| The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq | ||
2. PART II.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
EDWIN AND EMMA.
AN EPITHALAMIUM.
When life, from Nature's second birth, begins;
When the fond lover, and the damsel coy,
Are born in wedlock, Love's connubial twins!
For thee half-brightened to a smile, applauds;
Who, mid the leaves of Harvard's bay-wrought crown,
Entwin'st the wreath, which female taste awards.
Like heaven's expanse, a ground work was designed,
Where Nature's hand her brightest gems might place,
To shine a picture of the perfect mind.
By Fortune nursed, by gay Refinement bred;
Unconscious Beauty, modest Worth allied,
By Cupid's hand to Hymen's temple led.
May you, in sweet reality, enjoy;
Feel all, that Hope of rapture ever drew;
Live all, that Fancy ever dreamt of joy!
Eden his table crowned, and Eve his bed;
But, when by Fate's sad alternation driven,
He chose the bride, and from the garden fled.
Not, Adam-like, to waver which to leave;
But, favoured youth, to find them both combined,
Thy Eve, an Eden; and thy Eden, Eve!
Should sensual life her sackcloth joys compare;
The best morceau, that Epicurus eats,
Is but a tear-wet crust—a beggar's fare!
Gay, smiling, lingers Love's benignant queen!
There, rapt in ecstacy, she checks her car,
To feast her eyes upon the bridal scene!
Envy the lavish bliss, to mortals given;
Pant for the raptures of connubial love,
And wish, that wedlock was no sin in heaven!
For you, may life's calm stream, unruffled, run;
For you, its roses bloom, “without a thorn,”
And bright as morning, shine its evening sun!
Each tranquil pleasure, that esteem can prove;
Each tender bliss, that from Affection springs,
And all the thrilling luxuries of love.
But that, which flows to meet her Edwin's kiss;
May not a throb in Edwin's breast be felt,
But that, which palpitates for Emma's bliss!
No more shall dazzle with its wonted charms;
Like old Anchises from the flames of Troy,
May Age retire in young Affection's arms!
Serene, as Hesper gleams the dusky heath,
Be Emma's sigh, that wafts the world adieu;
Be Edwin's smile that gilds the lip of death.
Each sprightly note should trill a fuge of mirth;
And, ere their souls to yon bright skies you wing,
Let them enjoy a prior heaven on earth!
A MONODY, TO THE MEMORY OF W. H. BROWN.
Lorn to the gale, elegiack willows wave;
Cold-glistening, fall the night-dews on the turf;
And Nature leans upon her Pollio's grave.
The willow droops—'tis plaintive Nature sighs;
The night-dews fall—they are the tears, that flow
On Pollio's flower-wreathed urn, from Nature's eyes.
The fostering muses fondly nursed the child;
His infant prattle into numbers run,
And Genius, from his opening eyelids, smiled.
The stalk of judgment with its blossoms graced;
Nor feared corroding Envy's latent worm,
The frost of criticks, nor the drought of taste.
No fixed star—a rolling sun, he shone;
Now glanced his rays on Beauty's temperate clime;
Now flamed his orb o'er Grandeur's torrid zone.
Nor lost its verdure 'mid the flame divine;
Thus bloomed his song in rhetorick's splendid blaze,
Nor drooped the vigour of his nervous line.
His tragick muse the lyre of pathos strung;
Loud wailed the horrors of fraternal war,
And dying Andre struggled on her tongue.
A tender ray illumed each crystal sphere;
While thus she sung the hapless chief beloved,
His life, the smile received—his fate, the tear.
Thalia knew his useful scene to frame;
And, scorning ribaldry, that trull of wit,
Preserved the chastity of lettered fame.
Whom suitor-hosts, so long, in vain, adored;
Who, to the widowed bed of wedlock true,
Lived Sorrow's nun at riot's festive board.
Correctly negligent, with judgment bold:
Here reasoned sentiment, there humour flowed;
Now flashed the thought, and now the period rolled.
Quick, as the wink of Heaven's electrick eye;
Lo! Pollio's mind, with subtle vigour, springs;
And volumes, sketched in thoughts, perspective lie.
He loved the genius, that eclipsed his own;
Nor dreamt, like Johnson, that by Nature's laws,
He reigned the Sultan of the classick throne.
To veteran bards he left of taste the van;
A keen eyed critick—still, a tender friend;
An idol'd poet—but, a modest man.
Deducts in period, what it adds in boon;
Life's April day, with brighter beams, may shine,
But meets a sunset, in a cloud, at noon.
That spreads o'er burning climes Death's gelid sleep!
Hear ye that groan? 'tis dying Pollio's last;
And Friendship, Genius, Virtue, speechless, weep!
Their breasts the grief-delirious muses beat;
Torn from their brows, the withering garland dies;
And drooping groves this funeral dirge repeat:
“The laurel-sprig we plant, the turf to shade;
“Bathed by our tears, its spreading boughs shall bloom,
“'Till Fame's most verdant amaranths shall fade!
“Yet there shall oft our pensive choir repair;
“Thy modest grave can boast no sculptured bust,
“Yet Nature stands a weeping statue there!”
SELF-COMPLACENCY.
Let no rude Care, with anxious thoughts, invade,Nor print her footstep in my chosen shade!
O'er the wide world I've traced the tour of day,
Where restless Love has taught my feet to stray;
If Anna's taste this favourite spot approve,
I'll drop the Scythian, and forget to rove.
All hail, ye deserts, bend a pitying ear,
A sound unknown, a human voice to hear!
Wave your tall brows, to hail a stranger-guest,
Whose throbbing bosom seeks in you a rest.
Proud earth, adieu! Your smile I ask no more,
Nor all your sordid, soul-contracting ore!
The Syren's bowl, and pleasure's deep abyss
Yield to the crystal fount a tranquil bliss.
The purest joy will ever love to dwell
In the lone confines of the hermit's cell;
On him the day lamp sheds its mildest beam,
His board the forest, and his cup the stream.
Like him, the menial arts of life forsook,
To hold pure converse with the babbling brook;
The bee of Nature's yet untasted sweets;
Here let my feet, o'erwearied, find repose,
My head a pillow, and my griefs a close!
The simple pleasures of uncultured earth
Can please no palate of exotick birth;
Lost is the social fire, with all its joys,
Lost is the splendid dome, with all its toys.
A long adieu! to all the world calls great,
Fame's glittering baubles, and the pomp of state!
Far from the tumults of the roaring sea,
The waves of Fortune roll no more for me.
Far from the vultures of corroding strife,
And all the senseless butterflies of life,
Here have I flown to trace new soils of bliss,
And clasp rude Nature in her loose undress;
Her naked graces Rapture's throb impart,
And spurn the pencil and the veil of art.
Beauty ne'er blushed, of harmless man afraid,
Nor asked a fig-leaf in the secret shade.
Oft in the modish circle, have I seen
The thoughtless canvass of a pictured mien;
And grown genteel, by Fashion's dire constraints,
The well-laced spider in a hectick faints.
Art can but mimick; Heaven alone must give
That innate force, by which the graces live.
The form and colour artists oft disclose,
But who has sketched the fragrance of the rose?
Ye dames, ambitious of applauding eyes,
Shall vile cosmeticks tempt the dubious prize?
Refine the heart, nor stoop to arts so base;
Sense never sparkled in a painted face!
Who looks on Fashion's painted mask with scorn;
Who never spread the Syren's artful guise
To chain attention, or entrance surprise;
Who ne'er would wish the rising scale of fame,
If she, ascending, sunk a sister's name;
Who never heard, without a kindling glow,
The boast of Virtue's too successful foe.
Such be the fair, to whom my hopes would rise,
Whose soul gives language to her sparkling eyes;
Whose smile the gloomiest scene of life can cheer,
With rapture glisten, or dissolve a tear;
Whose charms with softness clothe her modest mien,
As light pellucid, and as heaven serene;
Whose lovely converse sweetens every boon;
Whose cheek the morning, and whose mind the noon.
Ah! lovely Anna! these are traits divine,
And Fancy's pencil glows with charms, like thine!
Come then, thou dearest, heaven-congenial maid,
And rove with me the grove, the hill and glade!
Behold those rocks of huge colossal size,
Whose cloud-girt tops appear to prop the skies;
Like them, above the world, we'll soar sublime;
Like them, our love shall brave the rage of Time!
Here rich Luxuriance waves her ample wing,
And spreads a harvest mid perpetual spring;
But ne'er can Nature's flowery charms endear,
If Anna, Nature's blossom, be not here.
Come then, my fair, and bless my lonesome hours,
And grace the palace arbour of the bowers.
All Nature waits my Anna to receive;
A second Eden wants a second Eve.
[Where'er the vernal bower, the autumnal field]
[The following Stanzas were addressed to the late Thomas Brattle, Esq. soon after he had embellished his seat at Cambridge, in a manner highly creditable to the taste of that worthy gentleman.]
The summer arbour, and the winter fire;
Where'er the charms, which all the seasons yield,
Or Nature's gay museum can inspire,
Or life exalt above a splendid dream;
There, Brattle's fame shall freight the grateful breeze,
Each grove resound it, and reflect each stream.
Each bud, that blossoms in the ambrosial bower,
Nursed by this great Improver's art, obtains
A nobler germin, and a fairer flower.
When Peace the seats of ermined woe forsook;
Retirement found an Athens in a cave,
And man grew social with the babbling brook.
In gay undress fair Nature to surprise;
By Art's slight veil to heighten every grace,
And bid a Vauxhall from a marish rise.
No more shall tempt our sportive nymphs to rove;
And Brattle's mall surpass Arcadia's grove.
Here with thy charms the joy-winged morn beguile:
Thy eyes shall glisten eloquence to thought,
And teach the cheek of hopeless gloom to smile.
Yield a soft splendour to the evening beam,
Gaze at the image in the watery glass,
And blush new beauty to the flattering stream:
As oft at morn her sportive limbs she laves,
Hears their loved voice, and leaning on her urn,
Stops the smooth current of her silver waves.
ADDRESSED TO MISS B.
And keen the ingrate's heart-inserted probe;
But keener woes that wretch is doomed to prove,
The poorer hermit of unfriended love!
Born to enchant, thou studiest to perplex;
Adored as queen, thou play'st the tyrant's part,
And, taught to govern, would'st enslave the heart.
Nor pity melts, nor pride can fix thy mind;
Now, warm and faithful as the cooing dove,
Thou breath'st no wish, and sing'st no note, but love!
She changes seasons, as she turns the hour;
In one short day, you roll through every sign,
From Passion's tropics, to Decorum's line.
And melting stoicks half enamoured gaze;
Now, dim from far your rays obliquely gleam,
And freeze the current of the poet's stream.
Fair woman, roves, a comet, bright and wild;
Supreme in art, our purblind sex she rules:
Wits may be lovers—lovers must be fools.
TO CLORA.
Whose varying lyre, like thy once doubtful sex,
Can with its tones the nicest ear perplex,
And numb with wonder the still pondering heart!
Whose lips have freely quaffed the sacred lymph;
Who erst, in sweet Eliza's lovely guise,
Didst bless the vision of these mental eyes.
Intent I've listened with arrected ear;
Patrolled the whispering gallery of Fame,
And walked the watch-tower of the winds to hear!
The lyre, that caused, shall expiate thy wrongs!
In notes, the pathos of whose dulcet swell
Might charm a Zeno with its potent spell,
And the fond passion, which she felt, inspire;
The softened musick of the fluttering strain;
While Echo, prattling like the human bird,
Rechanting, chanted every note again.
Checked the young rapture, which thy lays inspired;
Though Hope's pleased eye the page proscribed admired,
And shed upon the sweet forbidden fruit a tear.
And, through the infection of the jaundiced hue,
Saw from Eliza's garb a monster spring,
In voice a Circe, and in poison too:
While fell the honied melody of praise,
Alas! impervious to the soul's fixed gaze,
A vocal death from every note she flung!
SONNET TO ELIZA.
Pursue Menander, hard as legs can lay?
By Heavens, Menander swears, he will not fly,
But meet their gentle ladyships half way!
When clinging round his knees these virgins lie?
Is he afraid of drowning in a tear,
Or being blown to atoms by a sigh?
I turn to clasp the fair one that pursues;
But, struck with such divinity of charms,
Shrink from alliance with so bright a muse.
For you've escaped a bite, while I have lost a spec.
SONNET TO BELINDA.
Thou, like thy parent, rulest a variant sphere
Where Judgment ripens, Fancy blossoms wild;
Thy page the landscape, and thy mind the year.
Thy hand, sweet limner, many a pencil dips;
And oft receive Pieria's sacred streams
New inspiration from Belinda's lips.
Blooms the rich verdure of a heart sincere;
And e'en Belinda's smile more radiant glows,
Through the clear mirror of the pearly tear.
While Edwin mourns, and all Parnassus weeps.
MENANDER TO PHILENIA.
[During the years 1792 and 1793, Mr. Paine, beside other contributions to that Miscellany, published in the Massachusetts Magazine such pieces, as appearing there under the signature of Menander. As those pieces are addressed to a lady whose title to the first place among our native poetesses is undisputed and indisputable; and as, in order to understand Menander, it is indispensably necessary, that Philenia may be easily consulted, no apology is required for inserting Mrs. Morton's verses in this collection. The first piece of this correspondence, which was originally published in the Massachusetts Mercury of February, 1793, as were also the second and third pieces, alludes to a Poem entitled, “Beacon-Hill,” supposed to be then preparing by Philenia for the press.]
To waft the Patriot's and the Hero's name!
Blest be the Muse, whose soft Orphean breath
Recalls their memories from the realms of death!
And blest Philenia, noblest of the choir,
Whose hallowed hands attune Columbia's lyre!
'Tis thine to bid the deathless laurel bloom,
And shade departed Virtue's sacred tomb;
While pruned by thee, its loftier branches grow,
And yield new honours to the dust below!
And gild the urn of Freedom's martyred band!
While in thy song, with charms illustrious, shine
Gods, shaped like men, and men, like gods, divine!
Hail, lofty Beacon, hill of Freedom, hail!
Thy torch her herald to the distant vale!
What various scenes, from thy commanding height,
The horizon paint—the turning eye delight!
Loud Ocean here, with undulating roar,
Calls daring souls to worlds unknown before;
While mazing there, like Fancy's wanton child,
Charles curls along, irregular and wild.
Here, Commerce, decked in all the wings of Time,
Courts the fleet breeze, and ranges every clime;
There the gay villa lifts its lofty head,
The social mansion, and the humbler shed.
But nobler honours to thy fame belong,
And owe their splendour to Philenia's song.
Beacon shall live the theme of future lays;
Philenia bids—obsequious Fame obeys.
Beacon shall live, enbalmed in verse sublime,
The new Parnassus of a nobler clime.
No more the fount of Helicon shall boast
Its peerless waters, or its suitor-host;
To thee shall every fabled muse aspire,
And learn new musick from Philenia's lyre.
No more the flying steed the bard shall bear,
Through the wild regions of poetick air;
On nobler gales of verse his wings shall rise,
While Beacon's eagle wafts him through the skies.
'Tis here Philenia's muse begins her flight,
As Heaven elate, extensive as the light:
And leaves the clouds of vulgar bards behind.
Her tuneful notes, in tones mellifluous flow,
With charms more various, than the coloured bow.
Here, softly sweet, her liquid measures play,
And mildest zephyrs gently sigh away;
There, towering numbers stalk, majestick rise,
Like ocean storm, and lighten like the skies.
While here, the gay Canary charms our ears,
There, the lorn Philomel dissolves in tears.
While here, the deep, grave verse slow loiters on,
There, the blythe lines in swift meanders run.
Thus to each theme responds her echoing lay;
Bold, without rashness; without trifling, gay:
Serene, yet nervous; easy, yet sublime;
With modulation's unaffected chime;
Soft, without weakness; without frenzy, warm;
The varying shade of Nature's varying form.
Let souls, elated by the pomp of praise,
The arch triumphal, or the busto raise;
Bid marble, issuing into life, proclaim
Their bubble greatness in the ear of Fame!
Gay trifles, pictured out on Glory's shore,
Which Time's first rising billow leaves no more!
'Tis thine, Philenia, loveliest muse, to raise
A firmer monument of nobler praise!
Thou shalt survive, when Time shall whelm the bust,
And lay the pyramids of Fame in dust.
Unsoiled by years, shall thy pathetick verse
Melt Memory's eye upon the Patriot's hearse;
And while each distant age and clime admire
The funeral honours of thy epick lyre,
That you might sing, and raptured ages read?
'Till the last page of Nature's volume blaze,
Shall live the tablet, graven with thy lays!
PHILENIA TO MENANDER.
Can wind the varied notes along,
While the melodious Nine inspire
The graceful elegance of song.
Then with the polished Ovid move;
Now swift as rapid Pindar flies,
Then soft as Sappho's breath of love.
Whose magick might the soul subdue.
Calm the wild frenzies of the brain,
And every fading hope renew.
To wake the harp's majestick string;
Nor with Menander's “epick” fire,
The deeds of godlike heroes sing.
Flings the lorn pathos to the gale;
While o'er the modulated sound,
The sighs of Sympathy prevail.
Triumphant on the wing of Fame;
To dash the idiot brow of Power,
And waft the Hero's laurelled name;
Each mental and each pictured view;
Meandering Charles embowered in green,
The warrior's turf impearled with dew;
And peerless beauties could not save
The brave, heroick, victim-youth,
Dishonoured by a felon-grave.
The hand of culturing Science reigns;
Where forests arched the brow of day,
The temple lights its glittering vanes.
That to thy classick lyre belong,
While Genius fires thy passioned breast
With all the eloquence of song.
Shall through the world's wide mansion beam,
Unsullied by the breath of Time,
Exhaustless as his native stream.
With all thy sun-like splendour shine;
The deeds of godlike heroes sing,
And be the palm of Genius thine!
MENANDER TO PHILENIA.
Or sparkles on the brow of even,
Courts from the sun that lucid mien,
Which gems the glittering mine of heaven:
Perfumes the breath of scentless air
From rich bouquets, which jocund Spring
Selects from Nature's gay parterre:
Whose clear, reflecting pages shine,
Like the translucent, crystal stream,
The mirror of a soul divine:
The song-inspired vibration caught;
Thus, from thy hand, his temples wear
A wreath, which thou alone hast wrought.
And sealed her carol with thy name,
Whose signet gave, what Heaven denied,
A passport at the door of Fame.
Obscurest shades ne'er cloud its blaze;
For, diamond like, it gilds the night,
And dazzles with unborrowed rays.
The world has with Philenia vied,
While Admiration winged her fame,
And modest Merit blushed to hide.
'Twere madness to believe it due;
For none, but Nature's fondest care,
Deserves a glance of Fame from you.
The tints of every classick grace,
Mild Contemplation, nurse of song,
Beamed from thy muse-illumined face.
Wild Fancy learns of Truth to weep,
Romance forgets her tragick tale,
And Werter lulls his griefs to sleep.
You check the frenzied passion's scope,
And, radiant as an angel form,
Smile on the death-carved urn of Hope.
They melt the Stoick heart of snow;
And every willow on thy lute,
Has proved a laurel for thy brow.
SONNET TO PHILENIA, ON A STANZA, IN HER ADDRESS TO MYRA.
The Stanza, which suggested this Sonnet, is highly encomiastick on Mr. Paine. It is here given from the Massachusetts Magazine of Feb. 1793.
“Gloomed the bright summer of my days,
“Ne'er has my bankrupt bosom known
“A solace, like his peerless praise.”
Of every mental gem, that e'er has shone,
In dazzled Fancy's intellectual mine,
Or ever spangled Virtue's radiant zone.
Shall roll, exhausted, flowerless springs away;
Leave the broad eye of noon, without a ray,
And strip the path to heaven of every star.
Which taught us, how to weep, and how admire;
The tear, that falls to soothe thy wounded peace,
With rapture glistens o'er thy matchless lyre.
Ind and Golconda, in one firm combined,
Shall sooner bankrupt, than Philenia's mind.
THE COUNTRY GIRL TO MENANDER.
Yes! 'twas thy numbers, sailing on the breeze,Floating in rich luxuriance, 'mongst the trees,
That caught my ear, as heedlessly I strayed,
O'er the soft velvet of the verdant glade.
'Twas thy own trembling lyre, I knew it well,
That gave the magick spring, the glowing swell;
That, borne on wings seraphick, glided by,
And filled my soul, with richest melody.
Oft, have I heard thy rapturous, treasured strains,
When roving careless, 'midst the dewy plains;
Oft, has thy well known lay joyed my rapt soul,
When sunk unnoticed, 'neath the rising knoll;
Whilst catching from afar the golden note,
I've bid my praises, on the zephyrs float.
Amid thick woods, and close embowering shades,
Stupendous rocks, and verdant flowery glades,
I've heard thy matchless, thy resistless strains,
Whilst lilies spread them o'er the lengthening plains.
To thee unknown, except by kindred fire,
That taught me how to love, and how t' admire,
I've hailed, have sung—and oft have sought to gain
One sweet responsive chord, to my dull strain.
Lost to all thoughts, or cares, for other's lays,
Philenia's brow alone thou crown'st with bays;
To her rich mine a monthly tribute send'st,
Nor to a younger vot'ry ever lend'st
A single warbling note of love, or praise,
Though sought, though urged, in ev'ry ardent gaze.
STANZAS TO THE COUNTRY GIRL.
When lyres of swelling grandeur cease to please,
Shall charm thy simple, nature-breathing strain,
Where sweetens Beauty's tone mellifluous ease.
A long farewell to all Apollo's train;
But thou hast charmed her from Retirement's cell,
And strung her loosened, tuneless chords again.
Soft Musick's echoing voice the ear invades;
And, Orpheus-like, with life renewing sounds,
Recalls the soul from Sleep's unconscious shades.
What ville Elysian, what Castalian grove;
Where Tempean bowers, and Attick Edens rise,
The school of Genius, and the lap of Love?
What myrtles twine their arms to shade thy path?
What Naiad's grotto forms thy mid-day seat?
What bank thy couch, what envied stream thy bath?
To hail the fair, whose picture Fancy views;
T'unmask the face, which charms him in disguise,
And clasp the Nymph, as he has kissed the Muse.
THE COUNTRY GIRL TO MENANDER.
Nor touch the warbling harp again;
The rapturing tones invade my heart,
And Peace and Rest will soon depart;
Love, with his downy, purple wing,
Will to my breast his roses bring;
But, ah! beneath their roseate dye,
The sharpest thorns of Anguish lie:
Then hush the enchanting, soul-detaining lyre,
And let Indiff'rence quench the kindling fire.
On the full swell,
With rapture dwell,
As the slow numbers steal along the grounds;
Then as they rise in air,
And on the fragrant zephyrs float,
And wanton there,
How sweet, to catch the silver note!
But Wisdom wills the stern decree,
And puts a lasting bar, 'twixt love and me.
The streams of joy, that Cupid sips,
And where he laves his gilded plumes,
Must never glisten on the lips,
She says, where sober Wisdom blooms.
And bid'st me tell where 'tis I rove;
Where Love and thou must never stray:
Where Peace and Pleasure constant bloom,
And Rapture smiles around the tomb.
But though alone, with mental eye,
This form thou ne'er must view;
In answer to this deep drawn sigh,
Breathe me one last adieu;
So may full tides of joy around thee flow,
And life's more fragrant flow'rets ever blow.
SONNET TO THE COUNTRY GIRL.
This bosom echo—'tis my heart's reply;
Say, to her notes I listened with a tear,
And caught the sweet contagion of a “sigh.”
Cold, as those tides of vital ice, that roll
Through the chilled channels of the maiden breast,
When prudish Sanctity congeals the soul.
No more, in Rhyme's impervious hood arrayed,
Hold airy converse in the Muse's grove,
While you a shadow seemed, and I a shade.
Nor more thy verse admire, than idolize thy face!
SONNET, TO ANNA-LOUISA, ON HER ODE TO FANCY.
Say, child of Phœbus and the eldest Grace,Whose lyre melodious, and enchanting face,
The blendid title of thy birth proclaim;
Say, lovely Naiad of Castalia's streams,
Why thus thy Muse on Fiction's pillow dreams,
And fondly woos the rainbow-mantled Dame?
When stern Misfortune, with her Gorgon frown,
Congeals the fairy face of Bliss to stone,
Hope to the horns of Fancy's altar flies;
But what gay nun would seek asylum there,
When Beauty, Love and Fortune crown the fair,
And Hymen's temple greets her raptured eyes?
Then haste, sweet nymph, to bless the ardent youth;
Then, Fancy, “blush to be excelled by Truth.”
STANZAS TO ANNA, ON HER VISIT TO PHILADELPHIA.
Taught Shenstone's lyre with dulcet swell to move,
Sweet, as the minstrel of the evening shade,
Soft, as the languor in the eye of Love!
To deck the wreath, on Anna's brow entwined;
In notes majestick, as her heavenly form;
In verse irradiant, as her brilliant mind.
The Sun and Anna seek benigner plains;
Where'er he shines, rude Winter storms no more,
Where'er she visits, Spring florescent reigns.
She moves—the Goddess by her gait is known;
She chants—and all inspired, the Muses sing;
She speaks—'tis peerless Anna's self alone!
Thou sigh and hope, by every heart expressed;
Add to the sparkling triumphs of thy face,
The humble tribute of Menander's breast!
TO TRUTH.
The two following Pieces were written in answer to some one, who, under the signature of Truth, had attacked Mr. Paine in language, here distinguished by inverted commas.
From elder bards my muse hath e'er purloined,
She scorns those artless thefts, performed by you,
Who steal the dross, but leave the gold behind.
Such “nonsense” surely can't with thine agree;
Thank Heaven, I'm not a fool in rags, like thee.
O'er Fame's bright ledger a correct survey,
There thou hadst found Philenia's dues so vast,
That all the Muses can't the interest pay.
At Taste's or Honour's bank present a note,
With Conon's and Ezekiel's names endorsed,
And were the sum applied for, but a groat;
Would trust so base an applicant a stiver;
To thy responsorship would clip the loan,
And, cent per cent, curtail it—to a cypher.
For female genius claims a deathless mead;
Henceforth those low, aspersive insults spurn,
Which Truth would blush to write, and Genius weep to read.
TO TRUTH.
Would twist and lift their sluggish limbs about,
While thy dull fingers duller numbers count,
And drag the limping legs of Rhyme, slow, lin-ge-ring out.
Thank ye, good Sir, that worse ye don't abuse us;
This self-same strumpet, ere her time was run,
Swore thee on Chaos, a Naturæ lusus!
Their censure, surely then, an envied “praise” is,
And blest be all the stars, that I inherit
So large a portion of your evil graces!
Hadst thou the office of confessor claimed,
Then might I kneel, and all my sins make known,
To one, of whom e'en “Knavery” is ashamed!
I'll wear no wreath, that costs my friend a tear;
The cap receive again, 'tis thine alone;
For you, like Cæsar, find on earth no peer!
This error on the clerk of “Fame” must fall;
I'm proud, that in her books my name is found;
With thee she opens no account at all!
As well might ants about the Alps declaim,
And garret-criticks preach upon Peru,
As “Truth” the lowest coin of Genius name.
The humblest halbert, which Pieria's queen
From Taste's bright armoury gives, were cheaply bought
With all the epaulets of envious Spleen!
I'll not thy more successful drumstick rob;
Yes! oft I've heard thee beat the loud tattoo,
And with thy long-roll muster Wapping's mob!
Philenia triumphs with unaided Charms;
Like Rome's illustrious chief, her magick lyre
Could speak a tuneful Myriad into arms.
Thy sickly fame were shocked by means so rough;
The mildest breath puts out the Taper's blaze,
And bubbles vanish at the slightest “puff!”
'Tis joy, to hear thee own, my credit rose;
Thine, by a fall, can never break its neck,
The tide can never ebb, before it flows!
Exult in thee, a second leader gained;
Whose greatest praise the vilest grub might boast;
Whose only glory is a laurel stained!
On whom too condescending Justice snears;
A foe, so lost to every tender glow,
That Adamant a Sensitive appears!
To shine the pedant, with the man would part,
In Fame's ascending scale may raise his mind,
While in the falling balance sinks his heart.
Where tortured feelings melt the female eye,
Where wounded Tenderness, compelled to yield,
Leads the barbarian's triumph with a sigh.
STANZAS TO A YOUNG LADY ON A BAMBOO FAN, ACCIDENTALLY TORN.
By beauty's lovely queen caressed;
While, waving, like the wing of love,
Thou fanned'st a flame in every breast!
'Twas thine, in her imperial hand,
The cold to warm, the proud subdue;
The female Franklin's magic wand,
Olivia's sceptre, sweet Bamboo!
Thy airy flutters graceful move;
Each bosom, throbbing soft alarms,
Appeared an aspen leaf of love.
And while, too fondly, thought the maid
To smile unseen, when veiled by you;
Her treacherous eyes the plot betrayed,
And dazzled through the thin Bamboo.
And whence those tears, ye Graces, flow?
Why swells the sorrow-glistening eye?
Why ventilates the breast of woe?
“Farewell, our triumphs! Fame, adieu!”
Alas!—But why, this wound lament?
'Tis glory to your loved Bamboo!
Contended for Olivia's lip;
To dwell, like Epicureans there,
And riot on the nect'rous sip;
To that pure fount, of chaste delight,
These Chesterfields of æther flew;
Rushed on the Fan, which checked their sight,
And rudely tore the soft Bamboo.
To list propitious to my prayer,
This sole request my wish should prove,
That I thy envied form might bear.
Then, from the nymph I'd steal a kiss,
And sigh, in plaintive zephyrs too;
While tender tales of love and bliss,
I'd whisper from the fond Bamboo!
THE PRIZE PROLOGUE:
Spoken in the character of Apollo. BY Mr. C. POWELL, AT THE OPENING OF THE FIRST THEATRE, IN BOSTON, JANUARY, 1794.
Gleamed the dim twilight of the Attick day;
To charm, improve, the hours of state repose,
The deathless father of the Drama rose.
No gorgeous pageantry adorned the show;
The plot was simple, and the scene was low.
Without the wardrobe of the Graces, drest;
Without the mimick blush of Art, caressed;
Heroick Virtue held her throne secure,
For Vice was modest, and Ambition poor.
To loftiest heights of Scenick verse aspired.
From useful Life her comick fable rose,
And Epick passions formed her tale of woes:
The daring Drama heaven itself explored,
And gods descending trod the Grecian board.
The scene expanding, through the temple swelled;
Each bosom acted, what each eye beheld:
Warm to the heart, the chimick Fiction stole,
And purged, by moral Alchymy, the soul.
The sons or pupils of a patriot stage.
Hence, in this forum of the virtues fired,
This living school of Eloquence inspired;
With nobler tongue, the ardent statesman glowed;
The void of Life instinctive morals filled,
And Fame herself with chaste Ambition thrilled;
Imperial Grief gave social Pity birth,
And frightened Folly feared instructive Mirth.
First, in the hemlet—fairest in the robe;
In arms she triumphed, as in letters shone,
Of Taste the palace, and of War the throne.
The Roman eagle sails the expanse of light!
His wings, like Heaven's vast canopy, unfurled,
Stretch their broad plumage o'er the subject world.
Behold! he soars, where climbing Phœbus rolls,
And, perching on his car, o'erlooks the poles!
Far, as the chariot winds its radiant way,
His empire follows on the ebb of day;
And Rome and Light revolve with rival fires,
And Cesar governs, when the Sun retires.
Lo! Cecrops' throne is Ruin's charnel place!
Long ages past, with beating wing, have swept
Thy crumbling tomb, and as they smote, have wept;
Now, Time's grey eve, serene with lingering day,
Sheds o'er thy wrecks his sad sepulchral ray!
Departed Athens! round thy sullen shores,
Choaked with thy gods, thy vexed Pyræus roars,
That Heaven might see thy temples in his flood.
From their cold altars all thy priests have flown,
And hermit Silence worships there alone!
O'er thy drear mound no dirge thy muses swell;
Mute is the breath, that filled their votive shell.
Pierced at their shrines, the sacred sisters fled,
Veiled their stained breasts, and pitied while they bled;
Then, grouped in air, they showed the wounds they bore,
And dropped their broken lyres, to sound no more.
The Chissel's life still loves the realm it graced,
And weeps in marble o'er thy sculptured waste;
O'er broken cenotaphs and mouldering fanes,
Sits black Despair, while pagan Wonder reigns;
Where frowned thy Sages, from their niches thrown,
The prophet raven fills the vacant stone;
With Arab scars the Parian hero bleeds,
And Beauty's statue sleeps in groves of weeds;
Minerva's temple vainly greets the stars,
And pirates shelter on the rock of Mars.
Whose glance reformed, where'er its beams could fly?
Who, when Desire was fond, and Art was young,
So rudely sported, and so simply sung?
Yet, when thy realm was wild, and dark with fate,
Could charm the tumult, and allay the state?
Could gently touch the film, that made thee blind,
And pour new day o'er thine infatuate mind?
Who bade a nation's wealth adorn her shrine!
A people's homage, and a senate's love,
With gorgeous drapery, and imperial air,
Awed mobs to think, and “wonder why they were;”
Who with her pencil moved the state-machine,
And swayed a faction, as she turned a scene;
With Art's last glories bade her temple flame,
And gave to Virtue, all she won from Fame;
Who o'er a realm her vast proscenium threw,
And saw all Athens in one splendid view;
With Attick genius moral truth impressed,
And taught a nation, while she charmed a guest!
The vital virtue of my heart had fled!
What though to victory patriot Valour wades;
Or musing Science consecrates thy shades;
While thankless Praise on dangerous Glory frowns,
And Envy banishes, whom Fortune crowns;
While the blest seer, who taught all, Nature knew,
Receives a chalice for the heaven he drew.
And stalk like spectres o'er thy trembling stage!
Ruled by caprice, with varying passion raised,
As rhetorick flattered, or as triumph blazed;
Bound by no law, a trope could not repeal,
Just to no merit, faction could not feel;
A crowd of schools, and a scholastick crowd,
Light, though forensick, impotent, though loud;
Wild by abstraction, and by fiction vain,
Crude by refinement, and by sense insane;
With learning fooled thee, 'till thy folly learned;
With clamoruus Wisdom waged its patriot feud,
'Till words alone defended publick good,
Disgusted Pallas her allegiance broke,
Ilium revived, and bade thee pass the yoke.
While Taste explores, where Time's rude step has been,
Thy marble fragments, and thy desert mart,
Frown Fate to Faction, and Despair to Art;
Alike they mark thy frenzy and thy fame,
Record thy glory, and confess thy shame!
The gates of Greece received the victor's car;
Chained to his wheels, was captive Faction led,
And Taste transplanted bloomed at Tyber's head.
O'er the rude minds of Empire's hardy race,
The opening pupil beamed of lettered grace.
With charms so sweet, the houseless Drama smiled,
That Rome adopted Athens orphan child:
With bounty cloathed her, and with kindness cheered,
Her fancy copied, and her satire feared;
Vice, fashion, folly—to her power resigned,
And bowed an empire to the Muse's mind.
Wealth, honour, fame her Cesar's hand bestowed,
Wit, virtue, grace repaid the debt, she owed;
Life breathed in fable, eloquence in mien,
And manners taught how morals should be seen.
From Beauty's touch no mail could guard the heart,
Rome conquered science and was ruled by art.
Her patriots mouldered, but her poets lived.
Fledged by her hand, the Mantuan swan aspired;
Glanced by her eye, e'en Pompey's self retired;
And raptured Tully half his graces caught,
While Roscius bodied all the forms of thought.
Sheathed was the sword, by which a world had bled;
And Janus blushing to his temple fled:
The Globe's proud butcher grew humanely brave;
Earth staunched her wounds, and Ocean hushed his wave.
Beheld her empire circle round the sky;
And saw along the ever rolling view,
Her shadow tremble, as her pennons flew.
Around her throne Pretorian cohorts stood,
Yet Fiction governed what her arms subdued.
O'er vassal man she dared not reign alone,
And called the Drama to support her throne;
And shook her sceptre, and her legions led,
When spoke the Larva, or the Arena bled.
Groaning with Slavery's mountain on their breast,
Her giant nations struggled from disgrace,
And Rome, like Ætna, tottered to her base.
And, wrapped in clouds, lowered on the Gothick night.
Dark gloomed the storm—the rushing torrent poured,
And wide the deep Cimmerian deluge roared;
And seas of dulness rolled, without a shore.
Yet, ere the surge Parnassus' top o'erflowed,
The banished Muses fled their blest abode.
Frail was their ark, the heaven topped seas to brave,
The wind their compass, and their helm the wave;
No port to cheer them, and no star to guide,
From clime to clime they roved the billowy tide;
At length, by storms and tempests wafted o'er,
They found an Ararat on Albion's shore.
And scarcely seemed to vegetate the stage;
Nature, in dotage, second childhood mourned,
Outlived her wisdom, and to straw returned.
But, hark! her mighty rival sweeps the strings;
Sweet Avon, flow not!—'tis thy Shakespeare sings!
With Blanchard's wing, in Fancy's heaven he soars;
With Herschel's eye, another world explores!
Taught by the tones of his melodious song,
The scenick Muses tuned their barbarous tongue,
With subtle powers the crudest soul refined,
And warmed the Zombia of the dormant mind.
The World's new queen, Augusta, owned their charms,
And clasped the Grecian nymphs in British arms.
The Drama's province was the human heart.
No tint of verse can paint the extatick view,
When Garrick sighed the Muse his last adieu!
Description but a shadow's shade appears,
When Siddons' looks a nation into tears!
Her soul o'erflows and Grief her face bedews;
Sworn at the altar, proud Oppression's foe,
She weeps, indignant for her Britain's woe.
Long has she cast a fondly wishful eye,
On the pure climate of the Western sky;
And now, while Europe bleeds at every vein,
And pinioned forests shake the crimsoned main;
While sea-walled Britain mid the tempest stands,
And hurls her thunders from a thousand hands;
Lured by a clime, where, hostile arms afar,
Peace rolls luxurious in her dove drawn car;
Where Freedom first awoke the human mind,
And broke the enchantment, which enslaved mankind;
Behold! Apollo seeks this liberal plain,
And brings the Thespian Goddess in his train.
O, happy realm! to whom are richly given
The noblest bounties of indulgent Heaven;
For whom has Earth her wealthiest mine bestowed,
And Commerce bridged old Ocean's broadest flood;
To you a stranger guest, the Drama, flies;
An angel wanders in a pilgrim's guise!
To charm the fancy and to feast the heart,
She spreads the banquit of the Scenick art.
By you supported, shall her infant stage
Pourtray, adorn, and regulate the age.
When rages Faction with intemperate sway,
And grey-haired Vices shame the face of day;
Drawn from their covert to the indignant pit,
Be such the game to stock the park of Wit;
That park, where Genius all his shafts may draw,
Nor dread the terrors of a forest law.
Her polished life an ample field shall find;
Reflected here, its fair perspective, view,
The stage, the Camera—the landscape, you.
A radiant galaxy of charms divine;
Whose gentle hearts those tender scenes approve,
Where pity begs, or kneels adoring love;
Ye sons of sentiment, whose bosom fire
The song of pathos, and the epick lyre;
Whose glowing souls with tragick grandeur rise,
When bleeds a hero, or a nation dies;
And ye, who, throned on high, a Synod sit,
And rule the turbid atmosphere of wit;
Whose clouds dart light'ning on our comick wires,
And burst in thunder, as the flash expires.
If here, those eyes, whose tears with peerless sway,
Have wept the vices of an Age away;
If here, those lips, whose smiles with magick art,
Have laughed the foibles from the cheated heart;
On Mirth's gay cheek, can one bright dimple light;
In Sorrow's breast, one passioned sigh excite;
With nobler streams, the Buskin's grief shall fall;
With pangs sublimer, throb this breathing wall;
Thalia too, more blythe, shall trip the stage,
Of Care the wrinkles smooth, and thaw the veins of Age.
With Beauty blazoned, and by Taste revered;
Apollo consecrates thy walls profane,—
Hence be thou sacred to the Muses reign!
A Sophocles shall sweep his lofty lyre;
A Terence rise, in chariest charms serene;
A Sheridan display the polished scene;
The first, with epick Grief shall swell the stage,
And give to virtue fiction's noblest rage;
The second, laws to Beauty shall impart,
And copy nature by the rules of art;
The last, great master, ends invention's strife,
And gilds the mirror, which he holds to life!
Thy classick lares shall exalt our times,
With distant ages and remotest climes;
And Athens, Rome, Augusta, blush to see,
Their virtue, beauty, grace, all shine—combined in thee.
THE INVENTION OF LETTERS:
A POEM, WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE PRESIDENT OF HARVARD UNIVERSITY; AND DELIVERED, IN CAMBRIDGE, ON THE DAY OF ANNUAL COMMENCEMENT, JULY 15, 1795.
TO HIS EXCELLENCY GEORGE WASHINGTON, WHOSE CIVICK AND MILITARY VIRTUES DESERVE A NOBLER EULOGIUM, THAN THE “INVENTION OF LETTERS” CAN BESTOW, THIS POEM IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, BY AN OBEDIENT AND GRATEFUL CITIZEN,
THE AUTHOR.
That erst to Tyre its chaste embraces gave;
Scarce had the bold Phœnician, forced to roam
By barren nature and a desert home;
His vales of rock exchanged for Ocean's field,
And left the plough's, the trident's beam to wield;
When Cadmus, eldest heir of classick fame,
First gave each element of thought a name.
Of oral tongue the varying sounds he caught,
For every tone a varying emblem wrought;
From signs a word; from words a period flows;
A page succeeds, and next a volume grows.
He sketched the features of the viewless mind;
At length aspired to rhetorick's colouring grace,
And pictured thought, as artists shade the face.
His glorious art the bold discoverer bore.
In that calm seat of innocence and ease,
Where Nature strove to bless, and Life to please:
For Anger's fluid surface was at rest.
With rising sun, the swain his course renewed,
His flock conducted, or his Daphne wooed;
And when his vows she heard in dale or grove,
Her smile was friendship; but her blush was love.
No jealous fear, as roving arm in arm,
Her brow could wrinkle, or her heart alarm;
As chaste, as Eve, when she, in virtue pure,
Without a fig-leaf thought her charms secure.
And arts and arms employed the active mind.
From Attick climes, the Cadmean tablet spread,
And Roman eyes the page of Athens read.
By Genius sunned, by fond Ambition nursed,
Forth from its germ the flower of Science burst.
Now rose the temple; now the clarion rung;
The forum thundered, and the Muses sung:
Now flew the shuttle; now the quarry broke;
There breathed the canvass; here the marble spoke.
Whose green tombs flourish in immortal prime.
May no rude Saracen's unhallowed tread
Profane the ashes of the classick dead!
But let the pedant, whelmed in learned dust,
Who values Science only for its rust,
No more presume with bigot zeal to raise,
O'er modern worth, the palm of ancient days.
No more let Athens to the world proclaim,
Her classick phalanx holds the field of fame;
The birth of letters, as of commerce, boast;
And thou, proud Tyber! vaunt those waves no more,
Which once a Cesar bathed, a Virgil bore!
The barbarous Rhine now blends its classick name,
With Rome's, Phœnicia's, and Achaia's fame;
See, midst her waves, their fragrance to restore,
He dips the laurels, which your heroes wore;
Green with new life, and chastened of their dust,
Restores each chaplet to its votive bust.
Sovereign of Art, Invention's noblest son,
He claims the bays, which every art has won;
Of fame unenvious, living worth rewards,
And loves the genius, which his page records.
A king could mummy, or enrich a feast;
Faustus, great shade! a nobler leaf imparts,
Embalms all ages, and preserves all arts.
With faultering finger traced the lingering line.
So few the scrivener's dull profession chose,
With tedious toil each tardy transcript rose;
And scarce the Iliad, penned from oral rhyme,
Grew with the bark, that bore its page sublime.
The useful sheet, on thousand wings it flies;
Bound to no climate, to no age confined,
The pinioned volume spreads to all mankind.
O'er time to triumph, and defy the flame:
In one sad day a Goth could ravage more,
Than ages wrote, or ages could restore.
A realm might conquer, or a realm inspire;
Then sink, oblivious, in the mouldering dust,
With those who blest them, and with those who curst.
What guide had then the lettered pilgrim led,
Where Plato moralized; where Cesar bled?
What page had told, in lasting record wrought,
The world who butchered, or the world who taught?
To burst the cearments of each buried age.
Through the drear sepulchre of sunless Time,
Rich with the trophied wrecks of many a clime,
Thy daring genius broke the pathless way,
And brought the glorious relicks forth to day.
The map of ages, which his page bestows:
From thee e'en Fame inhales the air, she breathes,
And crowns thy brows with tributary wreathes!
To expand the heart, and civilize the mind,
In feats, like these, each statesman has outdone;
From Nimrod's house of peers, to Chatham's peerless son!
It weeds the morals, while it prunes the taste.
But when, in thraldom of oppressive chains,
The curb of power the liberal press restrains,
Vice, who has charms, Circassia never knew,
In voice a Circe, and in poison too,
With luring dimples, and with wanton smiles,
The eye enamours, and the heart beguiles.
In publick veins her foul infections roll,
Seduce the nation, and corrupt its soul.
Trapped in crim. con. the tripping queen of love,
Of late at Gaul's lascivious court been spread,
Ere fettered Type from dread Bastile was led;
The magick seine, such shoals its wires had caught,
Like Peter's net, had broken with the draught!
With fond affection, seeks its kindred pole,
To bless the globe, had ne'er explored the wave,
But, Cortes-like, discovered to enslave.
Had letters ne'er the bold ambition crowned,
And Printing polished what the magnet found;
In vain had Gama traced the orient way,
And Europe stretched her wings 'mid Indian day;
In vain Columbus, spurning Neptune's roar,
Gave earth a balance, and the sea a shore,
'Till truth-winged Science, bursting Error's night,
Shed her religion, where she beamed her light.
Which bade the slumbering rights of Nature rise;
Stripped of his mask, the despot's face displayed,
And showed the world the monster, they obeyed.
Not Cordé's dagger deeper cleft the heart;
Not tower-armed elephant, nor bursting mine,
The battering aries, nor the blazing line,
With deadlier prowess spread their fatal rage,
Than Type, indignant for an injured age.
When patriots, leagued a nation to redress,
At tyrants point the artillery of the press,
Loud, o'er the gorgeous canopy of state,
It falls, like Erie; and it strikes, like Fate;
Wide as La Plata, as the Andes high,
Its thunders echo, and its lightnings fly;
To heaven appealed, ascends the dread decree;
The tyrant falls—America is free!
Green be the tombs where sleep her patriot hosts.
May war-worn Scipio reap the field, he gained,
Nor see his laurels stripped, his honour stained!
Ne'er may a warrior's urn reproach the brave,
Ungrateful Rome, thou can'st not rob my grave!
By freemen loved, by distant climes caressed,
Columbia rules a brave and generous land,
And scatters blessings, where her laws command.
Nor gleam her caverns with Peruvian ore;
Rich is the soil, through which her rivers run,
And all her diamonds ripen in the sun.
Let torrid climes in sterile caves infold
Their gleaming vineyards of luxuriant gold;
Let India boast the philosophick churl,
Who starves an oyster, to create a pearl.
Thee happier wealth, Columbia, Fate has given,
Nor gleans from famine what descends from heaven.
Thy native mines nor rod nor art require,
To dig by magick, nor to purge by fire;
And chymick skill, thy glittering veins to trace,
Resigns thy bosom, to survey thy face.
Their votive shrine Apollo's offspring raise.
With youthful Fancy, or with matron Taste,
They cull the meadow, or explore the waste;
Each tract, they culture, verdant life perfumes;
With Judgment ripens, or with Genius blooms.
With classick truth, a Belknap charms the age;
In cloudless splendour, modest Minot shines;
And Bunker flames, in Allen's glowing lines.
By sister arts and kindred powers allied,
The Trumbulls rise, the lyre's and pencil's pride;
And every muse has carved Philenia's name,
On every laurel in the grove of Fame.
Presiding Science rolls her copious tide.
Blest seat of letters, to thy sacred walls
This festive day my fond remembrance calls!
In Life's broad road, whate'er my path may be,
Full oft shall Memory turn to gaze on thee;
Still, like some faithful ghost, delight to dwell,
And hover o'er the spot, she loved so well!
That braves the weakness of the human mind.
Born in the pore, it burrows through the heart,
And kills the oak, whose leaf it could not start.
Her nightly dæmons load the groaning press.
With cobwebs hung, she rubs her sleepless eyes,
While Norfolk spiders weave her half-spun lies.
Her motley brood by law, nor gospel tied,
Whom honour cannot bind, nor reason guide,
The dregs of nature and of vice compose;
For Envy these creates, and Folly those.
In tricks expert, or buzzing on the wing,
Like apes, they mimick, or, like insects, sting!
And still another useless proof supply—
The sun that warms a monkey, breeds a fly!
Whirled in their vortex, sinks each humbler friend.
See Crispin quit his stall, in Faction's cause,
To cobble government, and soal the laws!
To shave the treaty, or to puff Genet!
In doubtful mood, see Mulciber debate,
To mend a horse-shoe, or to weld the state!
The whip's bold knight, in barn, his truck has laid,
To spout in favour of the carrying trade!
While Staytape runs, from hissing goose, too hot,
To measure Congress for another coat;
And still, by rule of shop, intent on pelf,
Eyes the spare cloth, to cabbage for himself!
Not Cato shunned, nor Hercules subdued.
On Fame's wide field, where'er a covert lies,
The rustling serpent to the thicket flies;
The foe of Glory, Merit is her prey;
The dunce she leaves, to plod his drowsy way.
Of birth amphibious, and of Protean skill,
This green-eyed monster changes shape at will;
Like snakes of smaller breed, she sheds her skin;
Strips off the serpent, and turns—Jacobin.
From George's banks, to Vernon's laurel shade.
E'en to thy brow, immortal Freedom's Sire!
Her pagan hands, in sacrilege, aspire!
Can'st thou, great Chief, her thankless sons forgive,
Who owe to thee the soil, on which they live?
These senseless reptiles, who, with Slander's bane,
The bright medallion of thy life would stain,
Yield to the glories of thy deathless name,
The noblest tribute ever paid by fame.
When Heaven is shadowed by the clouds they raise:
And the proud pyramids, that propped the sky,
Whose spires were scarcely kenned by mortal eye;
Whose height the loftiest strides of Art surpassed,
Were measured only by the shade they cast.
Friend of all climates; pride of every age!
Were thine the laurels, every soil could raise,
The mighty harvest were penurious praise.
Well may our realms thy Fabian wisdom boast;
Thy prudence saved, what bravery had lost.
Yet e'er hadst thou, by Heaven's severer fates,
Like Sparta's hero at the Grecian straits,
Been doomed to meet, in arms, a world of foes,
Whom skill could not defeat, nor walls oppose;
Then had thy breast, by danger ne'er subdued,
The mighty buckler of thy country stood;
Proud of its wounds, each piercing spear would bless,
Which left Columbia's foes one javelin less;
Nor felt one pang, but, in the glorious deed,
Thy little band of heroes, too, must bleed;
Nor throbbed one fear, but, that some poisoned dart
Thy breast might pass, and reach thy country's heart!
Shall sit the disk of thy resplendent name;
But, like yon Arctick star, forever roll,
In ceaseless orbit, round the glowing pole.
With power extensive, as sublime his mind,
Thy glorious life a volume should compose,
As Alps immortal, spotless as its snows.
The stars should be its types—its press the age;
The earth its binding—and the sky its page.
In language set, not Babel could o'erturn;
On leaves impressed, which Omar could not burn;
The sacred work in Heaven's high dome should stand,
Shine with its suns, and with its arch expand;
'Till Nature's-self the Vandal torch should raise,
And the vast alcove of Creation blaze!
THE RULING PASSION;
AN OCCASIONAL POEM, WRITTEN BY THE APPOINTMENT OF THE SOCIETY OF THE PHI BETA KAPPA; AND SPOKEN, ON THEIR ANNIVERSARY, IN THE CHAPEL OF THE UNIVERSITY, CAMBRIDGE, JULY 20, 1797.
That little world, that greater wonder, man.
So intimate is the analogy between the physical and moral kingdoms, that man is not unfrequently styled a microcosm. To define every feature of the resemblance, would fill volumes; and were the natural history of this “Biped without feathers,’ in all his affections, seasons, and properties, written with the greatest perspicacity, it would demand more talent and labour, than the philosophical or botanical researches of a Linnæus, or a Darwin.
The Sage's study, which but few improve;
Religion's mystery, which none remove;
Reason's proud toy; in his machine unite
Powers, dense as earth; conceptions, rare as light;
Its wheels more complex, than the central sphere,
Which guides a comet, while it moulds a tear;
Its springs more subtle, than the secret soul,
Which bids a world cohere, an atom roll.
More led by sense, yet more with mind endued;
His nature oftener sets our world at odds,
Than Jove, in Ovid's “Green-Room” of the gods.
There is a Magazine of theatrical biography published annually in London, called “The Green-Room;” which is not only replete with sketches of the dramatick characters of the actors and actresses, but is sometimes enlivened with the tender anecdote of private amour.
Ovid, who “took a peep behind the curtain” of Olympus, has Pasquin-ized the intrigues of Jupiter's court in the same figurative style of elegant “tete à tete!”
In one grave maxim let us all agree;
Nature ne'er meant her secrets should be found,
And man's a riddle, which man can't expound!
For paths more pervious to our ken of sight;
Vain were our pride, like Icarus of yore,
In realms of fire, on wings of wax, to soar;
Ours be the Muse, who humbler tracts essays;
Descends from theory, and life portrays.
On what man is, the schools may disagree,
We only know him, as he seems to be.
No wonder moves it, and excites no pride,
When bards, less curious than Lavater, find
Some spring of action ruling every mind.
Some prowl the earth, and some ascend the day:
This charms the fancy, that the palate feasts;
A motley Pantheon of birds and beasts!
The Egyptian mythology was so heterogeneous and absurd, that, not confined to the extensive regions of animated nature, that hieroglypical nation stupidity descended to the vegetable world, to fill the niches of their temples. “In Egypt,” says a learned writer, “it was more difficult to find a man, than a God.”
Some kindred character of man to take;
In the base jackall's, or gay leopard's mien,
The servile pimp, or gay coquette, were seen;
The patient camel, long inured to dine
But once a fortnight, would a poet shine;
The stag, a cit, with antlered brows content;
The rake, a pointer, always on the scent;
The snake, a statesman; and the wit, a gnat;
The ass, an alderman; the scold, a cat;
The wife, a ring-dove, on the myrtle's top;
The wolf, a lawyer; the baboon, a fop!
A different outline, marked in every face;
From chiefs, who laurels reap in fields of blood,
Down to the hind, who tills those fields for food;
From the lorn nymph, in cloistered abbey pent,
Whose friars teach to love, and to repent,
To the young captive in the Haram's bower,
Blest for a night, and empress of an hour;
From ink's retailers, perched in garret high,
Cobwebbed around with many a mouldy lie;
Down to the pauper's brat, who, luckless wight!
Deep in the cellar first received the light;
All, all impelled, as various passions move,
To write, to starve, to conquer, or to love!
All join to shift Life's versicoloured scenes,
Priests, poets, fiddlers, courtesans and queens;
And be it pride, or dress, or wealth, or fame,
The acting principle is ne'er the same.
Each takes a different rout, o'er hill, or vale,
The tangled forest, or the greensward dale.
But they, who chiefly crowd the field, are those,
Who live by fashion—constables and beaus.
The first, I ween, are men of high report,
The law's staff-officers, and known at court.
The last, sweet elves, whose rival graces vie,
To wield the snuff-box, or enact a sigh:
To Fashion's gossamer their lives devote,
The frieze, the cane, the cravat and the coat
In taste unpolished, yet in ton precise,
They sleep at theatres, and wake at dice;
While, like the pilgrim's scrip, or soldier's pack,
They carry all their fortune on their back.
Grave, without sense; “o'erflowing, yet not full.”
See, the lank book-worm, piled with lumbering lore,
Wrinkled in Latin, and in Greek fourscore,
With toil incessant, thumbs the ancient page,
Now blots a hero, now turns down a sage!
O'er Learning's field, with leaden eye he strays,
Mid busts of fame, and monuments of praise.
With Gothick foot, he treads on flowers of taste,
Yet stoops to pick the pebbles from the waste.
Profound in trifles, he can tell, how short
Were Æsop's legs, how large was Tully's wart;
Æsop, the Phrygian, the most celebrated fabulist of antiquity, was not only disfigured in his legs, but was deformed in almost every other part of his body.
Marcus Tullius Cicero, the father of Roman oratory, is said to have received his last appellation, from an uncommon excrescence on his cheek, resembling a Cicer, or vetch.
And, scaled by Gunter, marks, with joy absurd,
The cut of Homer's cloak, and Euclid's beard!
This learned ploughman plods in piteous plight;
'Till the dim taper takes French leave to doze,
And the fat folio tumbles on his toes.
Where lynx might sleep, and half-starved owlet hoot;
With head of adamant, and nerves of steel;
Without or pulse to throb, or soul to feel;
Not Warren's glory could one bliss supply,
Nor Trenck's captivity excite a sigh.
Should Beauty's queen, in all her charms disclosed,
As when to Paris' wondering eyes exposed,
She loosed her cestus, and unyoked her doves,
And stood unveiled 'mid Ida's conscious groves,
Attempt, with lovliest attitude of Art,
To warm the polar current of his heart;
To carve mount Athos to the form of man!
Whose heart was virtue, and whose form is grace.
In Life's gay prime, when passion, pure as truth,
Bids the blood frolick through the veins of youth;
The plighted vow her easy ear received,
The proffered faith her glowing heart believed.
Artless herself, she thought the world so too,
Nor feared those vices, which she never knew.
Ill-fated girl, thy erring steps declare,
Truth should suspect, and Innocence beware!
Ere retrospection chill the young delight;
The airy web of Fancy's dreams to prove,
Unbind the bandeau from the brow of Love!
The cypress shade it, and the willow mourn;
When the fond maid, subdued in Reason's trance,
Child of Desire, and pupil of Romance,
Beneath the pensile palm, or aloed grove,
Like Cleopatra, yields the world for love.
Poor is the trophy of seductive Art,
Which, but to triumph, subjugates the heart;
Or, Tarquin-like, with more licentious flame,
Stains manly truth to plunder female fame.
Life's deepest penace never can atone,
For Hope deluded, or for Virtue flown.
Might cheat the tempting crocodile in guile.
Thorns be their pillow; agony their sleep;
Nor e'en the mercy given, to “wake and weep!”
May screaming night-fiends, hot in recreant gore,
Rive their strained fibres to their heart's rank core,
Till startled Conscience heap, in wild dismay,
Convulsive curses on the source of day!
With modern head-dress on a block antique,
Trips through the croud, and, ogling all who pass,
Stares most demurely, through an Op'ra glass!
Sunk in the wane, she courts the gay parade;
A belle of Plato's age, a sweet old maid.
While lived her beauty, (for 'tis now a ghost!)
The fair one's envy, and the fopling's toast;
What slaughtered hearts by her fierce eye-beams fell,
Let Fiction's brokers, bards and tombstones, tell.
Fled are the charms, which graced that ivory brow;
Where smiled a dimple, gapes a wrinkle now:
And e'en that pouting lip, where whilom grew
The mellow peach-down, and the ruby's hue,
No more can trance the ear with sweeter sounds,
Than fairies warble on enchanted grounds!
The knee adoring, and the stolen kiss;
And for the Persian worship of the eye,
Meets the arch simper of the mimick sigh.
Still she resolves her empire to regain,
And rifles Fashion, tortures Art, to reign.
She seems December in the robes of May;
And oft, more coy, coquettes behind her fan
That odious monster—dear, sweet creature, man!
And, spite of essences and rouge, grown old;
Each softer passion yields to Pride's controul,
And sour Misanthropy usurps her soul.
Now, first on man, the spleeny gossip rails,
Arraigns his justice, and his taste assails;
Till, as her tea's exhausted fragrance flies,
Her wit evaporates, her scandal dies.
Yet still invidious of the art to bless,
She blasts the joys, she lingers to possess;
And, while on Hymen's bridal rites she sneers,
Her pillow trickles with repentant tears.
While thus, to all her sex's pleasures dead,
She vents her rage on Adam's guilty head,
Who rather chose, than lose his rib for life,
To have the crooked member made a wife;
From waking woe to visioned bliss she flies,
And dreams of raptures, which her fate denies.
The tender flame, which warmed her youthful mind,
By affectation's mawkish rules confined,
Though quenched its heat, illumes with many a ray,
The tedious evening of her fading day;
And though unknown, unnoticed, and unblest,
Still suns the impassive winter of her breast.
He looks the very skeleton of Spleen!
Some desert abbey, or some druid's tomb;
Where, hersed in earth, his occult riches lay,
Fleeced from the world, and buried from the day.
With crutch in hand, he points his mineral rod,
Limps to the spot, and turns the well-known sod;
While there, involved in night, he counts his store,
By the soft tinklings of the golden ore;
He shakes with terror, lest the moon should spy,
And the breeze whisper, where his treasures lie.
If living, he must pay a doctor's bill,
Still clings to life, of every joy bereft;
His god is gold, and his religion theft!
And, as of yore, when modern vice was strange,
Could leathern money current pass on 'change,
His reptile soul, whose reasoning powers are pent
Within the logick bounds of cent per cent,
Would sooner coin his ears, than stocks should fall,
And cheat the pillory, than not cheat at all!
The blithe Savoyard hails the peep of morn;
And while the fluid gold his eye surveys,
The hoary Glaciers fling their diamond blaze;
Geneva's broad lake rushes from its shores,
Arve gently murmurs, and the rough Rhone roars.
'Mid the cleft Alps, his cabin peers from high,
Hangs o'er the clouds, and perches on the sky.
O'er fields of ice, across the headlong flood,
From cliff to cliff he bounds in fearless mood.
Deep thunder mutters, harmless light'ning flies;
While, far above, from battlements of snow,
Loud torrents tumble on the world below;
On rustick reed he wakes a merrier tune,
Than the lark warbles on the “Ides of June.”
Far off, let Glory's clarion shrilly swell;
He loves the musick of his pipe as well.
Let shouting millions crown the hero's head,
And Pride her tesselated pavement tread;
More happy far, this denizen of air
Enjoys what Nature condescends to spare:
His days are jocund, undisturbed his nights;
His spouse contents him, and his mule delights!
To whom my fond youth's earliest vows were paid;
Who, dressed in sapphire robes, with eye of fire,
Didst first my unambitious rhyme inspire;
Lured by whose charms, I left, in passioned hope,
My Watts's Logick for the page of Pope;
If e'er regardful of thy wildered sons,
For whom so gingerly Life's current runs;
Who, like the slaves, beneath the iron sway
Of cursed Mezentius lingering, loath the day,
Doomed, horrid Fate! the living Muse to see,
Bound to the mouldering corpse of Penury;
Descend, like Jove, suffused in golden shower,
And on our garret-roofs the rain drops pour!
But if the current of Castalia's waves
No Wicklow mine, no Georgian acre, laves;
Their taste extinguish, and take back thy lyre.
Dunces by instinct thrive, as oysters woo!
For ne'er were veins of ore by chymist found,
Except, like Hebrew roots, in barren ground!
Was born, as grannams say, to be a bard!
Which is, in prose, if rightly understood,
To chum with spiders, and catch flies for food.
Each bright ephemera of the brain pursues;
Ere sobered Fancy, touched by Reason's ray,
Sees all her frost-work castles melt away;
Were, then, the enthusiast bard, like Moses, led
To Pisgah's top, and life in vision spread;
There, while he blessed the promised land, were told,
The Canaan, he must ne'er possess, was gold;
How many minstrels of the classick lay
Had left the Appian, for the Indian way!
How few would lumber, negligent of pelf,
The Printer's garret, or the Grocer's shelf!
Is all the meed, which poets e'er enjoy;
Nor e'en her fickle, short embrace possess,
'Till all her charms have lost the power to bless.
Than Cesar's eagles, or the Mantuan swan,
From eldest era, share the common doom;
The sun of Glory shines but on the tomb.
Firm, as the Mede, the stern decree subdues
The brightest pageant of the proudest Muse.
Man's noblest powers could ne'er the law revoke,
Though Handel harmonized what Chatham spoke;
Though tuneful Morton's magick genius graced
The Hyblean melody of Merry's taste!
Robert Merry, esquire, the only pupil in the school of Collins, who possesses the genius of his master, is the author of those elegant poems in the British Album, signed Della Crusca, of Paulina— the Pains of Memory, and several dramatick pieces. In the summer of 1791, he married Miss Brunton, a celebrated actress in Covent-Garden theatre, and no less admired for her pre-eminent talents as a daughter of the Buskin, than esteemed as a woman of unblemished principles, and polished accomplishments.
Mrs. Morton, of Dorchester, the reputed authoress of an heroick Poem, of much merit, entitled “Beacon-Hill,” may, without hesitation, be announced the American Sappho.
With rigid justice, portions praise and shame:
And, while his laurels, reared where Genius grew,
'Mid wide Oblivion's lava bloom anew;
Oft will his chymick fire, in distant age,
Elicit spots, unseen on ancient page.
'Mid pagan deities enshrined his name;
'Till from the iliack mountain's crater thrown,
The Martyr's sandal cost the God his crown.
Empedocles is recorded, in fabulous history, to have leaped into the flames of Ætna, to obtain, in the dark ages of paganism, an apotheosis for his memory; but the brass slipper, which he had worn during his hermitage in a cave of the mountain, was soon after thrown up by the volcano, and exposed the impostor to the world.
While the red war beleagured Mantua's gate,
And bade his myrmidons the village spare,
Where Virgil first inhaled his natal air.
Has sketched a various, though a crude survey,
Say, shall Columbia's sons the theme prolong?
Their “Ruling Passion” claims our noblest song.
To guard their Lares, and protect their fires;
To rear a race, enlightened, brave and free,
Heirs of the soil, and tenants of the sea;
Whose breasts the Union shield, its laws revere,
As country sacred, and as freedom dear.
The rich fee-simple of their native land;
While, mid the labours of the ripening plain,
They form the phalanx, and the courser train;
While, in our martial school, are chiefs enrolled,
As Lincoln prudent, and as Putnam bold;
While, Catiline expelled, our senate prize
Hearts, just as Russell's; heads, as Bowdoin's, wise;
While guides our realm a patriot sage, who first,
When Power's volcano o'er our nation burst,
Unawed, like Pliny, saw the flame aspire,
And cities sink in cataracts of fire;
Undaunted heard the rocking of the spheres,
While all Vesuvius thundered in his ears:
The first eruption of this mountain happened in the 79th year of the Christian era. Pliny, the elder, a man no less renowned for forensick than military powers, was at that time commander of a fleet in the bay of Misenum. Unintimidated by the terrible phenomenon, he hastened with his ships to the relief of the nobility and peasants, whose villas and farms had been ingulphed in the flames. In this benevolent and heroick attempt, he died by suffocation. This eruption destroyed the cities of Herculaneum, and Pompeii. To support the poetick allusion, it may be necessary to add, that the burning of the towns of Charlestown and Fairfield, in the revolutionary war, affords but too prominent a trait in the similitude.
No longer dread Columbia's gallant host,
The fierce invader, lowering on their coast;
Nor wiles of traitors, nor Corruption's power;
Nor Blount's conspiracy, nor Randolph's “flour!”
What Rhetorick graced the orgies of the Club?
But now, an injured people, wiser grown,
Taught dear Experience, by the wrongs they've known;
This maxim hold, which much fine spouting saves,
Ex-clusive patriots are con-clusive knaves!
Would sweep from earth Sedition's wayward band;
Scourged by their crimes, redeem the scattered host,
Nor let the remnant of her tribe be lost;
With arm relenting, to their morbid gaze,
The mystick serpent of thy mercy raise:
The sins of Faction, now deceased, forgive,
While her repenting sons look up and live!
As is Columbia, may she ever be!
May Europe's storms ne'er damp the generous flame,
Which warms each bosom for his country's fame!
Long roll between our shores the Atlantick tide;
Wide as our hemispheres, our laws divide!
And should some earthquake, with more powerful vent,
Than that, which Dover's cliffs from Calais rent,
With prisoned force insurging Neptune's reign,
Convulse the deep foundations of the main,
Till both the continents, in Nature's fright,
Cleft from their bases, totter to unite;
May Fate the closing empires intervene,
And raise, when Ocean sinks, and Alps between!
In the broad charter of co-equal right,
Where publick Will invests the civil sway,
Where those, who govern, must in turn obey;
From Party's chrysalis, unseen to rise,
The buzzing beetle of Ambition flies.
What time, those fiends accursed no longer draw
The People's sanction from the People's law;
And Concord's temple hears a nation's vows;
When every sect supports, with patriot zeal,
One universal creed, the publick weal:
Then, blest Columbia, shall thy spotless fame
Shine, like the vestal lamp's perennial flame!
Then shall thy car disperse, thy Trident awe
The hovering hordes of predatory war;
Thy neutral flag protect its wealthy sail,
Freight every tide, and charter every gale;
The deep Patowmac's sea-like breast sustain
The keels of fleets, the commerce of the main:
And, while their giant shades project from high,
The walls of Washington shall lift the sky;
And see, expanding round thy Civick Dome,
The bay of Naples, and the towers of Rome!
By Terror governed, as on rapine built,
Like lost Palmyra, only shall be known,
By sculptured fragments of Colossal stone;
When thou, as musing Tully paused and wept,
Where Syracuse and Archimedes slept,
With solemn Sorrow and with pilgrim feet,
Shalt trace the shades of Vernon's still retreat,
And, as the votive marble's faithful page
Inscribes to Fame the Saviour of his age,
Shalt dew the knee-worn turf, with streaming eyes,
Where, urned in dust, the mighty Fabius lies:
Thy realm, maturing 'mid the feathery flight
Of ages, trackless as the plumes of light,
Of private Virtue ripening publick Love;
Which, Ægis-like, shall more thy foes appal,
Than China's fence, or Albion's floating wall;
Shall bid thy empire flourish and endure,
Thy people happy, and thy laws secure;
Thy Phœnix-Glory renovate its prime,
Extend with Ocean, and exist with Time.
DEDICATORY ADDRESS;
SPOKEN BY MR. HODGKINSON, OCTOBER 29, 1798, AT THE OPENING OF THE NEW FEDERAL THEATRE, IN BOSTON.
Friends, to the science of the human heart,
Behold the temple of the Muse aspire,
A Phœnix stage, which propagates by fire!
By magick reared, and with enchantment viewed,
Our dome, new mantled, 'mid its ravaged wall,
Stands, like Antæus, stronger by its fall;
And like Creusa's ghost, in Trojan strife,
Its spectre rises larger than its life!
Each latent charm our mimick life has graced;
Whose hearts yet ache, when Retrospection views
The woes and wanderings of the scenick Muse;
Since from the cradle of her young renown,
Her infant warblings lured the listening town,
To that dark era, when one luckless hour
Her empire ravaged, and dethroned her power,
Through chaos smiled this paradise of taste.
The mystick maids, who here unite their reign,
Whom bards and actors oft implore in vain,
With Truth's warm rapture, bid you welcome all,
Gents, belles, and godships, to their fairy hall;
Where Shakespeare's spirit, who delights to flit
O'er criticks' noses, snoring in the pit,
Like Hamlet's father, armed from casque to sandals,
Shall “visit oft the glimpses of” our candles!
Pulse to the brain, and vigour to the heart,
The Drama now her languid powers will rear,
The laugh awaken, and exhale the tear;
Correct, yet animate, she aims to join
Salvator's clouds with Hogarth's waving line,
And hopes, aspiring, by your favour warmed,
Again to charm you, as she once has charmed.
Recall the horrors of her late mischance,
When wrapt in bursting flames, and awful gloom,
She saw her temple mouldering to her tomb!
No more shall Nero's ravished eye behold
The usurping element these walls enfold;
Nor shall one tear from houseless Genius start,
To glut the savage pleasure of his heart!
And leagued the gods of water and of fire;
And clothe in Panoply the Dome of Wit;
While Neptune gave an urn, of such vast use,
'Tis always filling, like the widow's cruse!
Should whelming fire again invest our scenes,
Lest on your heads the blazing roof should fall,
We'll spring the Aqueduct, and drown you all!
“I'll burn first, smoke me,” cries a spruce young bobby,
“Splash me, I shan't be fit to walk the lobby!
“If roast or drown's the word, your fire commence, Sir,
“That clownish water always spots my spencer!”
Would wash away the stain of taylor's ink!
But don't swoon, beaus! another mode we'll try,
To save our lives, and keep your ruffles dry.
From fire and water your escape is certain;
Your shield of safety is—our Iron Curtain!
To tell you, that our Stage is all in flames!
The fire, though strange to you the sight might be,
First caught Mont Blanc, and then burnt up the sea;
The actors, like Octavian from his cave,
Rush from the Green-room, not to help, but rave;
While each one scampers in the other's way,
Like fops' umbrellas in a rainy day!
But let no belle in sweet hystericks fall;
Our Iron Curtain will protect you all!
'Twas nursed by patriots, and by traitors feared;
Its glowing scenes, the fire of States supplied,
For Valour's praises waked Ambition's pride;
And still the Drama, with corrected zeal,
Exists an engine of the publick weal.
Smeared with sedition, should the hand profane
Of plotting knaves, our nation's Chief arraign,
The indignant Stage would glory in the task,
From lurking demagogues to strip the mask;
Drag the dark traitor into publick shame,
And nail him to the pillory of Fame!
In such a cause, the powers of verse would rise,
'Till seared, and headless, Faction's hydra dies;
And the stern eagle would suspend his wing,
To listen, while the federal Muses sing.
Whose souls are reckless of their realm's disgrace.
Bid stormy oceans roll, and mountains rise,
Faction will cross them, and pollute your skies;
Her cursed miasma speeds its fatal way,
The gale impregnates, and attaints the day;
Her subtle root with equal vigour strikes,
In Gallia's hotbed, or in Holland's dykes.
On coldest shores, her rank luxuriance grows,
As Hecla flames 'mid Thule's endless snows.
The helm of state demands a master's skill.
The social compact is a bond so weak,
The feuds of party can the cement break;
Snap but the point, and you destroy the whole.
The people's virtue will support the laws;
And Publick Spirit crush, with arm elate,
The fiend, who dares “to clog the wheels of state.”
Who grin like monkeys, or like tygers fight,
Autun's meek priest, whose conscience knows no qualm,
Except the cravings of an itching palm;
Who, born a miser, and a prelate reared,
His flock deserted, when their fleece was sheared.
The ancient patriots from their niches jostles,
And calls French pirates, Liberty's apostles!
This, though the bishop spoke it, is no brag,
For he's the Judas, and still bears the bag!
And saved its glory from Venetian fate,
This silk-worm knave in vain has wound his maze,
In vain his basilisk eye has fixed its gaze;
In vain the holy pimp his toils has spread,
And smoothed Delilah's lap for Sampson's head.
Columbia stood, for sacrifice prepared;
High flamed the pyre; her struggling arms were bound;
The steel was lifted for the fatal wound;
When, like the angel, who, by God's command,
The filial off'ring saved from Abraham's hand,
Burst through the clouds which veiled the impious shrine;
The dagger seized, the felon chords released,
And snatched the victim from the apostate priest!
The five kings trembled in their dark divan!
Compelled new schemes of vengeance to devise,
They changed the lion's for the hyæna's cries.
No more their menanced wrath assailed our ears;
In sooth they seemed, “like Niobe, all tears!”
A fungus, sprouting from the filth of sin;
Whose dry trunk seasons in the frost of Vice,
Like radish, saved from rotting by the ice;
When threatening bailiffs first her conscience awe,
Not with the fear of shame, but fear of law,
Sets out at sixty, in contrition's search,
Rubs garlick on her eyes, and goes to church!
Whose kisses poison, while the harlot smiles,
With pious sorrow hears our cannon roar,
And swears devoutly, that she'll sin no more!
Which hailed their Adams cloathed in civick sway;
Which saw again our eagle's pinions reared,
His olive courted, and his arrows feared.
The peerless statesman of a peerless age,
With quenchless splendour beam through many a clime,
And light the darkling avenues of Time.
His deeds, on Glory's marble page engraved,
Shall live coeval with the realm, he saved;
And when, in Heaven beloved, as honoured here,
He shines the regent of some brighter sphere,
Nations shall mark the epoch of his birth,
With festal gratitude, and sainted mirth;
And ages, yet unborn, with grateful breast,
Shall rise, and call the shade of Adams blest!
ADDRESS
Delivered on the occasion of Master John H. Payne's first appearance on the Boston Stage, in the character of Young Norval.
An age of fame has sanctioned to delight!
Oft to their aid the Fabling Muse has come,
And called up Roscius, from his shroud at Rome!
We, loath to wake again the classick ghost,
A native Roscius on our boards can boast.
The fire of Nature struggling in his breast,
Forsook his cottage to atchieve a name,
And found a mother, where he sought for Fame!
Proud from her hand, the laurel he receives,
While tears of rapture glitter on its leaves!
In Thespian tournament to break the lance!
He throws no gauntlet at a critick age,
Nor dares with wits a rude encounter wage;
Yet, like the Norval of a sterner clime,
He hopes a boy's ambition is no crime!
Like him, he dares aspire to earn a name,
Your heart, his mother, your applause, his fame!
And humbly proud, if they correct, to learn!
That manly worth, which should not pass unsung.
Though o'er his head Life's spring has scarcely smiled,
A classick actor cannot be a child!
The rays of Fancy youthful bosoms warm,
Learning and Life, maturer minds inform!
Yet here, in manhood's dawn, he dares to raise
The torch of Science, to the shrine of Praise!
By Genius fired, he yields to Passion's glow;
Nor rules by verse the prosody of woe!
The tear of feeling Art can ne'er supply;
The heart must moisten, e'er it melts the eye!
He speaks from nature, and he looks from soul!
In all the Drama's technick lore untaught,
He reads by sentiment, and moves by thought.
When love-lorn Pathos pours its melting moan,
Truth's fibre trembles at his touching tone!
When o'er the scene contending Passions fly,
He groups the shadows with a Poet's eye.
And when his brows the hero's plumes erect,
“The blood of Douglas, can itself protect;”
Through Fiction's range, he gives, with skill profound,
Genius to Grace, and eloquence to Sound!
The tragick code of artificial speech
Taste may reject, or discipline may teach;
But, as the eye the trackless ridge explores,
Genius o'erleaps the cliff, where Labour never soars!
Formed the proud chapiter of Grecian taste.
Chance dropped the weight its yielding foliage twined,
And drooped, with graceful negligence inclined.
Sculpture a model saw, to Art unknown,
Copied the form, and turned the plant to stone!
The chiselled weed adorned the Temple's head,
And gods were worshipped, where its branches spread!
If in our Norval, candid judges find
Some kindred flower, to grace the stage designed;
If, to the pressure, Fortune has imposed,
You owe those talents, Art had ne'er disclosed;
If, like the graced Acanthus he appear,
Be you Callymachus, be Corinth here!
EPILOGUE TO THE SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER.
Before I change the widow for the bride;
Once more at this tribunal I appear,
A Soldier's Daughter and a volunteer.
Such am I now, though not by martial laws,
I volunteer it, in my sex's cause.
Ladies, I one proposal fain would make,
And trust you'll hear it for your country's sake.
While glory animates each manly nerve,
Shall gentle woman from the contest swerve?
No!
We'll form a female army—of reserve;
And class them thus: Young romps, are pioneers;
Widows, sharp-shooters; wives, are fusileers;
Maids, are battalion, that's—all under twenty;
And as for light troops, we have those in plenty!
Our smart, gay milliners, all decked with feather,
Are corps of infantry for summer weather!
Our belles, who, clad in cap and pantaloons
Shoot as they fly, shall be our light dragoons.
Old maids are spies; still fond of war's alarms,
They love the camp, although they don't bear arms!
Flirts are our van; for they, provoking elves!
Draw on a battle; but ne'er fight themselves.
They fear no danger, though in ambush ta'en;
For who'd suspect a prude, could lay a train?
Gossips, who talk by rote, and kill by prattle,
Shall serve for bulletins to every battle.
Vixens the trumpet blow; scolds beat the drum;
When thus prepared, what enemy dare come?
Those eyes, that even freemen could enslave,
Will light a race of vassals, to their grave;
So shall the artillery of female charms
Repel invaders, without force of arms.
I hope, at least, the honour of command.
Trained on this field, and disciplined by you,
I'm doomed to pass your critical review;
For all recruits are, by the law's direction,
Women, or soldiers, subject to inspection.
In love, or arms, which claims the greater skill,
Eyes that can rifle, or carbines that kill?
Which best displays the tacticks of the art,
To storm a city, or subdue a heart?
Yet one distinction woman's fate obtains;
When towns capitulate the victor reigns;
The vassal prisoner bows him to the stroke,
And owns the master, that imposed the yoke.
But woman, vanquished, still pursues the strife,
She yields her freedom, to become a wife,
And thus surrenders, but to rule for life!
A Carthian war she wages with her eyes;
Routed, she triumphs, and, triumphant, flies;
And grounds her arms to slaves, her eyes have won.
Disdaining peril, and inured to toil,
A firm, proud phalanx, whose undaunted hand
A bulwark rears to guard their native land;
And teach invading foes, that host to fear,
Which boast the name of patriot volunteer.
What say ye now? If you approve my plans,
Receive your general, with “presented fans!”
If you, this night, your efforts should combine,
To save our corps from anxious Hope and Fear,
And send out Mercy as a volunteer,
To whose white banner should the criticks flock,
Our rallying numbers might sustain the shock;
The sword shall drop, then cease impending slaughter,
If Mercy's shield protect—the Soldier's Daughter.
[Farewell, a long farewell! dear patrons, friends]
The following lines were spoken as a Valedictory Address, by Miss Fox, a child about five years old, at her benefit in May 1807.
This parting scene my infant bosom rends,
For spite of all my joy to see you here,
My heart will throb, and gush the frequent tear.
In you, my foster parents I behold;
Your kindness bade my tender mind unfold;
Warmed by your smiles, you saw me sportive run,
A little insect, fluttering in the sun;
Urchin I am, but me you've always loved,
My faults you pardoned, and my tricks approved;
My heart will break to be removed from you,
And oh! my mother—she has loved you too.
Full well you knew the faults of childish years;
The bud must blossom, e'er the fruit appears;
And oft, by smiling, you have seemed to say,
I'd grow a woman on some future day.
And then, some beau gallant my face might charm,
“Heaven save the mark,” these eyes may do some harm.
Oh! how I've longed, that I might older grow,
To join this mimick world of joy and woe;
And teach some future scene, with graceful ease,
To charm like Stanley, or like Powell please;
But, oh! those fairy prospects now are o'er,
Farewell! perhaps we part to meet no more;
She leaves the friends she loves, esteems, reveres;
Whate'er in life may be my varied lot,
Boston, dear Boston, ne'er shall be forgot;
Nor time shall bar, nor distance interfere,
My heart shall still return to visit here;
And if Success attend my riper days,
How proud I'll be to have deserved your praise.
May Heaven, whose bounty all our blessings sends,
Pluck from Life's path the thorn that would molest,
And smooth Death's pillow, as you sink to rest!
And then receive you, borne on white winged hours,
Through opening clouds, to Joy's eternal bowers!
EPILOGUE TO THE CLERGYMAN'S DAUGHTER.
While half, who gaze, can scarcely move at all;
Pert, as the elf, who, at a tonsor's shop,
Pops in a phantom, and pops out a fop;
As vain, as beauty, and as fashion, witty,
A tooth-pick Epilogue should lounge the city:
And prattle, comme il faut,—with nought to say,
A world of words—the newest kind of way!
Of every belle she was herself the tongue;
Then, a whole peerage would a play engage,
If she but simpered, “All the world's a stage,”
But now, in vain she sports her ancient airs,
For all the “men and women” have turned “players.”
Such is the strife among the motley rout,
They strip the actors, while they turn them out.
From Shakespeare's wardrobe each a fragment snatches,
And bustles through his part—in “shreds and patches!”
All loud alike, none perfect but in scraps,
They all gesticulate, but no one claps.
Puns by descent, are wit by common law;
And every foundling bon mot knows papa!
For Life's a Spouting Club,—without rehearsal.
Exclaims—“a frost, a killing frost,”—in crops!
And vents, at fashion's cue, all cues to doff,
“A deep damnation on their taking off!!”
The fop demurs—“to be or not to be;”
“Off with his head!” roars Bobadil, and clips—a flea!
“We fly by night!”—while boasts the swindling spark,
Tipstaff “peeps through the blanket of the dark!
“My bond,—I'll have my bond,”—old Foreclose cries;
“Who steals my purse steals trash,”—the bard replies;
“Out, damned spot!” snarls old Miss Pimple Fret;
“There's rue for you,”—whispers her arch soubrette.
The love-sick cook-maid lisps—hist, Romeo, hist!”
“And snip,—the tailor,—rants, “List, list, oh! list!”
And bankrupt Thespis mourns his plundered trade,
What, if in turn,—'tis justice fairly due,—
The actor's eye-glass takes a squint at you!
Who reads to quote, and dresses to be seen;
The prince of folly, and the fool of wit,
He plots a dinner, to campaign a hit;
With well-drest wisdom, tout à fait he looks,
The sage of fashion and bon-ton of books.
In scenick unities so strict is he,
Time, place and action—touch and take rappee!
Proclaims the raptures of effect dramatick.
In life's great play—no Stagyrite to shine—
His plot is woman, and his moral wine.
Thus with a muse, a mistress and a bottle,
Gay Skeffington surmounts grave Aristotle.
A bard in powder, and a beau in rhyme;—
A man of coral,—such are fashion's powers!
A plant of stone,—that vegetates and flowers;
A fragrant exhalation,—raised to fade,—
From roseate rhetorick, and rose pomade;—
A sweet confection, fit for love or—tea,
A lettered lozenge,—stuffed—poeticé;—
Sir Fopling dashes, while his goblet pours,
And who can doubt, an empty glass encores!
His tropes and figures into ferment whipt,
See, in the froth of words, his tube is dipt!
The bubble floats,—from classick suds refined,—
It shines—it bursts—and leaves no foam behind!
Choice spirits all—his scavoir vivre club
Have tickled trouts, and sure may hook a chub!
In wealth must glitter, ere in taste he shine;
Gold buys him genius, and no churl will rail,
When feasts are brilliant, that a pun is stale.
Tip wit with gold;—each shaft with shouts is flown;—
He drinks Campaign, and must not laugh alone.
The grape has point, although the joke be flat!
Pop! goes the cork!—there's epigram in that!
Which shows how high its fountain head can throw!
See! while the foaming mist ascends the room,
Sir Fopling rises in the vif perfume!
His laurels drop with fortune's falling leaves.
He vapours cracks and clenches as before,
But other tables have not learnt to roar.
At last, in fashion bankrupt, as in pence,
He first discovers undiscovered sense—
And finds,—without one jest in all his bags,—
A wit in ruffles is a fool in rags!
Fregetting life, while he can live to feel;
To blank oblivion yielding private woe,
While publick virtue gives one tear to flow;
And, charmed with fiction, that her sorrows bless,
His fancy riots in the loved distress.
But ah!—illusion sweet of tears and smiles,
Where virtue revels, while romance beguiles,
What cheerless hours doth destiny delay,
Till recollected life returns with day!—
When he, who wanders with a poet's name,
Must live on friendship, while he starves on fame!
The passioned scene with virtue's holiest fires;
Who draws from brightest eyes the moistened soul
And bids their tributes glitter, as they roll!
The smile of Beauty is a ray from heaven;—
Soft as the fairy web, Arachne weaves
To ward the night-dew from the lily's leaves;
Chaste as the pity of Aurora's tears,
When the web trembles with the pearl it bears.
Is doughty Peter Paragraph, Esquire,—
Forever knowing—and forever known,—
The gay Court Calender—of all the town.
His brilliant fancy wings such rapid flights,
That his pen flashes,—like the northern lights!
On fashion's face he marks each patch and pimple,—
Notes all the Belle Assemble—to a dimple!
Keeps dates of wrinkles—sets each freckle down,—
And knows the age of each old maid in town!
—Puff, and Post Obit,—naught is he perplexed on,—
And, Death or Marriage,—he is Clerk or Sexton!
Whate'er the theme,—his is the quill to grace it,—
From “consumatum est”—to grave—“hic jacet!”
Wherever folly lies—in wise perdue,—
Quick as heat lightning—and as harmless too,
He splinters words, as gamesters rattle dice,
And sparkles, like a man, who chops on ice.
In daily lounge, Cornhill pavé he passes,
To study signs, and ogle looking glasses!
His spleen—at vulgar gutters—never rankles;
He thanks their mud—for every pair of ankles!
Nor thinks,—while feasting on caprice and whim,—
One grace too naked, or one fop too slim!
He borrows all he knows, from all he sees.
Then home for fame,—to scribble to be sure,—
For every traveller must write a tour;—
He gives the world the gleanings of his ramble,
As nuts are thrown to monkies,—for a scramble!
Shall I or not?—He'll catch me, or I'd try!
Egad, I'm in for't!—see, he's at me too!
Pray, Sir, turn round,—I'll take a profile view.
Nay!—nouns and pronouns save such want of grace!
A Poet look a critick in the face!
Such courage ne'er was known 'mong rhyming elves,
Since they, who're criticks now, wrote tags themselves.
Streams, when neglected, sink to common sewers,
And disappointed Authors turn Reviewers!
Like stagnant pools, they breathe putrescent air,
From the green film, their fetid bosoms bear.
Fie!—frown not,—WE, who catch the trick of faces,
Must rouse the passions, to excite the graces:
Now,—in what Act, Sir, was our—epitasis?
The busy, bustling action of our play?
“The scenes with Abigail”—ha! there you say!—
“The eyes of beauty beamed with lightning there,”
“When hopeless virtue proudly spurned despair.”
Caught by a twinkle from “the eye of beauty!”
A Critick too!—most Stocick Sir,—my duty.—
Nature will break,—encase her how you will,—
A Cat in pattens is Grimalkin still.
“With a broad patent, like a fool at court;
“But while you laugh by text, and rail by rote,
“Your author's fable has our warmest vote.”—
I thank you, Sir,—I'll have that down by note.
“His Hero needs no advocate at bar;—
“We see his virtues in its native spar!
Now,—what of Sindal?—How did he appear?
“Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear!”
“In crime accomplished, and in wit refined,
“His very genius blurred the grace of mind.”
But what of Gripe?—“Such knaves elude the law,
“And live, like leeches, on the blood they draw.
“When Gripe the balance with his conscience made,
“He kept his vices, as his stock in trade.—
“Spawned in the alley, by its logick reared,
“He shaves a note, as Smallpeace shaves a beard;
“And both so well their office understand,
“They trim you smooth,—and yet conceal the hand!”
All human nature sinks in human self;
Who basely pilfers, with unfeeling joy,
A mother's picture from an artless boy!
When man's deserting soul forsakes his breast,
To pine a death-watch in a miser's chest,
The starving hypocrite allegiance swears,
To gold and grace, to poverty and prayers;
And, not one joy his flickering lamp to cheer,
Lives without love, and dies without a tear!
Such are the, “Gripes,” the meanest of their tribe,
Who cheat themselves, and chuckle at the bribe;
And drag existence in a living tomb.
A rush-light warms the winter of the pole.
To chill and cheerless solitude confined,
No spring of virtue thaws the ice of mind.
They creep in blood, as frosty streamlets flow,
And freeze with life, as dormice sleep in snow.
Like snails, they bear their dungeons on their backs,
And shut out light,—to save a window tax!
E'er blessed his arms, or on his bounty smiled;
Yet, touched by nature, his affections glow,
And claim their kindred to the man of woe.
Mid wine and mirth while rolls his daily round,
The secret want, the meek distress is found;
Silent as light, and, like its source, serene.—
His bounty gives unknown, and warms unseen.
He feels, while tears the sacred joy confess,
Man likens God, when he has power to bless.
Who twine with genius every lettered grace;
Candid to censure, generous to commend,
The polished scholar, and the faithful friend,
Loved by the Muse, they feel the poet's fire,
And soothe the minstrel, while they tune his lyre;
On private merit, publick fame they raise,
For every Nation shares its Author's praise.
EPILOGUE TO THE POOR LODGER.
Enter Harriet.With anxious heart, that beats for perils past,
Your happy Harriet now comes home, at last:
A home, indeed! where oft, each generous mind
With fame has cheered her, and with taste refined:
Where first, her powers indulgent to disclose,
You op'd the petals of the budding rose;
Bade the young stalk, with trembling blossoms, rise,
Warmed by your beams, though foreign to your skies,
And placed,—oh, grateful joy! with fondest care,
The fostered flow'ret in your own parterre!
Enter Sir Harry.
Sir Har.
Sure, such a flower would flourish, any where?
Har.
Gallant, Sir Harry—
Sir Har.
—Harley, happy lover!
But I, as happy, am for life,—
Har.
—a rover—
Forever on a voyage,—
Sir Har.
—that ne'er is over.
Har.
Spoke like a gownsman—
Sir Har.
—No, I scorn the schools,
Wit may be wisdom, but all wits are fools.
The slaves of fools—the most unlucky elves—
Life's feast they cater—
Sir Har.
—but ne'er eat themselves—
One bliss they have, all other joys, above—
Enter Lord Harley.
L. Har.
What's that, Sir Harry?—
Sir Har.
(With allusion.)
—To be blest in love.
L. Har.
And none should envy, whom the fair approve.
Sir Har.
(Assuming himself.)
White hours attend you—I bang up—Adieu!
Ask not my rout—for none I ever knew—
And yet there's one I always shall pursue—
(Mimicking.)
Cross channel, take chaise, down glass, look profound—
“Eh!—I say—Coachee—whither am I bound?”
[Going off; noise without, between the Widow and Joblin. Sir Harry looking out.
Prime!—Our old widow sparring like Mendoza!
Widow entering, and Joblin.
Wid.
Not I! don't think I'll pay—
Job.
—Dick's fortin—
Wid.
—No, Sir,
Mai fois! (Bridling.)
Job.
I'll charge it, then, as I'm—
Dick.
(Popping in.)
—a grocer.
Job.
Dick, claim your rights, and don't stand there a grinning—
Wid.
You marry Harriet—
Dick.
—Yes—I'm very winning—
I courted purely—
—put on all his graces—
And looked and talked—
Dick.
—as fine as aunty's lace is.
Sir Har.
And sighed, no doubt, as sweet as father's mace is.
Wid.
No wife, no fortune—
Sir Har.
—what a city drove!
Dick.
Then I be certain, I be crossed in love—
L. Har.
Ne'er mind it, Dick, 'tis no great odds in life,
To lose a fortune, or,—
Job.
—to gain a wife—
Sir Har.
(Who has been reconnoitering the Widow.)
Pray, did this gay antique ere chance to pop
Within the purlieus of a frizeur's shop?
Wid.
Did'st ever see, the making—
Sir Har.
—of—
Dick.
—a fop!
Sir Har.
Prime and bang up!—Why, widow, Dick's a wit;
Give him the fortune, he'll have need of it!
Job.
Nay, fear not, Dick—be witty as you will—
I wrote a rebus once—
Dick.
—who nibbed the quill?
L. Har.
(To Widow Danvers, who has been talking apart with him. At the same time Poor Lodger enters above.)
Your generous offer I can ne'er reprove;
But I have wealth enough in Harriet's love.
Har.
(Advancing.)
Nay, since a fortune be in search of owners,
P. Lodg.
(Coming down.)
Adopt our author, and be you the donors! (To the audience.)
Fortune, who feeds all other fools on earth,
Was never present at a Poet's birth!
The child of mind she smiles on, and forsakes.
And though each Muse has sought her fond regard—
Job.
She ne'er would stand godmother to a bard.
P. Lodg.
Each well-dressed driv'ler lettered fame exacts,
Sir Har.
Well!—Books are lettered only on their backs.
There's pedigree in dress; none else has charms;
A coat of fashion is a coat of arms!
P. Lodg.
Hence the wise world, not wiser than of old,
That toiling chemist, still extracting gold,
Neglecting still Wealth's noblest use and end,
To polish man, and social life defend,
Calls sacred genius Nature's waste of pains,
The gift of Fortune—
Job.
(Who has been fidgetting.)
—Cures the want of brains!
Wid.
There, Dick—
Sir Har.
—Conclusive—
Dick.
—Father, don't you sham?
Job.
I'll prove, by ledger—
Dick.
—what a wit I am.
Har.
Since then a wit yourself with wealth; to spare it,
Reward our Poet—
Job.
—he shall have our garret!
Dick.
No father—had “Poor Lodgers” there, enough.
Sir Har.
What would your wisdom, then?—
Dick.
—write him a Puff!
Har.
Truce to our trifling;—now, our author craves
That just decision, which condemns, or saves.
P. Lodg.
(Coming forward.)
A father, rescued by a child, disowned—
Har.
Has, by his kindness, every fault atoned.
We all are wanderers—all mistake our way—
P. Lodg.
Yet faithful Nature never goes astray.
Life's a great Inn; and each is but a guest;
Beneath this roof, then, let us take our rest.
And while, to errors past, I drop a tear—
Har.
May our “Poor Lodger” find a welcome, here!
MONODY ON THE DEATH OF LIEUTENANT GENERAL SIR JOHN MOORE.
“That fashioned others.”
Shakespeare.
And, hov'ring, ponders o'er yon dark champaign,
Where bleak Corunna's bleeding waste extends,
And war's red bolt from bursting clouds descends?
I know Thee now, by thy majestick charms;
Bright Island Goddess, Queen of arts and arms!
Which deluged nations still o'erwhelms with blood.
The foaming tempest, while it strikes thy shore,
Exalts thy flag, and bids thy forests roar.
Calm on the surge, thy fixed, unaltering eye
Surveys the storm that breaks against the sky;
O'er mountain waves, along the whirlwind's race,
It dares the journey of the blast to trace.
In all the frantick negligence of woe;
Thou com'st to kneel beside thy Warriour's grave;
Where sacred sleeps, in village turf enshrined,
That gallant form, which breathed a nation's mind.
Fame o'er his recent sod no statue rears,
But Victory writes his epitaph in tears!
Let Triumph weep! In Freedom's generous van
To die for glory, is to die for man;
The bleeding Patriot, with a seraph's eye,
Sees through each wound a passage to the sky.
What air majestick dazzled on thy brow!
By genius raised, and by ambition fired,
To die distinguished, as to live admired;
In battle brilliant, as in council grave;
Stern to encounter, but humane to save;
Virtue and valour in thy bosom strove,
Which most should claim our homage or our love.
In thee they flowed without the pulse of art,
The throbbing life-blood of thy fervid heart;
While, warm from Nature, panting Honour drew
That vital instinct, Heaven imparts to few;
That pride of arms, which prompts the brave design,
That grace of soul, which makes the brave divine!
Beat with fond rage, to vie with chiefs of old.
Great by resolve, yet by example warmed,
Himself the model of his glory formed.
A glowing trait from every chief he caught;
He paused like Fabius, and like Cesar fought.
Deep on its rocks, to grave a soldier's name;
And o'er its cliffs to bid the banner wave,
A Briton fights, to conquer and to save.
He studied battles, where campaigns were fought.
By science led, he traced each scene of fame,
Where war had left no stone without a name.
Hills, streams and plains bore one extended chart
Of warriors' deeds, and showed of arms the art.
The tactick canvass all its lore revealed,
The seize the moment, and dispose the field.
Here, still and desperate, near the midnight pass,
Couched ambush listened in the deep morass;
There, Skill, opposed by Fortune, shaped its way,
With prompt decision, and with firm array;
Here, paused the fight, and there the contest raved,
A squadron routed, or an empire saved!
It has been universally allowed, that the classical and military advantages of Sir John Moore's education were superiour to those of any modern English General. These great opportunities of improvement to his tactical intuition were afforded in the school of living history, on the scite of battles, marked with the vestiges of victory and defeat, of stratagem and fortune. The scenes, over which he dwelt with the fondest devotion, were those, which had formed the theatre of the wars of the illustrious Frederick; a hero, who, on one day could not place his foot on one inch of sand, which would own his impression as a master; and who, on on the next day, was the lord of an empire, and, by the fame of his talents, the awe, the astonishment and the admiration of Europe. The line of the poem above quoted alludes to the celebrated battle, which achieved this glorious event.
Had this distinguished military prince transmitted to the present incumbent on his throne that character and science of arms, which were so much admired, and so enthusiastically studied by Sir John, when he travelled under the tutelage of his father, with the Duke of Hamilton—the day, in which we live, would have been spared the shame to have witnessed the disgraceful and perfidious flight of Jena, nor would it have so painfully perceived the terrible distinction, between,
“A squadron routed, or an empire saved!”But national hypocrisy, like the fraud of individuals, is always punished by a signal Providence. The affectation of sovereignty is but the shadow of power; and while the hundred arms of Briareus gave him the reputation of a Giant, yet this would have been but an empty proclamation of strength, had he not been inspired with the courage to lift even one of his fingers at his enemy.
“Has toties optata exegit Gloria pænas.”He sighed for glory, where he mused from taste.
For high emprize his dazzling helm was plumed,
And all the polished patriot-hero bloomed.
Armed as he strode, his glorying country saw,
That fame was virtue, and ambition law;
In him beheld, with fond delight, conspire
Her Marlboro's fortune and her Sidney's fire.
Like Calvi's rock, with clefts abrupt deformed,
His path to fame toiled up the breach, he stormed;
Till o'er the clouds the victor chief was seen,
Sublime in terrour, and in height serene.
It has been the fate of Sir John Moore, a fate most severely unpropitious to the reputation and honour of some administrations of the British Cabinet, to be envied, opposed, checked, cramped and neglected, (durante potestate) from the first onset of his military life. His great talents, dauntless courage, commanding person, practical knowledge, gallant virtues, contempt of selfishness, inaccessibility to party, firmness in battle, and generosity to his army, and above all, his rapid and comprehensive foresight of the fears and the hopes of a jejunely projected expedition, and his own rejected map of an admirable campaign, which might, in all military and geographical calculation, have reduced the invaders of Spain to submission or flight, condemned him to the honourable neglect of the ministry, whom he despised. But this persecution had been practised before, and under the same influence. At the siege of Calvi, one of the mountainous, and the best fortified towns in Corsica, and to which the line in the Poem refers, Sir John was eminently distinguished. It was the last, and was deemed the impregnable strong hold of the Island. From the eminence of its rocks, and the danger of its access, it demanded a veteran and a hero in the art of war, to assault and reduce it to surrender. This exploit of skill and of honour Sir John undertook and performed; and this intrepid and scientifick General's services in Corsica were rewarded by the impolitick and calculating ingratitude of an invidious ministry.
He gave to conquest charms, that soothed defeat.
The battle done, his brow, with thought o'ercast,
Benign as mercy, smiled on perils past.
The death-choaked fosse, the battered wall, inspired
A sense, that sought him, from the field retired.
Suspiring pity touched that godlike heart,
To which no peril could dismay impart;
And melting pearls in that stern eye could shine,
That lightened courage down the thundering line.
So mounts the sea-bird in the Boreal sky,
And sits where steeps in beetling ruin lie;
Though warring whirlwinds curl the Norway seas,
And the rocks tremble, and the torrents freeze;
Yet is the fleece, by Beauty's bosom prest,
The down, that warms the storm-beat Eyder's breast;
Mid floods of frost, where Winter smites the deep,
Are fledged the plumes, on which the Graces sleep.
Where Cesar's eagles never dared to fly!
To rude and sudden arms while Freedom springs,
Napoleon's legions mount on bolder wings.
In vain thy sons their steely nerves oppose,
Bare to the rage of tempests and of foes;
In vain, with naked breast, the storm defy
Of furious battle, and of piercing sky;
Five waning reigns had marked in long decay,
The gloomy glory of thy setting day;
While bigot power, with dark and dire disgrace,
Oppressed the valour of thy gallant race.
Combined thy vigour, or confirmed thy heart:
Thy bands dispersed, like Rome in wild defeat,
Fled to the mountains, to intrench retreat.
Rome was built on its own seven hills, which gave security to its glory, while its virtue remained. Yet its inhabitants, reared to habits of legionary discipline, and bold in their contempt of death, had not, for near five hundred years, any knowledge, either of the fosse and glacis of a city, or of the entrenchment and palisade of a camp. When stormed by Brennus, defeated by Pyrrhus, or overwhelmed by Hannibal, the citizens of Rome, despairing of its safety, fled either to the rock of the Capital, or to the mountains, which surrounded it. The Romans gained their first knowledge of intrenchment from the conquered camp of the Grecian hero, Pyrrhus.
The pomp of hostile chivalry extends.
High o'er thy brow, the giant glaive is reared,
Deep in the wounds of bleeding nations smeared.
Ere Britain's shield could catch th' impending blade,
Thy helm was shattered, and thy arm dismayed.
Yet, while the faulchion fell, thy brave ally
Cheered, with a blaze of mail, thy closing eye;
By hosts assailed, her little Spartan band
Braved the swift onset, and the cool command.
Historick glory rushed through British veins,
And shades of Heroes stalked Corunna's plains;
While Gallia saw, amid the battle's glare,
That Minden, Blenheim, Agincourt, were there!
Fate aimed her dart, as victory glanced her light:
Where bleeding Wolfe, with virtue's calmest pride,
Enjoyed the Patriot, while the Warriour died:
Rome's last great Hero woke on Egypt's shore;
When Abercrombie swelled the urn of fame,
And mixed his dust with Pompey's mighty name:
Round the rough rocks of trembling Trafalgar;
Bade Ocean quake beneath his coral cave;
And, heavenward gazing, as his God retired,
Thundered in triumph, and in flames expired:
Yet, by each soldier's proud affection blest,
Unawed by numbers, saw the impending host,
With front extending, lengthen down the coast.
“Charge! Britons, Charge!” the exulting chief exclaims,
Swift moves the field; the tide of armour flames;
On, on they rush, the solid column flies,
And shouts tremendous, as the foe defies.
While all the battle rung from side to side,
In death to conquer, was the warriour's pride.
Where'er the unequal war its tempest poured,
The leading meteor was his glittering sword!
Thrice met the fight; and thrice the vanquished Gaul
Found the firm line an adamantine wall.
Again repulsed, again the legions drew,
And fate's dark shafts in vollied shadows flew.
Now stormed the scene, where soul could soul attest,
Squadron to squadron joined, and breast to breast!
From rank to rank, the interpid valour glowed;
From rank to rank, the inspiring Champion rode.
Loud broke the war-cloud, as his charger sped;
Pale the curved lightening quivered o'er his head!
Again it bursts! Peal, echoing peal, succeeds!
The bolt is launched; the peerless Soldier bleeds!
Hark! as he falls, Fame's swelling clarion cries,
Britania triumphs, though her Hero dies!
And that proud empire deathless honour shields.
No fabled Phœnix from his bier revives;
His ashes perish, but his Country lives!
Tread not the hillock, where thy bones repose!
There, sacring mourner, see, Britania spreads
A chaplet, glistening with the tears she sheds;
With burning censer, glides around thy tomb,
And scatters incense, where thy laurels bloom;
With rapt devotion sainted vigil keeps;
Shines with Religion, and with Glory weeps;
With Grief exults, with Extacy deplores;
With Pride laments, and with despair adores!
Sweet sleep Thee, Brave! In solemn chaunt, shall sound
Celestial vespers, o'er thy sacred ground!
Long ages hence, in pious twilight seen,
Shall quires of seraphs sanctify thy green;
At curfew hour, shall dimly hover there,
And charm, with sweetest dirge, the listening air!
With homage tranced, shall every pensive mind
Weep, while the requiem passes on the wind;
Till, sadly swelling, Sorrow's softest notes,
It dies in distance, while its echo floats!
Whose life could man's wide universe pervade.
No mould'ring prison of sepulchral earth,
In dumb oblivion, shall confine thy worth;
The battle heath shall lift thy marble fame,
And grow immortal, as it marks thy name.
That dawn's first smiles may gem the hero's bust;
And pilgrim Glory, in remotest years,
Shall seek thy tomb, to read the tale, it bears.
EPITAPH.
“Stop, Ruin! stay thy scythe! here slumbers Moore;“Whom Honour nurtured, and whom Virtue bore!
“A nation's hope, adored by all the brave;
“Heaven caught his soul, and Earth reveres his grave!
“Sublime, the Christian, and the Hero, trod;
“His Country all, he loved, and all, he feared his God!”
| The works, in verse and prose, of the late Robert Treat Paine, Jun. Esq | ||