University of Virginia Library

Just on the confines of the land,
Where the sea roars against the strand,
In a romantic lonely seat,
From knaves and fools a safe retreat,
From envy, malice, hatred, strife,
And all the busy cares of life;
My days glide on in tranquil ease,
Where solitude has charms to please:
Tho' none, with more intense delight,
Enjoy the revels of the night,
When social mirth and wine conspire
To propagate each gay desire:
Wine,—which can latent wit explore,
And set the table in a roar:
For some will never show they think,
Except when over seas in drink.
Yet contemplation has her time
To meditate on things sublime;
To view, with a discerning eye,
The wonders of this earth and sky;
And, after the most strict survey,
With grateful hearts due homage pay,
For that existence we derive
From him, who gave us pow'r to live:
Or else with searching thoughts to scan
The principles that govern man;
Each secret of the soul to trace,
And every prejudice eraze,
Which spite of reason, still we see,
Infects us all in some degree.
Sometimes, with retrospective view,
Lament the friends, which once we knew:
Their various talents call to mind,
Their features, humour, taste refin'd;
Snatch'd in a moment from our sight,
Like Hilton, to the realms of night.
Here let me sprinkle on thy hearse,
Immortal shade, one plaintive verse!
Let the sad truth in numbers flow,
No bliss is perfect here below!
For, now thy social spirit's fled,
Each jocund swain, and tender maid,
With unfeigh'd tears thy fate deplore,
And the world sighs,—thou art no more.
Here free from luxury and state,
Those splendid evils of the great,
I lead an independent life,
Where Delia serves instead of wife,
Who like a faithful friend behaves,
With care my little fortune saves;
And is, in short, altho' a woman,
In worth inferior to no man:
A miracle, so rarely seen,
Will stagger the belief of men;
And must incur the ridicule
Of each insipid sneering fool,
Who takes it as a thing on trust,
No man is honest, woman just.
My purse 'tis far enough above
To aim at matrimonial love;
Without estate to make pretences,
You might as well want all the senses
As wealth. What merit will obtain
A flatter'd idol, weak, and vain?
For women now, like lands, are sold
To the best purchaser for gold;
Who worse than prostitutes expose
Their persons to their greatest foes;
Without excuse of poverty,
To wretchedness and infamy.
But not to dwell upon a thing,
No more concerns you than the king;
To carry on this chat in rhime,
I'll tell you how I spend my time.
But tremble not!—no long description,
Which in these cases often hips one.
When first Aurora gilds the skies,
I never hold it good to rise;
But slumber on till nature loaths
Another nap of soft repose;
Then either read, or walk, or write,
Till darkness ushers in the night;
Or on the ocean's bank reclin'd,
When Æolus recalls the wind;
No longer stormy Neptune raves,
But sun-beams dance upon the waves,
Whose lustre gilds the whiten'd sails
Of ships, that wait for fresher gales:
In such a calm delightful scene,
What placid thoughts arise within?
Which such an equal tenour keep,
Smooth as the surface of the deep;
The rudest passions grow refin'd,
And all is harmony of mind:
Ambition's wild pursuits appear
Like children's bubbles blown in air;
My soul the pomp of life disowns,
And pities kings upon their thrones.
Not—that these sentiments are meant
To make you think me quite content;
Like vulgar souls without a wish
To aim at any greater bliss;
But easy in the present state
Of things, allotted me by fate.
No politics disturb my rest,
No party-zeal now fires my breast:
Tho' once in opposition strong,
Because I though the measures wrong,
And had a strange mistaken notion,
That patriots had a warm devotion
To labour for the public good,
To serve their country with their blood;
To save the nation from disgrace,
Without the prospect of a place.
But, since I find such noble schemes
Are nothing but romantic dreams,
It is not worth a single thought,
By whom our country's sold, or bought.
Before I finish this relation
About my present situation,
Perhaps it may not be amiss
To tell you of my greatest bliss.
Not far from hence, there live two swains,
The glory of the Cleaveland plains,
In whom good qualities abound,
And every social virtue's found.
Yet the appearance of a rake
Makes rigid fools their worth mistake;
Their characters, tho' really good,
By numbers are misunderstood:
Because devoid of superstition,
Which zealous bigots call religion.
With men of worth and sense, like these,
To join in converse, when you please,
And in their friendship have a place,
You'll own a very happy case:
Their names,—no matter what you call,
The world will think of More and Hall.
But soon the winter's hollow blast
Will make this scene too bleak to last;
And then to York I shall repair,
But look in vain for Kingsland there.
For now,— so cruel fate ordains,
Their presence grace the southern plains:
Whose sprightly converse had the pow'r
To charm away the ling'ring hour;
Each social pleasure to refine,
And give a relish to the wine.

In answer to this rhiming letter,
I shall expect from you a better,
Except this sudden revolution,
This wond'rous turn in constitution,
This strange apostasy from wine,
Which makes the dullest genius shine,
Should damp the vigour of your spirit,
And lessen your poetic merit.
However write at all events!
So with my hearty compliments
To Clarke, and all his family,
I'm yours, & cætera,— T. G.