destroy'd? Alas!
Is this the fruit of all my springing hopes?
Do thus my transports end?
Plung'd, all uncall'd for, in the awful realms
Of dark Eternity? Oh horrid thought!
Oh my tormented soul!—And thou the cause?
What damned fiend could steel thy barb'rous breast
To such accursed deeds?—But words are wind;
And bosoms hard as thine are not empierc'd
With unsubstantial weapons: therefore rise,
In breasts like thine) oppose my injur'd arm:
For die thou shalt, or to his sister's ghost
Dispatch young Albert's.
Chorus.
Ah brave youth, forbear!
Roldan.
Restrain him not. Oh my dear, injur'd friend!
Let loose thy rage. Here prostrate at thy knees
I bare my bosom, and entreat thy arm
To expedite the blow. Yes, kill the wretch
Whose damned arts, and cruelty have robb'd
Thy fair, accomplish'd, tender, lovely sister,
Of peace, of virgin honour, and of life.
Chorus.
Ah youth, forbear! Sheathe, sheathe thy furious sword!
See'st not the tear repentant down his cheek
Enanguish'd rolls, and speaks a tortur'd mind?
The name of Christian, which I boast to bear,
By taking vengeance of a prostrate foe,
Whose keen contrition's in his conduct seen.
Wreck'd, and by cruel miracle preserv'd,
For four long years in distant climes I rov'd;
Long time a hapless vagabond, and poor;
Rent from the arms of ev'ry tender tie,
Of parents, sister, and of bosom friend,
Forlorn I griev'd. At length when sudden wealth
Had blest my toils, and winds and waves combin'd
To waft me rapid o'er the parting waves,—
Then when, of hope and expectation full,
I dart impatient to the much-lov'd arms
Of tender relatives, my cruel stars
Blast all my hopes, and plunge me headlong down
To the black abyss of Despair. I find
The dearest source of all my promis'd bliss
Destroy'd and ruin'd by a villain's hand;—
I find that villain in the bosom friend
Whose lov'd idea, thro' each distant clime,
I bore about, delighted, in my heart.
Have patience, noble youth, a while, and hear.—
Edmund.
What should I hear? What is't thou canst relate?
Canst thou describe with what a frantic look,
What tones of anguish, and what actions wild,
My wretched father tore the silver hairs,
With palsied hand, from off his hoary head?
Canst thou the shrieking agonies relate
Wherewith my mother view'd her breathless child?
This would'st thou tell me? This? For nothing sure
But sounds of horror and relations dire
Shall e'er again assail these wretched ears!
Chorus.
No, I would give thee comfort; give thee hope.
Edmund.
Away! What comfort can there be for me?
Oh sweet Sophia! dear, dear murder'd sister!—
But I will go, and (breathless as she is)
Strain her, distracted, to my sorrowing breast.
Not for the world. Thou must not enter now.
Tarry and hear: tho' late a breathless corpse
Thy sister was, yet is there hope she may,
In full possession of each vital pow'r,
Be to thy arms restor'd.
Edmund.
Ah, how! declare.
Chorus.
Of the HUMANE SOCIETY hast thou
As yet not heard? whose honours and rewards
Have to perfection brought the godlike art
Of rousing into life the dormant sparks
Of animation, and the latent fire
Rekindling with resuscitating breath
Of Medical Benevolence.
Edmund.
Before
The British coast I left, I oft have heard
Had urg'd the students of the healing art.
Chorus.
Now to perfection rais'd, the Institution,
Beneath the guardian patronage and care
Of our benevolent and pious King,
(Whose philanthropic principles, and zeal
For patriot works in lustre far exceed
The brightest jewels in the radiant wreath
That binds his royal brow) diffuses wide
The streams of its benevolence. The while
The noble Stamford's care and warm support,
(Assisted by the generous, the humane,
And worthy Beauchamp, Willoughby de Brook,
Pusey, and Andrews, valiant Oglethorpe,
And many others, whom the ardent glow
Of pure Benevolence has thus inspir'd)
Shelters its progress, and its pow'rs extends.
Extends the useful knowledge of the means
By which the great Resuscitating Art
May be improv'd, and by Perfection crown'd.
Edmund.
This could I joy to hear, if grief of heart,
And poignant anguish for my private woes,
Each thought did not absorb. But what of this?
Chorus.
E'en now a pupil of this godlike art,
By good Humanicus instructed well
In all the useful knowledge of the science,
Essays thy sister's spirit to recal
From the dread portals of Eternity.
Edmund.
Assist him, Heav'n, and all ye heav'nly pow'rs!
Roldan.
And if a wretch so plung'd in guilt may dare
To Heav'n's bright throne uplift his suppliant eyes,
Oh crown with swift success the pious toil.
But wherefore stand I here, when I, perhaps,
Might to my dear-lov'd sister aid impart?
I'll haste and—.
Chorus.
—Hold! forbear! Dost thou not think
Thy unexpected presence must retard
Their needful care? Or say, can it be fit,
Should thy poor sister yet again respire,
Thou, who so long wert number'd with the dead,
Shouldst meet her op'ning eyes?
Edmund.
I yield, my friend.
But tell me: Dost thou think there's ground to hope?
Chorus.
As, if not vouch'd by witnesses of worth,
Would rank them with the idle tales of old
Of witchcraft and of magic, can suffice
As a foundation for so bold a hope,
Then will I say we ought not to despair.
Whom cold and poverty impell'd to sleep
Within a potter's smokehouse, by the fumes
Were suffocated, and each vital pow'r,
Suspended, pent within their senseless breasts.
These did the Art Humane to life restore.
And, stranger still, when o'er the silver Trent
Destructive Winter spread her icy arms,
A little female, whom the semblance smooth
Beguil'd, with step advent'rous cross the stream
To bend her course, sunk thro', and by the tide
Swept far away, for half a dismal hour
Whelm'd in the aqueous element remain'd.
Yet even she was by the wonted means
To life restor'd, and to her frantic friends.
Of those who from apparent death (produc'd
By suffocation of unwholesome fumes,
By cord, by poison, or by other means)
Have rescued been, and to their friends restor'd,
Revolving Seasons to th'unfinish'd tale
Would pass all list'ning by.
Edmund.
Thy soothing words
On my benighted heart, reviving, pour
The cheerful lustre of fair dawning hope.
Roldan.
For me, a wretch! so far has coward Guilt
My soul unmann'd, I do not dare to hope.
Chorus.
STROPHE I.
Wretched mortals! would ye knowJoy in weal, relief in woe,
Still to Virtue's sacred law
All your thoughts and actions square;
Then shall never black Despair
Your souls pervade with gloomy awe.
ANTISTROPHE I.
Hope—a virgin, chaste and pure,Never, never will endure
To leave her blest ethereal seat,
To dwell with monsters guilt-defil'd;
But she loves, with influence mild,
To gild fair Virtue's sad retreat.
STROPHE II.
Thus in Edmund's guiltless mindDark Despondence cannot find
Gloomy space where she may rest;
Nor will Hope, with lightsome train,
Golden-tressed goddess! deign
To 'lumine Roldan's guilty breast.
ANTISTROPHE II.
Potent Pow'r, who rul'st on high!Lord of earth, of sea, and sky!
Who disposest by thy word
All events, our griefs remove;
Nor let our hopes vain phantoms prove.
Oh be the fair to life restor'd!
EPODE.
And oh! with ev'ry joy those worthies crown,Whom Christian Charity did first inspire
To fan in clay-cold breasts the dormant fire!
And kindly show'r each blessing down
On ev'ry pious head,
Who from the seeming dead
Has snatch'd the wretch, whom deep Despair
Impell'd Life's half-spun thread to tear,
Or whom some unforeseen event
To Death's half-open'd portals sent!
Lord Beauchamp, Lord Willoughby de Brooke, the Honourable Philip Pusey, Sir Joseph Andrews, Baronet, General Oglethorpe, &c. Vice-Presidents.
Lord Beauchamp, Lord Willoughby de Brooke, the Honourable Philip Pusey, Sir Joseph Andrews, Baronet, General Oglethorpe, &c. Vice-Presidents.
Lord Beauchamp, Lord Willoughby de Brooke, the Honourable Philip Pusey, Sir Joseph Andrews, Baronet, General Oglethorpe, &c. Vice-Presidents.
Lord Beauchamp, Lord Willoughby de Brooke, the Honourable Philip Pusey, Sir Joseph Andrews, Baronet, General Oglethorpe, &c. Vice-Presidents.
Lord Beauchamp, Lord Willoughby de Brooke, the Honourable Philip Pusey, Sir Joseph Andrews, Baronet, General Oglethorpe, &c. Vice-Presidents.
This is, I fear, not the only instance in which I have failed to make these facts appear tolerably in a poetical dress; perhaps it is not possible so to do. But it was my particular wish, by instancing various cases, to shew the public that the Humane Society did not confine their benevolent efforts to apparent deaths occasioned by one kind of accident only.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Roldan; Edmund; Chorus.Edmund.
How long upon our eager hearts must Doubt
And keen Suspense with baneful influence prey?
Let me no longer on the rack of Doubt
Be stretch'd impatient; but to instant Joy
Exalt at once, or headlong to Despair
Precipitate me down.
Chorus.
Curb the wild passions of thy headstrong mind,
And humbly wait th'Omnipotent decree.
(With many an aged beech, and sapless elm,
Romantic, interspers'd) the foaming stream
Tumultuous rolls its way; and, as it rolls,
With its impatient wave, and sweeps away
Its verdant boundaries, and its bed deforms.
Such is, within the human breast, the stream
Of Petulance, which, scorning all restraint,
Impairs the bounds of Reason, and deforms
The heart it flows thro' with unruly force.
Edmund.
Hark! hear'st thou not some busy noise within?
'Tis so. The door uncloses. Oh my heart!
With what a strong convulsion does each throb
Against my breast resound! What news? what news?
Hope glances from thy eye.
SCENE II.
Roldan; Edmund; Chorus; Messenger.Messenger.
Sophia breathes.
Once more her eyes unclos'd, glad—.
Roldan.
—What say'st thou?
Did I thy accents rightly understand?
To tenfold fierceness all my present pangs,
The fond delusion frame? Lives the sweet fair?
Does lov'd Sophia live?
Messenger.
She does.
Edmund.
Oh Heav'n!
My heart, too full of joy, prevents my tongue
Its gratitude to speak.
Roldan.
And shall I yet
Call sweet Sophia mine? Gaze once again
Upon her blooming charms, and ardent clasp
Her panting bosom to my bounding heart?
Chorus.
Thou messenger of happy tidings, say,
How waken'd first the dormant spark of life?
Messenger.
Long ev'ry quick'ning method we essay'd
Ere the most feeble gleam of distant Hope
With keen incision the swoln vein unlock'd;
Two black coagulated drops alone
The orifice discharg'd. All hopeless we
Each art reanimating still applied,
While pale Despondence on each clouded brow
Disheartening sat. At length a feeble pulse,
Irregular and slow, Pharmacinus
Imagin'd he could feel. Inspir'd by Hope,
We doubled ev'ry effort, till in time
She faintly breath'd.
Edmund.
Oh sweeter sounds thy tale
Than the love carols of the matin lark
To the lorn ears of his night-sever'd mate.
Messenger.
And now the livid skin a purer hue
Began to wear; the while the trembling lids
Convulsions shook, as shake the misty clouds
On the green summit of some eastern hill,
Ere fair Aurora opes her radiant eyes
To glad the weeping plains with beaming light.
Auspicious moisture spread) her hand she mov'd.
And now her forehead glow'd; the coral blush
Chac'd from her trembling lips the inky dye.
The heart, once more, with slow vibration heaves;
The swelling sides distend; the pulses beat;
And the white panting bosom feebly swells.
Roldan.
Thou speakest transport to my list'ning soul!
Messenger.
Oh! had you seen her, when her languid eyes
Beam'd weeping forth between her opening lids;
As 'tween dispersing clouds the watry sun
Darts his enfeebled beams, while fertile show'rs
Fatten the vernal meadows, and restore
Their wonted beauty to the wither'd plains!
Such was her look, and such the kind effect
Her falling tears produc'd; for as they fell
Her fainted charms reviv'd, and to her mind
Her reas'ning pow'rs return'd.
Indulgent Heav'n!
Chorus.
These are the blessings, good Humanicus!
Thy pious industry on Britain show'rs!
'Tis not for nought that with incessant toil
And medical exertions thou hast sought
Afflicting pangs to change to springing joys,
And Grief's black stole, to Pleasure's varied robe.
The gloomy torch, the sad funereal pile
Design'd to light, thro' thee has oft been chang'd
To flames Hymeneal. Generous sage, proceed!
Exulting, Britain owns with grateful joy
How much to thy unwearied application
(Which the HUMANE SOCIETY has brought
From small beginnings to its present height)
She stands indebted. She with truth declares
That he whose efforts save a subject's life,
Deserves more honour than the hardy chief
The blood-stain'd laurel reaps. What then dost thou
(Oh good in private as in public life!)
Of grateful Britain claim!
Edmund.
On him and all
The pious founders of this Institution,
Be Heav'n's choice blessings show'r'd!
Chorus.
Its Royal Patron, or Supporter kind
Without reward regarded.
STROPHE.
Benevolence, thou pow'r divine!Whose radiant charms so brightly shine,
That not the thick'ning clouds impure
Of Guilt, who stalks with giant stride,
With Levity, and thoughtless Pride
Attendant on each wanton side,
Thy glorious influence can obscure!
Whatever thoughtless follies rage,
Yet thou, bright cherub! still, with influence bland,
Gild'st with thy smiles divine this favour'd land.
ANTISTROPHE.
Lo Charity! how many a shrineTo thee is rear'd, thou pow'r divine!
If Lust laments her life of shame,—
Compell'd by Anguish to deplore
The hour she launch'd from Honour's shore,
Thou open throw'st th'inviting door,
And dost the wand'ring fair reclaim.
For ev'ry various kind of woe
Thy gracious streams abundant flow.
Thy stewards sit at rich Augusta's gate
T'invite Distress to share a happier fate!
EPODE.
But far conspicuous o'er the restOf Charity's resplendent works,
That Institution shines confest,
Whose generous efforts to the human breast
The long suspended life restore;
Within the senseless corse supprest.
Oh Albion! thy thrice favour'd shore
May Heav'n's peculiar favour boast:
For say, can any foreign coast
Such charities extensive show?
Or did one kingdom ever know,
And in one happy age,
So many worthies truly great,
So prompt to stem Affliction's rage,
To blunt the shafts of frowning Fate.—
Sophia,
(within.)
Oh let me taste again the vernal gale.
Roldan.
Ah cease, my friends! for hark what sweeter sounds
Warble harmonious in my ravish'd ear,
And bear my raptur'd soul aloft to Heav'n.
Sophia,
(within.)
Oh lead me friends, I pray, where the sweet flow
Of unobstructed breezes may regale
The feeble spirit fluttering in my breast.
Lo! this way comes thy sister. Youth, retire.
Till she of thy arrival shall be warn'd,
Prudence forbids the wish'd for interview.
I am credibly informed that several females whom the cruelty of our sex have driven to attempt the crime of suicide, have not only been restored to life by the exertions of the Humane Society, but have been honourably united to the objects of their affections.
SCENE III.
Roldan; Messenger; Chorus; Sophia; Albert; Monimia; Medical Assistant.Monimia.
Oh my dear child! and do these aged eyes,
Once more with doting fondness gazing o'er
Thy animated limbs, admire the glow
Of matchless beauty which pervades thy form?
Albert.
My dear Sophia! my soul's better part!
And shall I yet, yet once again attend
With silent rapture to thy tuneful tongue?
Shall I once more admire th'enchanting flow
Of wisdom and of softness, sweetly join'd
In unison by thy attractive tongue?
(at a distance.)
Oh cruel Fate! must I thus gaze aloof,
Nor dare to be partaker of their joys?
Roldan,
(kneeling)
Oh thou dear injur'd fair-one! at thy feet
A wretch, who dares not to thy injur'd face
Uplift his guilty eyes, submissive begs
Thy pardon and thy pity.
Sophia.
Roldan rise,
Nor by that posture to my mind recal
Those fatal moments I must blush to think of.
Oh leave me, leave me!
Roldan.
Ah! in mercy yet,
If thou wouldst not to desperation drive
A poor repentant wretch, Sophia hear.
Sophia.
Oh my poor drooping heart! What wouldst thou have?
Thy pardon, sweet Sophia!
Sophia.
I could not,
If in my nature I were so inclin'd,
Refuse my pardon to a suppliant now;
When I so lately at the hand of Heav'n
Such favours have receiv'd.
Roldan.
And wilt thou, then,
At Hymen's altar crown my life with joy?
Sophia.
No, Roldan; no. Can I suppose that thou,
Who couldst insult my weakness, wouldst not still
Of thy untimely triumph mind me oft?
What then but anguish could our union bring?
Roldan.
Oh never, never, by high Heav'n I swear—.
And all the sacred attributes of God,
Thy faithless vows already have blasphem'd.
Oh do not wake the memory of thy crimes,
By repetition of those sacred oaths
Which could not bind thy wavering heart before.
This conflict of contending passions shakes
My frame too much. Farewel!
Roldan.
Ah stay, Sophia!
Oh didst thou know the pangs which gnaw my breast!
And didst thou know with how sincere an ardour—
Sophia.
—Urge me not. I will not think so harshly,
As, that thou didst not from thy soul intend
Whate'er the ardour of thy early love
So frequent swore. But if thy changeling mind
Was so unstable once, what hold secure
Can I at present have? Therefore farewel.
My keen sensations of sincere remorse,
Will none, in pity, plead a wretch's cause?
And spend in bootless penitence my days?
Some silent, dark, sequester'd gloom I'll find,
Where lazy zephyrs thro' close woven sprays
Scarce whispering creep, nor with their feeble wings
Disturb the surface of the sleeping lake;
Where living thing as yet was never seen,
Save when the widow'd dove retir'd to mourn;
Where tread of foot ne'er press'd the unshorn grass,
Unless the spirits (if such things there are)
Which fill with troubled dreams the dormant brain,
Might there withdraw, to gather gloomy thoughts.
There will I ponder on Sophia's charms,
And sigh away my soul in pray'rs for her.
Thou'lt to my memory drop a tender tear,
And sigh a pray'r for my departed soul.
Sophia.
Oh Roldan!
Youth, behold the fair-one melts,
And soft consenting in her azure eyes
Appears to languish bland.
Roldan.
Oh my Sophia!
Can then thy heart, in pity to my woes,
Accept the incense of repentant sighs,
And melt compassionate at these my tears?
Sophia.
Alas! Sophia's heart was never form'd
To hear her Roldan sigh, and hear unmov'd.
Then, if indeed this hand can make thee bless'd,
Accept it. Well thou know'st my heart is thine.
Roldan.
Oh bliss too great!
Chorus.
Hear me, thou gentle fair,
And you, ye happy parents, Yet in store
There is increase of happiness.—Your son—.
Ha! What of him?
Chorus.
Oh fortify your hearts
With firm philosophy; for I shall tell
What else with joy your reason might o'erturn.
Your Edmund still survives.
Sophia.
Oh Heav'n!
Chorus.
And soon he will be here.
Edmund
comes forward.
Yes, here he is.
Oh my dear sister! fondling of my heart!
Do I then clasp thee in my arms once more
Alive and breathing, rescu'd from the grave?
Oh transport! oh delight!
(Embraces her.)
Sophia.
My brother, oh!
Edmund.
Oh my lov'd parents!
(Embrace.)
While with transports they,
Too great for utterance, weep their sudden joys,
Say does thy heart, Pharmacinus, not feel
A conscious glow of intellectual pleasure,
Beyond the vulgar joys of appetite?
Medical Assistant.
It does, my friend. But be it not forgot
That first to Heav'n, which warm'd the generous breasts
Of those who spread Resuscitation's art,
And next, to that society belongs
The grateful tribute of sincere applause.
Chorus.
'Tis spoken well. And ye, most happy friends!
Let not the pleasures of your future lives
Drive from your hearts the memory of this day;
But ever, with true gratitude inspir'd,
Confess the mercies which ye have receiv'd,
With several thousand fellow creatures more,
From Heav'n and the HUMANE SOCIETY.
Exeunt Omnes.
ELEGIES, PASTORALS, AND OTHER RURAL POEMS.
ELEGIES.
ELEGY I. The ROSE.
If from Reflection's pow'r not wholly clear,
Would from the banquet's noisy mirth depart,
To gurgling streams to lend a pensive ear;
(If trembling Conscience shrink not from the choice)
E'en Friendship's joys, or even Beauty's smile,
For silent Solitude's instructive voice.
Or Fancy revels in luxuriant pow'r,
Articulation in each rill we find,
And gather morals from each budding flow'r.
(In no embroider'd vestment proudly gay)
Which by the gaudy tulip sidelong grows,
The blushing blossom thus appears to say:
“Fix thy affections on intrinsic worth;
“Tho' other flow'rs more gaudy vestments own,
“No bud so sweet perfumes the teeming earth.
“From cankering age, and time, charm-blighting, free;
“My scent continues when my hue is lost.
“In me the emblem of fair Delia see.”
Yet ne'er was virgin form more sweetly fair:
In her combine each charm of mien and face.
No sweeter bud perfumes the vernal air!
And, like thy scent, sweet blossom, shall remain:
The hand of Time shall polish, and not harm
The wit that rivets Cupid's roseate chain.
ELEGY II. The INVALID.
Intemp'rate pulses all unequal beat;
And tho' my fainting lungs can scarce sustain
Their wonted task, oppress'd with inward heat.
Upon no river's cooling margin stray;
Nor seek refreshing shelter from the trees,
When bright Meridian darts his scorching ray.
Can all the water in the Naiad's urns
Efface the image of my dearest maid?
Or quench Love's flame that in my bosom burns?
My waining health, ah! how shall I regain?
Verse may have pow'r to draw Love's venom'd dart;
And musick's charms may ease this feverish pain.
Invoke her presence with a sprightly strain,
Till kindly she my bosom reinspire.—
Love mocks my toil, and says, “That toil were vain!”
She seeks the breasts that jolly pastimes fire.—
My heart, alas! can by experience tell,
'Tis only Delia's smiles can Health inspire.
Or with one distant hope relieve my care?
Why will she not my wretchedness beguile,
And banish, with responsive Love, Despair?
And deem an age in sighs and tears well past,
If Delia'll pity my long-during pain,
And pay my sufferings with her love at last.
And well contented I'll my course pursue:
The gleam of Hope shall 'luminate my way,
And bear me up Life's tedious journey thro'.
ELEGY III. DESPONDENCY.
Nor lop my orchard's boughs, nor prune my vine?
While, chok'd with weeds, my promis'd crops decay,
And with'ring flow'rs, thro' lack of tending, pine.
Or teach my lambs in verdant meads to roam;
But, quite neglectful of my pining flocks,
Within my dreary cottage sigh at home.
Gay Flora scorns to bless my slighted bow'r;
Ceres nor visits my uncultur'd land,
Nor feel my trees Pomona's fruitful pow'r.
Let happier youths those busy cares employ;
Love, hopeless Love, my cheerless bosom tears.—
Why must I live forlorn of ev'ry joy?
Oh chace this langour with a gentle smile!
Rough Labour's active life o'erjoy'd I'll prove,
If Delia'll share the guerdon of my toil.
When scorching Leo fries the gaping ground;
While, in some water'd vale, the bleating flocks
My Delia tends, by poplars shaded round.
Or frigid blasts Earth's hoary bosom freeze,
Myself both goats and fleecy flocks will tend,
At home while Delia tastes indulgent ease.
To delve the glebe, or do the oxen's toil;
If thou'lt but cheer my heart at my return,
And pay my labours with a gracious smile.
And gather faggots from the neighb'ring wood,
And, numb'd and cramp'd with cold, when back I come
Thy fond concern shall warm my frozen blood.
ELEGY IV. The MUSE.
No more I sing of shepherds' happy loves;
No more each blossom's virtues I rehearse,
Or cull gay wreath's in Fancy's fertile groves.
My woes appear in ev'ry drooping lay:
If other subjects for my verse I chuse,
A love-lorn sigh wafts ev'ry thought away.
On high Parnassus seek immortal fame:
In epic verse a lasting work prepare,
May place with Maro's my yet humble name!
Let sanguine War in all its horrors rage!
Cleave heav'n's scar'd vault, and drench the thirsty plain,
While spreading Discord thunders thro' the page.
Let valiant Henry's conquests be thy choice!
—The vain attempt is blasted by my woes:
Love breathes a sigh dispels the trumpet's voice.
With rosy wreaths luxuriant grapes I'll twine:
To Bacchus' praise my lyricks shall belong;
With Bacchus buxom Venus shall combine.
Let many a cup of mantling wine be quafft!—
—Ah vain essay! my spirits sink to earth:
Love drops a tear, and sours the wanton draught.
Still turn to thee, my anguish to inflame?
Why does my Muse still ruminate my woes,
Still paint thy charms, still dwell on Delia's name?
Why, when I wake, is Delia still my theme?—
Has not Despair the pow'r Desire to kill?
Or does presumptuous Hope still fan my flame?
Shall treasure up thy lov'd memorial still:
Tho' ev'ry tender line inflame my smart,
Thy virtuous charms the mournful page shall fill.
ELEGY V. The PERSON.
Come, with sweet smiles, and banish fell Despair!
Why wilt thou heedless view thy lover's smart?
Ah, why reject his tender, faithful pray'r?
Nor shine my eyes with wit's enliv'ning ray;
No curls Hesperient wanton in my neck,
Nor glossy lips the currant's hue display?
And no far-grazing cattle call me lord;
No numerous fleeces whiten o'er the land,
Nor hives luxuriant honied sweets afford?
And cheerful toil shall multiply my store:
For thee thro' storms I'd plow my dang'rous way,
Or delve in gloomy mines for sordid ore.
To chace the furious lion with my spear;
Or hunt hyænas 'neath the frigid sky,
The toil-bought guerdon would my Delia share.
Nor yet the plainness of my person scorn:
My ceaseless toil shall force a boon from Fate,
And cheerful health my person shall adorn.
ELEGY VI. The LARK.
(So cruel Love, capricious god! decrees)
Long mourns, neglected by the lovely dame,
And long, enanguish'd, seeks in vain to please.
The faultering accent, trembling on his tongue;
The bosom heaving with the painful sigh,
The head propended as he droops along:
(The faithful indicates of fervent love)
Disgust the fancy of the thoughtless fair,
And the preventions of his fortune prove.
(Who insincerely boasts bright Beauty's pow'r)
Oft bears the virgin's captive heart away,
And on her soft affections steals each hour.
Thoughts unimpassion'd point the happy way
T'improve each chance with brisk, assiduous care,
And the unguarded, flatter'd heart betray.
My fond affection, my respectful fears,
Perplex my fancy, and my judgment blind:
Confus'd, I tremble when my love appears.
Neglect each pleasing, softly soothing art;
With fruitless sighs, thus vainly seek relief,
And vainly strive to gain my Delia's heart.
With sensibility and sense adorn'd
In blest extreme, like Heav'n's peculiar care!)
You cause the grief for which your lover's scorn'd.
Think not my sadness speaks a sullen heart,
Or mournful words a peevish mind display:
I sink, alas! beneath Love's hopeless dart!
To bandy jocund laughter round the room?
What tho' I gaily chaunt no mirthful song;
But o'er my converse wear a sadd'ning gloom?
Emerging gaily from the laughing east;
As blithe and sportive as the frolic May,
With choral birds and gaudy flow'rets drest.
Thro' the blue welkin while he wont to rove,
With dulcet pipe would hail Aurora's rays
With hymns of gratitude, and songs of love.
His head he droops, and hangs his fainting wings:
His bosom pierc'd with dreary Discontent,
No more, alas! the mattin warbler sings.
Sink, inly fainting, in my love-lorn heart.
Give me but Hope, no lev'rock shall compare
With me, in gaiety or tuneful art.
And, while 'tis warbled by thy dulcet voice,
No feather'd tenant of the blooming spray
Shall with more perfect gratitude rejoice.
ELEGY VII. The CONSOLATION.
Sigh in soft verse, in vain, for love's return?
Did he, in vain, in softest strains deplore,
Condemn'd unpitied to a timeless urn?
Made all the charms of Tibullus his own?
And was his learning and his genius vain
To chace from Delia's brow th'obdurate frown
To woo my lovelier Delia to these arms,
With verse expressive of the heaving sigh,
Which speaks my pains and her transcendent charms?
To breathe in artful notes the love-lorn care.
To me no aid laborious science brought:
Love and the Muse my only tutors are!
Meonides for me ne'er tun'd his shell;
Anacreon, Sappho, ne'er my verse improv'd;
Nor he who knew the arts of love so well.
And, like my person, rude and unrefin'd:
More fit to seek some rustic damsel's heart,
Than woo fair Delia's all-accomplish'd mind.
In pensive silence I'll my pipe forego.—
Yet no, the Muse my drooping heart shall cheer,
And balmy verse shall lull the poignant woe.
Stole on my heart, and fir'd my youthful mind:
For verse can soothe whom Love and Fortune wrong,
And Passion's force in friendly fetters bind.
Nor my more cruel fair, their frowns abate;
Yet will I still retain a grateful mind,
Nor Heav'n accuse, nor murmur at my fate.
Pensive I stretch'd upon the verdant plain,
Me, yet a boy, the Muse would tutor oft,
And Love instruct and meliorate the strain.
ELEGY VIII. The EXECRATION.
TO A FRIEND.
When first I listen'd to her syren tongue!
Resign'd my bosom to her pleasing pow'r,
And by her tuneful influence was undone.
With wild, enthusiast ardour, all my heart!
Oh happier they whom torpid Dulness shades,
Who plodding ply some low mechanic art!
Untimely laid me, ere th'aspiring flame
Of ambient Fancy o'er me shining first,
Inspir'd and fill'd me with the love of fame!
Nor sensibility nor spirit knows!
Who, all joys to appetite confin'd,
With pity throbs not, nor refinement glows!
Oh years of bliss!—swift o'er my youthful head,
With rhimes uncouth, ambitious, I begun
To shew the flame which late so widely spread.
With mimick pencil or instructive book,
And to refining arts, e'en then, aspire;—
My sports neglected, and my mates forsook.
Tho' cold Misfortune chill'd my progress long,
And damp'd the ardour of my youthful breast,
Nought could destroy the sacred love of song.
Which prompts the soul to knowledge and to fame;
Which to refinement makes us still aspire,
Expands the heart, and doubles feeling's claim.
Or what is Science? Fame and Knowledge what?
That thus you throw soft peace and rest away,
And, for Opinion, blast your tranquil lot?
For Sensibility and Fame forego
Low-thoughted transports: be the bosom mine
That feels from Sympathy redoubled woe!
Tho' nights of sleepless care the wish attend!
And my warm'd fancy, oh ye Muses! crown,—
Tho' in unpitied want the vision end!
With me the page instructive to explore,
Unheedful of the midnight tolling bell,—
Tho' aching heads succeed the 'laborate lore!
From noisy Mirth and greedy Wealth estrang'd,
Ere all the feelings I so long have priz'd,
With Muse and Fancy, for such bliss be chang'd.
(And generous souls the choice must better suit)
A man, oppress'd with grief and misery,
Than the most happy, grov'ling, sensual brute.
The more of Science does the bosom fire;
We bear resemblance to the brutes the less,
And tow'ring rise in dignity the high'r.
ELEGY IX. TWELFTH DAY.
To Mrs. H.
Those cheerful days of innocence and mirth!)
I bless'd the wained sun's convivial rays
That gave this day of joyous pastime birth.
Where humour much, but more good-nature shin'd;
While joke and song the cheerful feast prolong'd
Far past the usual hour for rest assign'd.
Full oft incite to pastimes gay and bland;
Full oft himself revive the flagging joke,
And in the comrade loose the sire's command.
Of morals blameless, as of manners gay;
He scorn'd the stoick frown and tone severe,
And rather chose by love than fear to sway.
Of all our joys. Yet not within his tomb
Was bliss interr'd; for many a tender shoot
Sprung budding forth, and blush'd with hopeful bloom.
(Now flown perhaps to visit me no more).
The blazing faggot cheer'd the social train,
While Ease and Plenty show'r'd their lavish store.
And eager wrestled for our transient fate.
If I suppos'd gay Stella was the queen,
Eager I panted for the kingly state.
And thought no real Monarch was so blest:
This crown'd my transport; was my warmest wish:—
Love, now my torture, then was but my jest.
In mirth outshining all my childish peers,
With spirits, health, and fortune to befriend—
What sad reverse attends my ripening years!
And friendless solitude, my peace destroys;
And love, all hopeless, drives me to despair;
And hell-born Ate my sad heart annoys.
Ye social days of plenty, joy, and peace!
Say will ye hither, once again, repair?
Will e'er the frowns of adverse Fortune cease?
To my sick fancy paints a thousand ills:
Upholds her shadowy, woe depictur'd screen,
And thus her hope-destroying lore instils:
My playful cat, my only company,
Who seems to pity my dejected state,
And, purring, fondly sports upon my knee.
And doating think on lovely Delia's charms—
Those charms, alas! which never must be mine:
Ah how the teasing thought my heart alarms!
And sing in mournful verse my hapless plight,
The regal name my Delia may elect,
And some pert beau (the monarch of the night)
Imprints the kiss, his three-hours consort hails;—
Careless the balmy nectar'd breath he sips,
Nor knows how rare a flow'r his sense regales.
Some favour'd lover gains the peerless prize;
The pleasing kiss inflames their mutual fires,
And mutual pleasure melts in either's eyes.
Should sick Imagination add her store?
Ideal, blending with substantial strife,
Oppress the feeble wretch surcharg'd before?
Swell not with fancied woes my real grief,
Nor forge conceits to double ev'ry pain!—
But come, kind Hope, and bring my mind relief.
And I, who long have mourn'd her cruel spite,
In time her warm benevolence may feel:—
Aurora's rays succeed the darkest night.
ELEGY X. NEW YEAR'S NIGHT
The plaintive Moon displays her yellow face:
Her light diminish'd by the humid shrowd,
Which wimples o'er the wonted azure space.
Illume my window with a dappled light,
And, fix'd in sober thought, my eye surveys
The dun appearance of the cheerless night.
“Thou pensive bard, survey thy shadow'd fate!
“Yon low'ring sky with serious truth is wrought:
“Strong emblem, youth, of thy untoward state.
“No spot is cheer'd with azure's splendid hue,
“Yet sullen darkness no where is display'd:
“In this thy state of mind distinctly view.
“No cheerful friends, no nymphs of form divine
“Thy days consume, or cheer thy lonely nights;
“No rays of Fortune on thy efforts shine.
“Tho' sportive joys thy mind but rarely bless,
“Yet art thou not in black Despondence lost:
“Few feel the gloom of Melancholy less.
“Dispelling darkness, yet scarce yielding light,
“Shews how thy feeble hopes just faintly gleam,
“To keep thy soul from Fear's desponding night.”
Tolls forth the knell of a departed day!
Ah, who that hears the awful sound can tell
That he shall hear another toll'd away?
To hail with festal joy the new-born year,
Prolong the cheerful hour, and jocund yet
Push round the glass, while songs and pastimes cheer?
And waste in pensive thought the sleepless night,
Have hail'd this gay, this sportive season too,
The social harbinger of loud delight.
Gave wings to time, and roll'd the hours away;
While sportive cranks, and harmless gambols free
Were interspers'd with flash of Humour gay.
Thrice has return'd the time of sport and glee—
—But ah! in vain the circling times appear,
Revolving seasons bring no joys to me.
Alone, neglected and deserted pine;
No hours convivial they in revels share,
Where wit, where beauty, and where affluence shine.
This age of worldly prudence and of pride—
To court the humble, or the youth engage,
Who, saving Genius, has no wealth beside?
Repine I will not at my stars unkind,
But rather far my gratitude display
For inward wealth, which gilds my tranquil mind.
Does not gay Fancy bless my lonely hours?
Does not Content her soothing lore instil,
And Health come tripping from her roseate bow'rs?
He, independent, Fortune may despise:
Others their bliss from outward objects claim;
He, in his bosom bears the source of joys.
Ye painted flies, who glitter at the ball!
Ye feather'd fops, who vaunt in tinsel state!
Know I, vain things! am richer than ye all!
And all the stores thro' fertile Nilus sent,
Procure such rich enjoyment for the mind
As Muse, as Fancy, Health, and young Content?
ELEGY XI. The DEPARTED FRIEND.
That decorates the thorny road of life—
How oft Grief's worm the tender bud invades,
How oft 'tis blighted by Misfortune's strife!
Shrinks the young foliage of our budding hopes!
How oft the sudden hand of cruel Death
The sweetest branch of our enjoyment lops!
Still shall thy memory in my bosom live.
Thy virtues bloom in recollection there;
To emulate those virtues will I strive.
Each other comfort in my tender age;
In him it seem'd my losses to repay—
My sweet companion on life's toilsome stage!
O'erflowing fount of Sensibility!
To friends how true, to relatives how kind,
And how belov'd of ev'ry one was he!
Witness the mutual sorrows she return'd,
While both in tears of fond affection melt,
When he a sister's transient parting mourn'd!
I wish'd I could the cause of grief remove;
But vain that wish—I then resolv'd to try
With tuneful verse my Philip's breast to soothe.
For friendship's flame that glow'd within my breast
Inspir'd my thoughts, all artless as they were,
And thus the lay, well-meaning, I addrest:
“Tho' nor by Muse inspir'd, nor Grace refin'd,
“Which I, in loose alternate rhime rehearse,
“To soothe the sorrows of thy gentle mind.
“No boldly-splendid thoughts my theme refine,
“—Such as in Spenser's nobler page appear,
“Or Collins, in thy strains majestic shine?
“Or various praise of nervous, smooth, and clear.
“Enough my honour, all I wish and claim,
“If with my verse thy bosom I may cheer.
“The faithful dictates of an honest heart:
“Friendship alone inspir'd the fair design
“To thee, these soothing verses to impart.
“No need of tuneful Pope's energic art,
“To strike, with trembling hand, a humble lyre,
“And sing the genuine feelings of the heart.
“Oh think they flow from an uneasy heart:
“The voice of Anguish never can be clear,
“And Melancholy mars the tuneful art.
“'Mongst gay compeers no social hours I spend;
“But oft in silence shed the bitter tear,
“And darkling sighs full oft my bosom rend.
“And my sad breast inspires with soothing rhimes;
“And Fancy for a while my bosom cheers,
“With promis'd bliss and joy in future times.
“Thy friendly converse glads my drooping heart;
“Relieves my sorrows with the cheerful gleam
“Of gay delight, and blunts Misfortune's dart.
“So shall my Muse to comfort thee essay:
“Thus from the stream the flow'rets nurture find,
“And in return her verdant banks array.
“Thy heart for ev'ry social tie who form'd,
“The best of all terrestrial gifts hath giv'n,—
“A friend with feelings like thy own adorn'd.
“By ev'ry soft accomplishment refin'd;
“Who pays thy generous love with equal store,
“And in affections like as like in mind.
“In warm fraternal bonds combin'd with thee:
“To meet at home a friend so good, so kind:
“In thy fair sister all these charms to see.
“The pearly drops in moist succession fell;—
“No wonder that with fault'ring tongues ye speak,
“And blend with tears the bitter word, “Farewel.”
“How small's the distance that your love divides:
“No snow-crown'd Alps your neighb'ring dwellings part,
“No roaring oceans 'tween ye roll their tides.
“For by short absence love is but increas'd,
“And pleasure's sweeter after pain's annoy:
“Who ne'er knew trouble Heav'n but half has bless'd.
“In silence droops, of ev'ry joy forlorn;
“But with his voice makes vocal all the grove
“When his heart's gladden'd by her wish'd return.
“Rolls limpid on, and smoothly babbling glides,
“Till some rude crag obstructs the tranquil rill,
“And in two wand'ring brooks its course divides.
“Unbless'd they wander, shed sad, troubled tears,
“And mourn their parting in low murm'ring sounds,
“Till pitying nature their lamenting hears.
“Rushes delighted to the other's breast:
“Thus reunited, far more pleas'd they seem
“Than ere division's anxious cares opprest.
“Their breast reflecting nature's various dyes:
“Flocks, shrubs, and flow'rs, which earth or feeds or yields,
“There mix confus'dly with the tinctur'd skies.”
When—oh! how transient, how unstable's life!
How vain is hope! How unexpected ill,
Instead of promis'd peace, brings unthought strife!
My bleeding memory mourns the painful thought!
That friend, for whom my verse design'd relief,
By swift disease t'his early grave was brought.
Who now my sad reflections shall relieve?
Where shall my heart consoling friendship find?—
Misfortune's children all unpitied grieve!
Droops on the earth, the florist views with pain
His garden's glory fall'n, each method tries
With props to rear it, and with art sustain;
By raging Erus, in the dust lays prone,
No trav'ller thinks it his assistance worth,
But each indignant treads its blossoms down.
You kindly courted when the world grew coy;—
When bland civility was at an end,
And cold-grown kindred turn'd th'inverted eye.
Thou other Philip, in a softer frame!
What can the anguish of thy bosom soothe?
What pangs excessive must thy breast enflame!
When in short absence ye were doom'd to pine?
What floods of woe will now that channel seek,
Since thou for e'er thy Philip must resign?
Their beauteous heads upon the earth recline,
So thy sad beauties drooping shrink from view;—
Oh when once more shall comfort's sunbeams shine?
ELEGY XII. The SWALLOWS.
WHILE the author was, one summer's evening, sitting among the branches of a young, but antic-twisted oak, which hangs over a favourite and most romantic dell, (the scenery of which is equally heightened by the bubbling and unequal stream which runs through it, and by the corn-fields, precipices, dingles and bushes, trees, and flowers which adorn its winding brink, and add a beautiful and wild variety to the prospect) two swallows settled on the boughs of the same tree. The noise the first made before he was joined by his companion, together with the romantic scene, suggested to his mind the ideas he has endeavoured to convey in the following Elegy.
(Where Philomela's wont to build her bow'r)
Which wreathes fantastic o'er the babbling brook,
To mournful thought I'll dedicate an hour.
To her bright bosom takes the panting Sun;
Who journeys down, behind yon hill, in haste
Obtruding eyes of prying man to shun.
And with her pipe salute departing day;
Each feather'd songster baits his tired wing,
And calls his partlet to the wonted spray.
With wonted vespers make each meadow ring;
With sweets surcharg'd, which gaudy Flora yields,
The bee, soft murmuring, homeward bends his wing.
And, perching near me, from the distant spray
Thus seems her tim'rous partner to invite:
“Oh guide, my love! thy purple wing this way.
“It is no foe invades our peaceful bow'r;
“But Strephon 'tis, who scorns a bird to harm,
“But ever guards them with his utmost pow'r.
“Which thro' the winding dells meanders stray;
“For here the Muse his throbbing bosom fills,
“And Fairies drive his pensive thoughts away.
“Which shone reflecting mild Lucina's sheen;
“I stretch'd the wing, to bid my bow'r farewel,
“When strait before me stood the Fairy Queen.
‘Thy fluttering heart divest of needless fear:
‘By no unfeeling swain thou art espied:—
‘The friend and lover of our haunts is here.
‘To rob the stock-dove of her callow young;
‘Nor stole the eggs from out the linnet's bow'rs;
‘Nor cag'd the sky-lark for his dulcet song.
‘From damps protect him, and his sorrows soothe:
‘For ever they the love-lorn swain befriend,
‘And ever pity unrewarded truth.
‘Will, with no skilless toil, our haunts improve;
‘Encrease the murmurs of each babbling rill
‘With stone-built falls, and grots which fairies love.
‘For love his feeling bosom has refin'd;
‘To ev'ry tender passion added pow'r,
‘And wak'd each chord of pity in his mind.
‘Which harmonizes, humanizes life,
‘Should make the lover's inward bosom bleed!
‘Give peace to others, but to him give strife!
‘And with convulsions rend her tortur'd womb,
‘While the heat makes surrounding vallies gay,
‘And decorates them with each brighter bloom.
“Her mystic train she sought beside the stream,
“Where to the tinkling rill they sportive play,
“And bask and frolick in the yellow beam.
“Our trembling pinions from the wonted bow'r;
“But, side by side, we'll keep our tranquil place,
“And to delight him try our skilless pow'r.
“Nor can we match the tuneful linnet's throat,
“Yet our rude lays may mitigate his care,
“And tho' unskilful, friendly is our note.
PASTORALS.
ECLOGUE I. THE TEARS OF HOBBINOL.
To the Memory of Mr. PHILIP BONAFOUS.
In this eclogue the author is introduced under the name of Hobbinol, lamenting the death of his friend Lubin.
In bitter stour, and shent with doleful teen;
(Hobbin, the youth who whilom blithe and gay
As mattin lark or linnet on the spray,
Was wont to sing the jocund roundelay.)
Unheeded now upon the dewy grass
His bagpipe lay, and eke untun'd it was.
His tear-stain'd cheeks forlorn of youthly blood;
In ropy tangles hung his unkempt hair,
Like one whose heart's yclouded by despair.
Full many were the heavy singulphs sent
From his riv'n breast, in sorwe all ydrent.
All in this dreary guise enchanc'd to see,
And to him yeod to weet what deal of woe
Ycaus'd his bitter tears so fast to flow.
Why what's the hap? Why, Hobbinol, my lad!
Thee art bewitch'd I trow, or ganging mad.
I met thy sheep o'ersprinting yonder mead,
Where they have stray'd for lack of better heed.
Up shepherd, up, thy scatterlings restrain,
Ere pilfering lossels filch them from the plain.
Hobbinol.
Let blithsome swains of flocks take proper keep,
Here will I lay, and eke for ever weep.
Thou witless herd-groom! hast forlorn thy wits?
How ill thy plaining with this season fits?
For now light Zephyr ling'ring Spring awakes
From her long slumber, and behold she breaks
Thro' frigid nature; sham'd that Boreas rude
Should on her wonted reign so long obtrude:
A verdant blush enclothes her gladsome frame.
D'ofte dolour then, eke 'gin some joyous game:
Tune up thy jolly pipe, which now forlore
Lies all unheeded on the greensward floor;
Herry the buxom season, as 'tis meet,
With hymnials loud and lovelays gaily sweet.
Hobbinol.
Ah Cuddy! seek thee out some happier swain:
Of me thou seek'st for joysomness in vain.
But ill bestead is that unhappy bard
Blithe madrigals to sing, whom Fortune hard
Doth doom in bitter stour his days to spill;
Whose gladsome fancy anguish keen doth kill.
For roundels brag to unshent shepherds wend,
Whiletime the welkin I with dolours rend.
Makes lightsome nature with his jolly waine?
What boots it me, that Boreas, blust'ring bleak,
His reign foregoes for Zephyr bland and meek?
That gay Vertumnus spreads him o'er the meads,
And by the hand the bloomy Flora leads?
That Naids no more their frore-bound fountains mourn,
But pour in gambolment the crystal urn?
From the warm'd stream that sheen-scal'd fishes leap?
That browsing lambkins merry gambols keep?
That on each spray birds maken melody,
And cooing doves speak their felicity?
To make me mirth in vain the sun essays;
In vain 'mongst budding trees light Zephyr plays:
Phœbus ne warms, ne Zephyr glads my heart;
Despair's breeme winter works me baneful smart.
In vain embraved meads look fresh and gay,
While lambs and fishes bragly sport and play:
They nor my eyen delight, ne ease my care,
Forthy my heart's yclouded by despair.
In vain the Naids in silver murmurs flow,
Birds sootly sing, and doves enamour'd coo;
Their melody no joyaunce can impart,
Sorwe's harsh discord grateth in my heart.
The landscape's pleasaunce cannot make me glad;
Nor songs mine ear delight, ne flow'rs mine eye,
The stream's soote murmurs pass unheeded by.
Cuddy.
Thou witless groom! what means this moody care?
What glauncing eye, or love-bereaving air
Hath trapp'd thy heart in Cupid's wimble snare?
Cheer up thou fon, thy jolly bagpipe tune;
With mirth and glee thou'lt lose thy passion soon.
Hobbinol.
Ah Cuddy, Cuddy, you my plight misdeem;
My drearyment is heavier than you ween.
Not Love's light arrow, but Death's heavy dart,
Bestirs this mortal teen within my heart.
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
All joy I've lost, for I have lost my friend.
Oh Death! of Sin the greedy tyrant son!
As round the world for ravin thou dost run;
Could'st thou no wight to glut thy craving find
But him alone in whom at once combin'd
Each gifting rare of heart, and eke of mind?
Joy is no more, for I have lost my friend.
Ah life what art thou? Tenure of an hour!
Of joy how scant? how full of dolourous stour?
A brere, whereon, in spring, few blosmes appear,
But muchel noyous thorns thro' all the year.
Ah, woe's my heart! how rear my blossoms fade?
How scant they open'd, and how soon decay'd?
Just budded forth, and, as that were too much,
Like sensitives yshrink'd they from my touch.
One flow'ret only blossom'd sootly forth,
And that I dempt of sick a peerless worth,
That, tho' I saw each other hope decay'd,
I counted this a rich amendment made.
But wele away! 'tis nip'd by deablly frost:
The only pleasaunce of my life is lost.
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
All joy I've lost; for I have lost my friend.
My Lubin dearn! the glory of the plain,
Love of each nymph! delight of ev'ry swain!
Lubin (on whom befriending heav'n bestow'd
A pleasant fancy, curb'd by judgment good,
A heart to Virtue's good beheasts inclin'd,
By Sensibility's soft touch refin'd,)
Ah, cruel Death! why did'st my bliss destroy?
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
Joy is no more; for I have lost my friend.
Cuddy.
Is Lubin dead?—Ye birds that fill each spray
Your sonnets cease, and be no longer gay.
Ah, blent thy face, bright sun, in mirky tears;—
How ill thy sheen at sick a time appears?—
Surcease ye babbling rills, or as ye flow,
Contrive to sing of drearyment and woe.
Be hush'd, ye zephyrs, if ye n'ill inspire
With woeful dirges some Æolian lyre.
Lambkins no more your pleasant pastimes keep,
But pining learn of us to wail and weep.
Weep, weep ye swains! for peerless Lubin's dead,
And cause of joyaunce from the plain is fled.
Ye buckthorns cease your budding leaves to show;—
Let nothing thrive but cypress, sign of woe.
Let daffodils their golden semblance lack,
And eke the primrose dight in sooty black;
Let crocusses no various colours know,
But them b'dight in livery of woe.
Mourn, mourn ye sylvan scenes! for Lubin's dead.
Hobbinol.
Ah, me! each various object pains my heart;
Each wonted pastime wakes my dol'rous smart.
Farewel to books that wont to glad my mind;
No pleasaunce now in rural songs I find.
Yet, whilom, when I wont to pine and grieve,
Would Colin's lovelays eft my mind relieve;
But now no lovelays can my grief assuage:
My Lubin's form's depeinten on each page.
Each rustic lay, which erst with joy I read,
Now but reminds me that my friend is dead.
How eft his converse would my taste refine?
How eft explain the beauties of each line;
And with soote praise inspire me to rehearse
My artless lays, and copy Colin's verse?
But now farewel to pipe and artless lays;
For he is gone who wont my skill to praise.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend!
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
For there the image of my friend I view.
In dreary cot, or o'er embraved glennes,
Where'er I won still, still the tender scenes,
And eke blithe hours in friendly pleasaunce spent,
My woeful mind loves all to represent.
How eft times would we rise at early dawn,
Whiles glitterand dews besprint the humid lawn,
And to some rivers cooling marge ystray,
With pleasing talk aye glad'ning all the way:
Thus was I wont a double good to find,
The walk my health improv'd, his lore my mind.
But, ah! such pleasaunce I must ken ne more
Sithence with Lubin I each joy forlore.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
Farewel the joys of valley, grove, and spring,
Desporting lambkins, birds that sootly sing:
Ne more, ne more your vernal charms invite;
Ne more, alas! your merry makes delight.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
Farewel to rustic verse and music sweet,
Ne more the loves of shepherds I repeat:
Sithence he's dead for whom I wont to play.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Music is harsh; for we have lost our friend.
Yet hold, and let us stint our selfish tears;
For not our friendship in our grief appears:
Forthy, he 'as left this vale of dole below
For heav'nly realms, where never yet was woe.
Death's dart, that shent us with such sore annoy,
Exalted Lubin to sublimer joy.
Then stint ye impious tears, ne more descend;
Heav'n gain'd a cherub when we lost a friend.
ECLOGUE II. THE WEEPING LYRE.
In this eclogue the author is again introduced, under the character of Hobbinol, lamenting the death of Lubin; while a friend, under the name of Argol, is also introduced lamenting the death of Stella; by whom is meant a young lady who died about the same time.
Who 'neath a poplar sung their doleful strains.
Death, ugsome death! had both their joyaunce crost;
Hobbin his friend, his love had Argol lost.
And now, their daily rural business done,
Each one began his nightly task—to moan:
The silver moon, yshining o'er their heads,
Her glitterand beams upon the streamlet sheds,
Whose doleful murmurings o'er the pebbled ground
Invite the mourners by their plaintive sound.
And in the west did wained Phœbus' ray
Dapple with fainty red eve's dusky grey.
And with my sorwe's mingle eke thy tear?
Thou wilt I wot; tho' artless been my verse,
Thou'lt feel the tender subject I rehearse;
The tear adown thy manly cheek will steal—
Oh hide it not, for it becomes thee wele.
I'll mingle mine, and echo groan for groan,
Mourning thy loss whiles I waiment my own.
Each ones I pine, each ones at once I grieve;
Their memories both in Doric verse shall live.
Both I esteem'd, albe it is confest,
Lubin my friend was dearnest to my breast.
Albeit for him my heart is most forlorn,
Stella naith'less with unfeign'd dole I mourn;
And had ne Lubin drain'd the bitter tear,
My waiments sad had wetted Stella's bier.
The joy-lorn shepherds' mournful tales aread.
Argol, our flocks are in their cootes ypent,
And day's illum'ning waine in ocean blent;
The happier herd-grooms been all lull'd in sleep,
But we by sorwe kept awake to weep.
Better I trow we hail the sheen-clad moon
With woeful dirges, and our minstrels tune
To dreariment beside this murmuring stream
Than pining press the restless bed I deem.
Here set we down, our mutual teen rehearse:
For sorwe's oft reliev'd by mournful verse.
Argol.
Thy council, Hobbin, I arread is good:
Then let us here indulge the dreary mood.
I have a dirge, which ones erewhile I wrote,
Wherein my teen for Stella's death I note;
Thilk same I'll sing, and tune my sorweing tale
To the sad wailings of the nightingale.
Hobbinol.
And I last night, ystretch'd upon the ground,
Whiles pastime slept, and sadness reign'd around,
That murmuring flows these delved banks between,
Her voice to dole where Philomel attunes,
And mate-lorn doves yspill the night in moans,
To Lubin's praise compos'd a doleful verse:
The same if tears permit I will rehearse.
And eke I've made of maple ware a lyre,
Deftly attun'd with various sounding wire;
At top whereof's encarved a hollow shell;
From whence, like tears, adown the chordings well
Slow drops of water, and the whiles they flow
They give each note a sooter sound of woe.
Amuling this, mine Elegy I'll sing,
Touching with all my art each thrillant string.
Argol.
Eftsoons then Hobbinol begin thy tale,
And, after thee, I will my hap bewail.
Hobbinol.
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.
Ah woe is me! how mickle is the smart
The heart of Sensibility doth rend,
Our dearnest joyaunce lose, a bosom friend.
Nought to the feeling bosom been so dear
As the elected brother of the heart:
That dearnest blessing I enjoy'd while-ere,
But now bereaved am by Death's fell dart.
Ah, me! that dearnest friends so soon must part!
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.
Oh hailey flame! oh joyaunce most divine!
How eft profess'd? how scantly met on earth!
Thou wont to glad this drooping heart of mine.
But friendship's joysomness been now all o'er,
And ah! for aye with dearnest Lubin fled;
I'm doom'd to taste of joyaunce now no more,
But hang in pining dole my drooping head;
For social pastime is with Lubin dead.
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.
'Mongst blithesome louts ne more my time I'll spend;
Shall swell my eyne, and sighs my heart yrend.
Oh come, ye Muses, help me now to weep,
Help me to tell my Lubin's peerless worth.
Shall Lubin's virtues with his ashes sleep?
Sicker thilk gems been not of mould'ring earth:
Then letten verse ygive them second birth.
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.
And modell'd eke each movement of his soul;
And dulcet graces deftly did their part,
With lovely manners cloathing soote the whole:
Philanthropy, and eke her sister fair,
Hight Sensibility, the parent-queen
Of generous passions, eachones did repair
To dwell my Lubin's tender heart within.
But mean Self-love there ne'er found place I ween.
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.
And Justice, only to himself severe,
By Mercy made to other's failings blind;
And Prudence als, whose lorings all revere;
And Pity, from whose dawn-resembling eye
Distils for aye a teen-appeasing balm,
Before whose face all shents and dolours flee—
Of sick a mickle potence been her charm:
These virtues did and more his bosom warm.
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.
Free from all surquedry, and eke from pride;
And manly strength of philosophic mind
Shone in his lore, did o'er his tongue preside.
Then sicker all have cause to weep and wail,
And eke, like me, to hang in drearyment,
That death has wrought so soon my Lubin's bale,
So soon this lamp of virtue is yblent.
Ah me! with dark despair I'm overhent.
Here cease my lyre, here cease the plaintive strain,
'Tis past thy art his virtues to explain!
To paint such peerless worth in plaintive lays
In tears, alas! my Lubin's praise shall shine;
For all who konn'd him speak in tears his praise.
A sister's sorwes and a mother's moans,
Aread his praise as brother and as son.
His pheers deep sighs, his friends heart-rending groans
Aread how true in Friendship's race he run:
Ah me! a virtuous race too soon foredone.
Then cease my lyre, then cease thy plaintive strain;
Cease down the wires melodious tears to rain.
Then Argol 'gan his ditty to recite.
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Ah me! my heart is overhent with woe,
To think how thou wert ravish'd from my arms:
Sweet bud of beauty! ah how short thy date!
Must Death's fell worm devour thy youthly charms?
Descend ye tears, ye floods of sorwe flow!
Hath seiz'd his amorous torch to light the fun'ral pyre.
Sad Philomela, from the humid spray,
Thy trembling notes awhile prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge my love-lorn lay.
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Mourn, Venus, mourn thy earthly image dead;
And Love waiment thy daintiest darling lost;
Great been your woe, but mine been far more great:
How is each hope of tender pleasaunce crost!
Bright Pleasure's bow'r in fogs of anguish fled!
My saffron robe ychang'd to sable stole,
My madrigals to dirges turn'd, my glee to dole!
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes awhile prolong
To make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Ah woe's my heart! shall pleasure me no more:
That vermil'd cheek, b'dight with dimpled state
The rose and lily eke I did adore,
All, all, alas! are sunk in sad decay.
The flow'ry garlands cull'd to grace each brow
Must be ychang'd to wreaths of baneful cypress now.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes a while prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
The virgins meant to chaunt the amorous hymn,
To herryings soote to dance the heighdregue,
Must now their sportive merry-makes abate;
Must tear their chaplets on thy grave to strew;
Their sonnets chang'd to dirgeous waimentings,
Must d'off their snowy robes for weeds of woe;
Changing their wimble steps to traces sad and slow.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes a while prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
But oh my Stella! tho' Death's cruel dart
Hath snatch'd from me so rear thy bloomy form,
Thy virtues, all for utterance too great,
Which more than beauty's waste did thee adorn,
Shall live for aye depeincted on each heart
That kenn'd thy worth. Tho' ah! what wont to joy
Their minds, must now, alas! fulfil them with annoy.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
No more thy trembling notes prolong,
Here cease thy dolourous undersong,
Here ends my solemn dirge, my love-lorn lay:
For ah my grief is all for speech too great,
Nor can my feeble wit's device relate
My dolourous teen at Stella's timeless fate.
Till bright Aurora o'er the mountains sent
Her changeling beams (besprinting o'er the plain
With spangleous sheen) forerunning Phœbus waine.
Then rose the woeful swains to loose their sheep
From the pent folds, where they them nightly keep;
The whiles all heedy of their dreary dole
Adown each cheek the floods of sorwe roll.
RURAL POEMS.
A NOSEGAY.
Each meadow breath'd perfume,
In gaudiest flow'rs each hedge-briar drest,
Each hawthorn white with bloom,
The fairest flow'rs to cull,
And visited my gay alcove,
Each sweetest bud to pull.
To grace my fair-one's breast.
Then thus, as teeming Fancy taught,
Each flow'r its worth exprest—
Pourtrays the varying tale,
Can give each flow'r a voice whose dyes
Enrich the scented vale.
The ROSE.
O'er my healthy cheek's diffus'd!
Smell, ye nymphs, what sweet perfume
From my blushing mouth's produc'd!
Free exert their fresh'ning pow'r;
And the brooks that babbling flow
Nourish ev'ry smiling flow'r.
From all sulph'rous vapours clear;
Here Contentment ever strays;
Tranquil virtues flourish here.
Stately domes to render gay,
Soon my blushing charms would fade,
And my breathing sweets decay.
Quick to rural shades retire:
Never hope that artful dyes
Can to rival mine aspire.
Civet, Marechalle, Otter rare,
To the sweets gay health exhales
In the smallest can compare.
The SPRIG of HAWTHORN.
Some wide display'd, some clos'd, some op'ning new.
For admiration each prefers her plea;
Hear the pretensions then of all the three.
The FULL-BLOWN BLOSSOM.
ALL my beauties display'd to the bright beaming sun,I court ev'ry gazer's regard;
Nor Zephyr's soft kiss e'er attempt I to shun,
Nor my sweets from the bee do I ward.
My cheeks by no blushes are stain'd:
I scorn the cold prude, with her maxims severe,
And her looks so demurely restrain'd.
The BUD.
Thus to tempt loud Scandal's pow'r!
Will beholders ever prize
Charms thus offer'd to their eyes?
More thy tender beauties prize;
And, like me, demurely grave,
Close thy sweets enfolded save.
Robes of vestal white enfold:
Not the sun's far piercing ray
Can my modest charms survey.
In the most esteem are held:
Admiration then to gain,
Observation's eye restrain.
The HALF-OPENED BLOSSOM.
Like a rifled, widow'd flow'r,
On her full-blown charms presume;
Wide display her beauty's pow'r.
Close her prudish beauties fold;
Immature, her graces hide,
Lest the sun her charms behold.
Who admire what's quite conceal'd?
What when clos'd are brightest eyes?
What is wish'd if all's reveal'd?
Nor yet court with aspect bold;
On my charms, thus op'ning bright,
Modesty's pure blush behold.
Make those hid the more desir'd;
Half conceal'd behind the screen,
Make those view'd the more admir'd.
The WOODBINES.
Round the hazle's stems we 'twine;
And, the sun's warm influence courting,
O'er their waving tops recline.
O'er the babbling streams are arch'd;
Where the fish, beneath us straying,
By our shades are kept unparch'd.
Tend to benefit mankind;
Which, in solitude delighting,
Neither use nor pleasure find.
The VIOLET.
Protected, I bloom on the soft mossy bank,
And the thick foliag'd arms of the hawthorn display
O'er my head their protection from winds bleak and dank.
Thus my sweets all protected, I scent ev'ry gale
That strays thro' the woodlands, or freshens the vale;
And my beauties, thus shelter'd, repay with their smiles
The care of my guardian, and crown all his toils.
Whose sweets are on mountains or meadows display'd,
Nor longer unsocial, unguarded remain,
But seek from love's union a durable shade.
Can your soft-smiling beauties resist or elude
The sun's with'ring heat, or the storm sharp and rude?
See yon king-cups unshelter'd, how swift they decay!
While my beauties defended look smiling and gay.
The COWSLIP.
With the morning's dew-drops shining,
I the fertile moisture sip,
Sweet as fair Melissa's lip.
As adown some valley sporting,
Humid treasures it supplies,
Sparkling like Melissa's eyes.
Those that want are ne'er rejected;
But my sweets are ever free,
To reward the toilsome bee.
The LILY of the VALLEY.
By a dingle's bushy side,
Unambitiously I dally,
Free from Envy, free from Pride.
Shame ne'er ting'd my cheek with red;
Meek and modestly I bear me,
Bowing still my humble head.
I to grandeur ne'er aspir'd;
Ne'er my humble lot repented;
With ambition ne'er was fir'd.
Prudence lends a constant screen,
Which from envious blights will guard me,
And the sun's too powerful sheen.
[THUS to Reflection's sober train]
Each flow'r a lesson gives:
A moralizer on the plain
Each turf and blossom lives.
I draw the moral lay,
They droop, they feel the withering pow'r;
They sicken and decay!
Shall, ere to-morrow's dawn,
Appear a charmless, shrivell'd sight,
And, scentless, droop forlorn!
Should you approve my lays,
On them will second life attend—
A life that ne'er decays!
Revive each drooping sweet—
Nay, make them lovelier than before,
Their perfume more complete.
To me it will appear;
The flow'rs, surviving in my lays,
A double value bear.
The TURTLES NEST.
“A temple's built to purest Love;
“Where his chaste rights are duly paid,
“Where his full pow'r's at large display'd,
“Where burn those fires that never fade.
“He condescends at large to show
“The means by which Connubial Love
“We may obtain, we may improve,
“Nor fear a change, nor wish to rove.”
But temple none, nor shrine she found.
When the fond partner of her breast
His secret meaning thus exprest:
“See here, my love, the Turtles Nest!
“My eyes the feather'd partners meet,
“Or when, as thro' the grove I stray,
“They fondly pour the mutual lay,
“'Tis thus methinks I hear them say:
‘Our mates we choose, for love and truth,
‘And thus our yet unfashion'd hearts,
‘Each to the other still imparts
‘Its tempers, inclinations, arts.
‘Where plodding Care, with stupid frown,
‘Where Simulation's treacherous art,
‘Where Pleasure's lure, Detraction's dart,
‘And Vanity corrupt the heart;
‘To rear our young our only care.
‘Thus seeking bliss, thus hoping rest
‘But in each other's tranquil breast,
‘Joy hovers round the Turtles Nest.
‘Nor jars, nor cold distrusts we prove;
‘Not Fate himself our loves can part,
‘But when he points the barbed dart
‘At once it pierces either's heart.’
Nor did it of its moral fail.
Old Clodio, whom her friends approv'd,
By titles and by grandeur mov'd,
She spurn'd, to bless the youth she lov'd.
They taste uncloying sweets of love;
And, leaning on her lover's breast,
Full oft has fond Serena blest
The day she saw the Turtles Nest.
EXTEMPORE.
On seeing a Bird perched on the Summit of a Poplar while it was shaking with the Breeze.
The little warbler stands;
And, fearless, while he pours the lay,
The distant view commands.
That fans the vernal air,
Shakes not his bosom's tranquil ease,
Nor gives one trembling care.
No stores his heart to 'thrall;
Should he from yonder spray be thrown,
He fears no dang'rous fall.
He'll claim his native skies,
And sweetly pour his sprightly lay,
As thro' the air he flies.
With pious ardour glows;
No cares his steady joys controul,
He fears no threat'ning woes.
And laughs at Fortune's spite:
Prepar'd, when Fate or Chance commands,
To seek the Realms of Light.
SONG.
The BEST AIR.
And the soft-breathing air
Which blows in the southward of France,
Conducive to health,
Which, far more than wealth,
All the blessings of life can enhance.
And of Italy teach;
But I, in Old England have found
A far better air
Waining health to repair,
Than did e'er on the Cont'nent abound.
'Mong the flow'rets of May,
Have so pleasant an influence to cheer!
The air that I mean
Flows forth from between
The bright rosy lips of my dear.
Can also give death,
As sure as from sickness can save!
At will can destroy,
Or fill me with joy,
And build me a bow'r or a grave!
More pleasure you'll find,
If tender and gentle's your breast,
To heal the heart's wound,
Than to deal death around;
And in blessing yourself will be blest!
AMBITION AND HUMILITY.
Just op'ning to the laughing day,
In all her gaudy vestments gay,
And bright in blushing pride,
To public notice far display'd;
While this, as of the sun afraid,
In shelter low reclin'd.
“If charms or merit are not shown,
“What boots it that we either own?
“They're idle gifts and vain!
“And hanging humbly near the ground,
“To rival this, which shines around,
“For beauty might aspire.
“Her glowing beauties shall survey,
“Which if aloft she would display
“Would charm each trav'ller's view.”
Has cropt the lofty flow'ret short;
To earth its flaunting beauties brought,
Where fading 'tis reclin'd!
The prudent blossom safe remains,
And thus, to the surrounding plains
“Exerts her modest voice:
“Ah pant not for a lofty state;
“For sudden dangers wait the great,
“And many fatal arts.
“Misfortune rides on ev'ry gale;
“While, in Contentment's humble vale,
“We shun the storms of Fate.”
SONNET.
To the MOON.
Just darting thro' this poplar shade,
And mingling dappled light between
The dusky umbrage round display'd,
Where smiling Hope, with feeble ray,
Pierces the thick'ning shadows through
Which Love and Fortune's frown display.
No more obstructed meet the ground!
Mount higher, Hope, and pour thy streams
Of light more full my heart around!
Ah may no fears thy smile confound,
But Joy thy offspring blest, gay thro' my bosom bound!
MISCELLANIES.
CONTENT.
Who, from repining ever free,
Enjoys the little he has got,
Unenvious of his neighbour's lot;
Who never sighs for empty state,
Nor impiously repines at Fate
Because it has not made him great.
What tho' compell'd to work and toil;
To wield the quill, or turn the soil?
O'er Coke to kill his tedious hours,
Or range in shrubberies, fruits and flowers?
Or, on the small or greater stage,
Act the feign'd king or real page?
'Tis from the heart that peace must flow:
Content is ever free from woe.
And he, who in a cottage lies,
Finds sleep as fond to kiss his eyes,
Enjoys a slumber as profound
(And sweeter far 'tis often found)
Sleeps in the chambers of the great.
For not the pompous room nor bed
Kills care, or cures the aching head,
When virtue from the heart is fled.
Nor, when the conscience is at rest,
Can Poverty disturb the breast;
Unless indeed, with frown severe,
Captivity and Want appear.
For if the plain and frugal board
A simple, wholesome joint afford,
Hunger will better sauce provide
Than for luxurious, pamper'd pride,
In China or much injur'd Ind',
The sons of commerce ere could find;
And sparkling amber can impart
More pleasure to the tranquil heart,
Than, to the care-fill'd wealthy man,
Or Burgundy or claret can.
Then to my pray'r good Heav'n be kind,
And grant me—a contented mind,
A grateful and an honest heart:
And riches where thou wilt impart;
I ask them not: for rich or poor,
If happy, what can man have more?
MODERN VIRTUE CONTRASTED WITH ANCIENT IMPIETY.
Occasioned by a Coach being stopped by a Highwayman, who refused to take the Purse from one of the Ladies.
(For pedants will insist, or right or wrong)
“That modern times with ancient can't compare
“For active Virtue, or for Genius rare.”
They will pretend, “that Courage is no more;
“That Justice, Wisdom on no modern shore,
“Or godlike Fortitude presumes to tread.”
But chief they say “that Piety is fled.”
Why should I, vainly, tire the sacred Muse,
Examples of our valour to produce?
For sure no Briton warm'd with vital blood
Has yet forgot the great and glorious Hood;
Whose naval thunder, in just vengeance, hurl'd
The foes of Britain to the Stygian world.
What need the Muses more examples find?
Has it not long to all the world been known,
That each conspicuous shines on Britain's throne?
In the Third George, in whom we see combin'd,
Ah, mix'd but seldom in one godlike mind!
The private virtues and the ruling art,
The patriot's feelings and the hero's heart.
For Piety, to prove that we excel,
What need I more than two short stories tell?
I hope, will dare deny what Homer told)
When the bright goddess of the sportive eye
Rush'd from the heav'ns to save the Chief of Troy,
The great Æneas, her much honour'd boy!
Bold Diomed (for ancient virtue fam'd!)
With sacrilegious hand the goddess maim'd;
His thirsty falchion drank celestial blood,
And stain'd the field with an immortal flood.
In vain her silver skin his eye detains,
And the bright azure of her mantling veins;
In vain her eyes the tender languish shed;
In vain her panting bosom heaving spread;
Vain was she form'd to captivate and please;
Nor charms nor yet divinity could save.
Insensate ruffian! to his rage a slave!
Nor sex, nor sanctity his ire withstand;
He plung'd his sword within her lily hand.
Sophronia's wedding with her smiling face,
As in the car triumphant back she roll'd,
(Oh happy car, her heav'nly form to hold!)
And sought in Croydon's shade her calm retreat,
A practis'd robber chanc'd her way to meet.
On plunder bent, and eager to despoil,
The startled ruffian own'd the heav'nly smile.
The sprightly lustre of her sparkling eye,
The locks where thousand loves in ambush lie,
The soft smooth skin, as downy cygnets white,
The sanguine blush, than damask rose more bright,
The coral lips, whence sweets ambrosial stray,
The winning graces that around her play,
The smile celestial, and the mien divine;—
When all these charms upon the caitiff shine,
The proffer'd spoils his conscious hands reject,
O'er-aw'd and soften'd by divine respect.
More fam'd for daring and for impious crimes?
The Queen of Love an ancient hero wounds,
That with her anguish heav'n's high roof resounds;
A modern plund'rer owns the sacred smile,
Trembling o'er-aw'd, nor even dares to spoil.
On a Dog laying his Head in the Lap of a Lady, while she was playing on an Harpsichord, and singing.
Melissa claims an equal praise;
Like his, her art e'en brutes detains
In fix'd attention while she plays.
His head upon her lap reclin'd;
The minstrel warbling to her hands,
Her tuneful breath perfumes the wind.
What can resist the potent spell?
E'en brutal Instinct must resign;
E'en Reason ceases to rebel.
THE SHRINE OF HOWARD.
From every prejudice of pride refin'd,
Show'rs like the God whose agent here thou art,
The balm of comfort on each aching heart!
Whose hand incessant, toils with lenient joy,
To wipe each trembling tear from every eye!
Thou, who not only bear'st a Christian's name,
But glow'st with Christian Love's unbounded flame!
Thou, sent by heav'n, to shew the wond'ring earth
How near of parents frail the mortal birth
May, in the glorious attribute of love,
In emulation of the Saviour move!
How shall my humble lays approach thy ear?
How shall I sing those virtues I revere?
And list'ning cherubim the strain admire:
Heav'n will attend, and all the heav'nly train;
Heav'n's list'ning choir awhile the hymn will cease
While mortals sing of charity and peace.
HOWARD and HAYLEY!—Oh most justly pair'd!
The truest hero and the greatest bard!
While HOWARD's actions fill the hearer's soul
With feelings that each selfish thought controul;
And more than all the names her records hold,
(Henries or Edwards, the great boasts of old,)
Give deathless lustre to Britannia's fame,
And add fresh glory to the Christian name;
Thy strains enchanting Hayley shall impart
Unrival'd bliss to each enlighten'd heart,
Which joys can feel above the vulgar throng,
From dulcet verse, and Fancy's raptur'd song.
What skilful bard now wakes the patriot lyre,
And, while his fingers o'er the cordings rove,
Tunes the sweet airs of Charity and Love?
While charm'd Benevolence, delighted, hears
With generous rapture, the descending spheres
Self-love, abash'd, retiring, shuns the strain;
While 'sham'd Ambition from her temples tears
The blood-stain'd wreath—sole fruit of endless wars!
Their heights to soar, or emulate their fire?
When bards like these have rais'd the favour'd strain,
Vain is my praise, my feeble efforts vain.
Wilt thou, Britannia, from their songs divine,
A while thy ear to meaner strains incline,
Nor scorn a theme so unadorn'd as mine?
Rude is my music, uninform'd my mind;
By classic lore nor lumin'd nor refin'd.
Yet let not HOWARD scorn the humble verse
Which love of virtue prompts me to rehearse.
Virtue like thine, must ev'ry soul inspire;
All, all must praise thee, or to praise aspire.
Expiring Age, all silver'd o'er with years,
Whose wrinkled front, death's livid signet bears,
With the last effort of the vital flame,
Shall breathe, enraptur'd, HOWARD's pious name;
While lisping Infancy the couch beside,
Shall catch the fainting sound; with honest pride
And prattling, echo HOWARD's pious name.
From shore to shore, from pole to distant pole,
Thy fame, Oh HOWARD! shall perennial roll:
Nor earth shall bound it; heav'n! high heav'n shall ring!
And the bright seraph sound it on the wing.
When shrines decay and moulder into dust,
The Parian statue, urn, and sculptur'd bust.—
Nay, when Creation bursts her bounding chain,
And Night and Chaos re-assume their reign;
Then shall thy tow'ring fame transcendent rise,
And “HOWARD” ring with raptures thro' the skies.
Well may'st thou scorn, of fame like this secure,
The fragile statue and its records poor.
Well may thy Christian fortitude deride
The short-liv'd monuments of earthly pride;
Resign the praise by wond'ring mortals giv'n,
And all rewards despise but those of heav'n.
I leave the earth; I tow'r into the skies;
And heav'n's bright conclave opens to my eyes.
And angels warbling to the speaking lyre!
Round the immortal throne they glorying stand,
The radiant beams stream forth on either hand.
With glowing rapture, all their voices raise;
The full choir'd anthem speaks the Maker's praise.
Their hallelujahs ring thro' all the skies,
And hallelujah heav'n's high vault replies.
They string their harps, and tune their dulcet throats;
And thus they sing; “Oh HOWARD! sage divine!
“Whose pious deeds all other deeds outshine;
“With holy raptures, heav'nly spirits see
“Unfeign'd benevolence shine forth in thee;
“See Christian meekness ev'ry action guide,
“And see thee spurn the pomps of earthly pride:
“The sculptor's art, the fair inscribing verse,
“Which would to distant times thy worth rehearse.
“These honours all, philanthropist divine!
“Well pleas'd we see thee piously resign.
“Let bright example Christian love inspire!
“From worldly pride and affectation free,
“The brightest rays of pure philanthropy.
“With arrogant presumption, to declare,
“The love of fame, by Nature's hand imprest,
“Reigns sov'reign monarch of each human breast?
“Who now shall say, that ev'ry noble deed
“Does from this great infirmity proceed?
“Lo! HOWARD's actions, past all question, prove
“A stronger impulse still—in Christian love.
“For who in chace of fame was ever led
“To tread the dangerous paths he loves to tread?
“Did ever love of fame the foot impel
“To tread infected shores, or tainted cell?
“Plagues, and infections; the polluted breath
“Of pestilential caverns, breathing death;
“And all the bloated horrors which abide
“In cells of anguish, who would brave for pride?
“Yet these did HOWARD: these, gaunt ills and more,
“In many a land, on many a distant shore,
“Which teaches all for all mankind to feel.
“And when his native land, with honest pride
“Would sacred to his fame a pile provide;
“Jealous lest foreign climes his birth should claim,
“Would, while he yet survives, assert her fame,
“The matchless fame of giving HOWARD birth—
“HOWARD, who deals a blessing o'er the earth!
“Who, like the sun, attach'd to no one soil,
“Explores the varied globe with ceaseless toil,
“Where'er he meets with Anguish and Distress,
“To dart the Beams of Comfort, and to Bless.—
“And when his Country would, with sculptur'd fame,
“Reward his virtues, and assert her claim,
“With modest, meek, and disint'rested zeal,
“Which unfeign'd piety alone can feel,
“He, all humility, the fane resigns,
“And public plaudits (what he can) declines;
“Striving from man—admiring man! to hide
“The gen'rous deeds his labours scatter wide.
“But all in vain: for Virtue's ray divine,—
“Virtue like his, will still transcendent shine:
“Or humble Meekness, round the radiant head
“Of such transcendent worth, can dim its ray:
“It needs no lustre from the garish day;
“But like the Gem , in native lustre bright,
“Shines most conspicuous when it shuns the light.
“The little virtues of a camp or crown
“May need to court it, to obtain renown;
“But pure Benevolence! so bright thy charms,
“That Fame, enamour'd, woos thee to her arms.
“In vain to secret shades you bashful fly;
“For she'll pursue more swift than thou canst fly;
“Where'er thou turn'st, enraptur'd bend her way,
“And force thee, blushing, to admiring day.
“The sculptur'd honours, and recording muse;
“Tho' thou wouldst still the praise deserv'd decline,
“Yet still thy virtues shall not want their shrine.
“While language lasts, and hearing shall remain,
“To list'ning youth the parent shall explain:
“How virtuous Howard plough'd the dang'rous sea,
“To cure infections, set the captive free,
“Bewail the guilty, and the wrong'd redress.
“Thus age to age thy virtue's shall impart;
“And HOWARD's SHRINE be rais'd in every heart.”
THE TEARS OF THE GENII
On the DEATH of JONAS HANWAY, Esq.
I
What pow'r supernal strengthens thus my sight?Why do these sadly beauteous visions rise?
Beatific forms! the heirs of heav'nly light!—
Yet swell with pearly drops their beamy eyes.
Their charge neglected, and their mystic joys,
The drooping Genii 'neath the murky shade
Which yonder thick-grown woodland round supplies,
Sigh in sad concert, all supinely laid;
Careless of sunny hill, cool stream, or winding glade.
Thro' all the echoing wood the note of sorrow dies.
II
Lo, sadly murmuring winds each troubled stream!Their charge translucent, lo, the nymphiads slight!
Lo, they who wont to cool the solar beam,
With wing unmov'd, forget their airy flight!
While feather'd warblers, all in doleful plight,
Hang low the wing, and stint their dulcet note:
The awful stilness fills them with affright,
And melody no longer swells the throat,
Tho' late thro' air it wont with pleasing rapture float,
And fill the list'ning soul with sweetly calm delight.
III
Wherefore they droopen thus I fain would learn.Come then, my Muse, of chaste and sober mien,
Lead thy rapt votary where he may discern
Why thus they mournful seek yon sylvan scene.
Can heav'nly agents feel a pang so keen?
Can holy Genii shed the sorrowing tear?
Full sad to know, must be the cause, I ween,
To man portending some misfortune drear—
But lead me, gentle Muse, where I their plaints may hear:
E'en 'mong the bow'ry valves of yonder verdant screen.
IV
Meet place I deem these spreading elms behind,Where, antic-twisted, many a thick-wrought brere
Tempteth yon sprite to wail, beneath reclin'd,
Who of them all the chiefest doth appear.
Ah! if it be for woe, or if for fear,
The blushing blossoms seem to fade away,
As they his heart-empiercing accents hear:
Those blooms that shone erewhile so smiling gay.
But peace. My verse record what sadly he doth say,
As thus his mournful plaint steals on the list'ning ear:
V
“Ah Spirit gentle! tho' so frequent toss'd,“In early life on rude Misfortune's wave;
“By Danger sieg'd, by Disappointment cross'd:
“Ah evils borne with resolution brave!)
“Thee, never form'd for Passion's fickle slave,
“Nor Danger's frown, nor sad Misfortune's woe
“The tender feelings from thy bosom drave,
“Nor made thee mild Benevolence forego.
“Yet HANWAY art thou dead—oh tale of heavy woe!
“Ah must such worth as thine sink in the senseless grave!
VI
“Ah Spirit meek! whom not the gaudy beams“Of giddy Fortune e'er could tempt away
“To thoughtless Pride or Passion's wide extremes—
“Ah much too apt frail mortals to betray!
“But Charity did rule thy breast for aye;
“And, busy e'er to bring the wretch relief,
“No time had'st thou for thoughtless follies gay,
“Which promise pleasure, but which end in grief.
“Oh Britain mourn thy loss, nor be thy mourning brief;
“For roll may many years ere thou his like survey.
VII
“Ah Spirit patriotic! who didst toil“To save the wretch forlorn from Guilt and Shame,
“And make the youth a guardian of this isle
“Who else, perhaps, had stigmatiz'd her name
“With crimes of blackest dye, which who proclaim
“With shuddering horror shed the gloomy tear.
“Full oft thro' him, I ween, the trump of Fame
“Hath bade us worthily some name revere
“Which else in guilt had sunk, and fall'n by doom severe.
“Yet dead is he, alas! who well such praise might claim!
VIII
“Ah Spirit pious! in whose moral lines“Is kindly pictur'd to the lowly mind
“How bright in vale obscure fair Virtue shines;
“And teachest how true bliss that wight may find,
“Who, to calm dale of Humbleness confin'd,
“Far from the pompous blaze of gilded Joy—
(“False Joy, external, of the baser kind!)
“Doom'd in the sylvan scene the axe to ply,
“Might for luxurious Ease and fickle Honour sigh.
“Ah few like him I ween hath HANWAY left behind!
IX
“Ah Spirit kind! his name ye females bless!“To ye the Sage I deem the best of friends:
“When traitor man has plung'd ye in distress,
“When guilty Woe your tortur'd bosoms rends,
“And ghastly Want her sad assistance lends;—
“Then, when ye seek that refuge from despair
“Which Peace restores, and tort'ring anguish ends,
“Then, then remember well, ye weeping fair,
“To him the boon ye owe which may your state repair,
“And make those comforts yours to which repentance tends.
X
“Nor you, ye fair, who o'er the waves of life“With fav'ring gales of smiling honour sail,
“Who boast the name of Virgin, or of Wife,
“Treat with false pride your hapless sisters frail:
“E'en you, yourselves, perchance the self-same bale
“Experienc'd had, had ye so tempten been:
“Who vaunt the most themselves do easiest fail.
“With different eyes their fate hath Hanway seen,
“And to reclaim them sought, and from new dangers screen;
“But dead is he, alas! whose toils did oft avail.
XI
“How oft, invited by his gen'rous care,“Sad wretches, trembling with disease and want,
“From Guilt's vile shed, and Misery's horrid fare,
“Have crawl'd with haggard eye, and visage gaunt,
“Paler than midnight Ghosts, who church-yards haunt!
“Him have they crawl'd to bless, whose voice so sweet
“Bade black Despair their hearts no longer daunt,
“For he had kindly founded a retreat,
“Where, by Repentance led, they Happiness might meet:
“Yet is he dead, alas! weep, weep to think upon't.
XII
“Now will we weep and wail in drearyment,“And all unheeded each one leave his charge:
“Ye gentle Breezes cease your merryment;
“No longer ply the sportive wing at large;
“Ye watry Nymphiads quit the babbling marge,
“And ye who wont to tend the spreading bow'r,
“And all unwholesome blights from thence discharge,
“And ye who fed with sweets each fragrant flow'r,
“And health reviving dews thro' ev'ry vale did show'r,
“Here flock, with dismal notes my wailings to enlarge.
XIII
“For ah! how little boots the gentle gale,“That freshens vales, and wakes the warbling throat?
“The babbling streams, how little they avail,
“That fertilize the valley as they float?
“How little merit bow'rs or blossoms note,
“Which shade afford, or render nature gay?
“Or rich perfumes, which scent fair Nature's coat,
“To what we in Benevolence survey,
“Which cheers the human breast and drives all care away?
“Ah then for HANWAY's death let Sorrow swell the note!
XIV
“See round his tomb the heav'n-rob'd forms attend!“Lo Charity, with ever open hand;
“Sweet Sensibility, fair Virtue's friend,
“And kind Benevolence, with aspect bland,
“Whose bounteous smilings with a soft command
“Chace blank Affliction from Misfortune's face:
“And close beside doth tender Pity stand—
“Her azure eyes the pearls of Sorrow grace:
“Yet from each other cheek she Sorrow's pearls doth chace.
“These water with their tears the newly delved land.
XV
“Since then of three who bless'd the present age,“Humane and generous, Howard, Hanway, Hawes,
“Too soon, tho' late, one quits life's busy stage,
“Ah loud let us lament, for we have cause—
“We who are doom'd by Heav'n's all-sapient laws
“Man's woes to mitigate, and guard his joys.
“But see, yon sable cloud aloft withdraws;
“A glorious vision opens to my eyes:
“Array'd in glory's beams, lo HANWAY mounts the skies,
“While hymning angels give his virtues due applause!
XVI
“Yes, pious sage! 'tis just that thou at last,“After so many years of virtuous toil,
“Shouldst be rewarded for thy labours past
“In that blest realm where joys perennial smile.
“Yet drooping Nature must lament awhile
“For her own loss, not thy imagin'd woe:
“Lamentings sad her anguish must beguile;
“For who could e'er thy worth, oh Hanway! know,
“Nor weep when sadly forc'd such virtue to forego?
“Then pardon these our tears, thou boast of Britain's isle!”
XVII
Thus wail'd the Genii 'neath the verdant screen,Whose thick'ning lab'rinths cast an awful gloom,
All listless stretch'd on mossy couches green,
While tears celestial wet each op'ning bloom.
Then, lowly couching 'mongst the flow'ry broom,
Did Philomela sad, with drooping wing,
Near where was newly made lost Hanway's tomb,
From dulcet pipe his mournful requiem sing,
'Till round the Genii flock'd to hear her in a ring:
Tho' sooth'd she, sad, their woe for Fate's malignant doom.
ODE TO FANCY.
Formerly intended as an Introduction to a Poem on the Pleasures of a warm Imagination.
STROPHE I.
Oh Nymph divine, of heav'nly race,Who erst by Avon's favour'd side,
Array'd in all thy splendid pride,
Adorn'd with every varying grace,
Came lightly tripping in the vernal wind,
While Shakespeare on the flow'ry bank reclin'd,
And call'd the destin'd bard from slumber's soft embrace!
ANTISTROPHE I.
Oh veil thee in thy splendid vest,Ting'd by the sun's immortal rays,
Where every hue alternate plays,
Where every image is imprest—
I see thee now; thy orient zone unbound,
Thy dazzling robe flits in light's folds around,
Now hides now shews the graces of thy heaving breast.
EPODE I.
And as the vernal am'rous galeLightly 'mong the foldings plays,
In antic postures curves the veil,
And o'er its dancing surface strays,
See how many various dyes
O'er the splendid habit rise:
Here the rose's blush is spread,
Here the violet seems to blow,
Yonder glares the rubies red,
Here the gold appears to glow;
Here the silver's glossy white,
And em'ralds there, and sapphires bright.
But ah what boots the quickest numbers pride?
For all so swift the fleeting shadows glide,
That ere the lute's mellifluous note
Can in the yielding æther float,
Or ere the panther's rapid pace
Can o'er the sands a cubit trace,
Each various hue forsakes its transient place,
And other dyes the varying vestment grace:
Now gay, now sad, now simple, now sublime,
The glow-worm tints in swift succession shine.
STROPHE II.
Here, Goddess! bend thy antic step;Now dancing to the cymbal's noise,
Now to the flute's complaining voice,
In solemn sadness slowly sweep:
Be all thy pow'rs vicissitudes imprest
Deep on the tablet of thy suppliant's breast:
With fictions make me smile, at fictions make me weep.
ANTISTROPHE II.
What dazzling glories dart around,Where waving o'er thy sprightly head
The rainbow's various beams are spread,
And by a zone thy temple's crown'd:—
An azure zone with chrystal stars inlaid,
Whose beaming radiance is afar display'd;
Thy splendent tresses waving by no fillets bound.
EPODE II.
Thus nimbly while you pace along,Nature's freshest verdure wakes;
The thrush and linnet's gayest song
From groves and smiling hedge-briars breaks;
And the Naiad clearer flows.
Touch'd by thee the violet shines
With a deeper, clearer blue;
'Neath thy hand, the purple vines
Seem to blush a brighter hue.
Thou canst gild the darkling cloud,
Or Phœbus' brightest glories shroud.
And ah, how swift thy gaudy vestments fade!
That robe erewhile which ev'ry hue display'd,
The zone and looks which transport warm'd,
Are now to sable weeds transform'd,
While all surrounding objects show
Sad symptoms of responsive woe.
Come then, bright nymph, with all thy various pow'r,
Into my breast thy strongest influence show'r,
While I the pleasures of thy reign rehearse,
And sing thy praises in immortal verse.
EPILOGUE.
“Ye tuneful offspring of my teeming brain!
“Go—to the world, the critic world depart;
“In lowly vale obscure no more remain.
“Go—for my brow the laurel wreath obtain—
“The laurel wreath by smiling Virtue 'twin'd,
“Where lurks no sting conceal'd, which by no thorn is lin'd.
“To chace blank Sadness from my lonely heart,—
“These lays which oft my drooping soul reliev'd,
“And bade Despondence flee, and Woe depart,
“Might, if corrected with attentive art,
“From loath'd Obscurity preserve my name,
“And round my temples spread the lambent rays of Fame!”
(Ah soothing dreams, too soon, perhaps, believ'd)
Rash I adventur'd.—But what fears alarm
Of threat'ning dangers now too late perceiv'd!
With anxious throb how oft my heart has heav'd,
Lest by vain hopes, delusions fond! betray'd,
I on a sea too rough my canvas have display'd!
And proud, delusive dreams all glide away;
Around the solar beams of Reason spread,
My threaten'd dangers my weak bark display;
Here critic rocks my trembling eyes survey,
'Gainst which I dread to split by doom severe:
There sands oblivious threat to swallow me for e'er.
Why did I e'er believe the partial friend?
Why was it not my calm, my humble choice,
Thro' lowly vale obscure my course to bend,
Where sweet Content and smiling Peace attend,
Far from the flattering trump of haughty Fame,
Far from discordant clang of Disappointment's blame?
Of Memory sage, and of Creative Pow'r,
To whom the lyre my boyish fingers strung,
If at the entrance of your hallow'd bow'r
I vent'rous thus approach in youthful hour,
And sue to gain admittance 'mong your train.
Be this, ye maids, my plea, nor be that plea in vain:
“Was taught to tremble by my artless hand;
“I never strove to fan unhallow'd fire,
“Or spread of wanton Vice the lewd command.
“A ready champion did I ever stand
“For hapless beauty by feign'd Love betray'd;
“The stings of Guilt I sung, and Virtue's charms display'd.
“Oft with the incense of the Muse I heap;
“Or warm'd by Gratitude, that pow'r divine,
“The harp of praise my raptur'd fingers sweep.
“Perish the Bard whose idle harp can sleep,
“When heav'n-born Gratitude demands the lays
“To Friendship's gen'rous name to swell the note of praise!”
Still in the number of your train to live.
The honest verse let critic rigour spare,
The artless rhime, the theme unlearn'd forgive.
Let on my brow your verdant chaplet thrive,
And grant, ere yet my youthful prime decays,
To 'twine one flow'ring sprig of Myrtle with my Bays.
Poems on Various Subjects | ||