The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

A tender theme I choose. Favoring fair,
Chase from my heart the remnants of despair;
And gild with loveliest looks my votive lay,
While the bright scenes of beauty I display.
But chiefly thou, supreme of every art,
To touch the feeling or to gain the heart,
Rawdon attend; and with propitious smile
The dreaded dangers of my task beguile:
So shall the muse attempt a nobler flight,
And gain perchance the regions of delight;
So shall my bosom glow with purer fire,
And pant for glory while thine eyes inspire.

167

The cards were gone, piquet and rout no more,
And mute the lapdog's bark, and chairman's roar,
When sad sighs rending his distracted breast,
Henry his guardian spirit thus address'd:

“O thou mild minister to all my woe,
Whose heav'nly tears with mine congenial flow,
Whose hand of down my aching forehead smoothes,
Whose silver tongue my lonely musing soothes;
O thou, whate'er thy birth, whate'er thy name!
With patient ear await a lover's claim;
With wonted heat support his drooping form,
And all the agonies of grief disarm;
While to thy melting breast he pleads his cause,
And pleads by fond affection's moving laws.

“Full well you know the dear relentless fair
That caus'd, but still denies to lull, my care;
Full well you know her beauty's matchless grace,
And all the sweet destructions of her face;
Full well you know the flame that mines my peace.”

“Unhappy youth, thy sad complainings cease.
Lo! to thy wish for ever prompt I stand,
And wait with beating bosom thy demand.
Nor let thy manly fortitude decay
In midnight mournings, and in sighs by day;
For thou the haughty belle, or soon or late,
(So 'tis enrolled in the book of Fate)

168

Shalt clasp compliant to thy blissful arms;
And clasp for ever, free from all alarms.
What though no toast was ever half so proud,
No belle so distant to the humble crowd;
What though no birth-night ball, with wond'ring eye,
E'er view'd so fair a truant from the sky;
(For sure earth's mold was all too rough to claim
The undulating model of her frame);
What though no heiress owns a richer coach?
Proceed with courage to the bold approach.
Let Ton in glitt'ring fetters chain her mind;
Let Folly wen her sight, to toys inclin'd;
Let Gaming draw her with a potent card;
Let tempting tissues gain her strict regard;
Toys, fetters, cards, and tissues, bind in vain:
Still you shall master of her heart remain.
Gewgaws awhile may 'witch the female sight,
But love alone can give a true delight.
Think you the jewell'd vest, embroider'd fine,
Can give the breast love's genial glow divine?
For which would Musidora's feelings fret,
A faithful heart, or a gold coronet?
Or are the ties of Nature to compare
With a gilt chariot, and a Flanders mare?
Perchance the venal maid, that strives to please
Some ancient baronet with artful ease;

169

And as the vapours of his age disperse;
Smiles in his face, and ogles at—his purse;
She, she, indeed, may an exalted fate
Prefer to comfort and, a small estate:
But, lo! the rosy clouds of morning break,
And gay Tithona shews her purple cheek:
All elfens now the mushroom board forsake,
To seek the mazy dell and tangled brake;
With speed their acorn-goblets now conceal,
And trip the dewy grass with pearly heel:
I must away; the lark's shrill bugle sounds
‘All faery elves toward frequented grounds.’”

CANTO II.

Ye airy vassals of my sov'reign sway,
Where'er ye wander wild, or sportive stray;
Whether the soft gales court your floating forms,
Or Pity calls you in the midst of storms;
My voice attend; that voice by all obey'd,
And wing your flight to this distinguish'd maid.
Some through each nerve the thrill of rapture wind,
Some point the keen sensations of her mind,
Some stretch the filmy texture of her train;
The swift blood pours through each meand'ring vein,
The roseate tincture of the cheek combine,
The eye-glance burnish with a beam divine,

170

The pearly tear, bright quintessence of dew,
In lily-urn with sweetest myrrh imbue;
With pleasure teach the azure stream to start:
Myself shall guard the passes of the heart.
And ye prime rulers of the female life,
Who by or vapours bland, or weary strife,
Ambrosial slumbers on each lid bestow,
And rest the soft cheek on the hand of snow;
Pure Tea, and wrangling Whist, oh! grant my pray'r,
And send kind visions to the sleeping fair:
Before her sight, let minstrels move again,
Or livelier dances lead the smiling train;
Unreal lords the sparkling ring display,
And rival belles quite vanquish'd steal away.
Still let the boxes ken her every grace,
And prying optics stare her in the face;
While beauty's self directs each winning air,
And sylphids thread the ringlets of her hair;
While thousand lips proclaim her matchless praise,
Fans flutter, swordknots shine, and diamonds blaze.”

He said, and bade around her couch to close
The cloudy curtains of a deep repose:
Then fairest dreams arise at his command,
And roll successive by his magic wand;
From Morpheus' labyrinth of languor drawn,
To the dim twilight of her veily lawn.

171

For on her head-dress rapturous they rest,
Or sink enamour'd on her heaving breast.

A bracelet rich the guardian sprite procur'd,
With studs adorn'd, and with a clasp secur'd,
Potent (the wond'rous work of hands divine)
The thoughts, the words, the actions, to refine,
In the most stubborn bosom to implant
A fond attention to each alien want;
Potent to guide Compassion's barbed dart,
And give to Sympathy the liberal heart:
Around her arm he bound the brilliant spell,
Her arm which could the milk-white meed excel:
For white was ev'ry gem's transparent pride,
As the swan's plumage on the silver tide;
Or Cynthia's modest front, adorning high
The blue pavilion of the starry sky,
When negro Night but spreads a glitt'ring gloom,
And sleeks with melting gales her raven-plume.

Sleep on, proud nymph, regardless of the pain
Thy rare perfections cause full many a swain,
Who seeks to lose thee in the silent shade,
Or greet thee now with softest serenade:
“Blest syren, form'd to lure each breast from peace,
When will the witch'ry of thy beauty cease?
Bright star, design'd to wreck th' incautious crew,
When will thine eyes no more thy prey pursue?

172

When wilt thou learn to clear thy haughty brow,
When hear the crowds that to thine altars bow?”

Thus they, unconscious of their idol's state,
Just on the brink of wedlock and of fate:
For ere the blushes of the East appear,
Or blackbird warbles to young Morning's ear,
Her cruel vows are broke, her conquests o'er,
And Hymen enters at the open door.
So, when ten years their tedious lapse had told,
And chiefs who came in youth were now grown old,
When Time himself was ready to destroy,
Fell the huge tow'rs of heav'n-defended Troy.

CANTO III.

My course pursue, while I, unerring, guide
Thy wat'ry way o'er Envy's wrecking tide;
Where plies a grisly ferryman his bark,
Whose sails are scandals, and surmises dark,
That wing with swiftest flight the liquid plain,
But plunge poor wretches in the sable main,
While anxious friends in vain may strive to save,
And innocence scarce struggles with the wave;
For at one dash the winds of malice urge
The fainting carcase with the boiling surge,
And the most gallant vessel, soonest lost,
With shatter'd trophies strews Contention's coast.

173

Yet now we're past: the billows rage no more,
And bless'd Perfection gains the welcome shore.
O'er yonder realm the nymph Indifference reigns,
Queen of all ancient prudes, and silly swains,
She views without emotion navies sink,
And trav'llers stand on deep Destruction's brink;
Deep learn'd in French, though seldom seen in France,
She tattles of sans froid and nonchalance;
And when her lovers die, with modest air
And flippant phrase she sighs: “The de'l may care.”
Pride is her worthy minister of state;
Bold Fashion now exalts her plumed pate;
And Routs, quaint daughters of old Madam Spleen!
Are maids of honour to the well-lov'd Queen.
Philosophy here studies toys of brass;
The art Linnean pores on braided grass,
And Poetry too rhymes with half an eye,
“Indifferent in her choice, to print or die;”
While mild Critique, with pigeon-heart essays
A panegyric on the poorest lays;
Nor minds, with milk of human kindness full,
Whether the work is eminent or dull.

We've cross'd her kingdom now; for, lo! I see
Our wish'd-for end, the shrine of Sympathy.
Ledinia, mark what various figures stand
Obedient to the sculptor's forming hand:

174

Some weep, reclining o'er a wreathed urn,
Some in dumb agony expressive mourn;
While some, in dire extravagance of woe,
Bid from the marble trickling torrents flow.

Behold yon prospect of excelling grief,
Where destitute of any kind relief
A lovely damsel, in the bloom of age,
Languid resigns her to the ocean's rage,
Till a fond youth from the tremendous steep
Despairing plunges on the flashing deep,
And while the humid sparkles gleam around,
To save her drowning, is himself the drown'd!
Clasp'd in embrace the hapless lovers lie,
While o'er their cold grave sobbing zephyrs sigh.

Through the red ruins of the ruthless flame,
To save his friend, along yon burning beam
How forces Edward his resistless way,
While death's dire forms th'heroic deed repay?

But, oh! where Calpe's hideous heights arise,
Where conflagration mingles with the skies,
There Sympathy erects her lofty throne,
And claims the godlike Britons for her own,
While through the ruddy war they rush to save
The fainting Spaniards from the fiery wave.

Hail, sacred passion! hail, celestial glow,
That lends the hand of mercy to a foe;

175

That nobly ardent, with a gen'rous flame,
Mak'st friendship and hostility the same;
That shew'st the thoughts of an exalted breast,
Where Nature's self benignant stands confess'd!
Long may men cherish the immortal heat,
While soft souls feel themselves more truly great!

On that pure throne, magnetic structure, where
Sweet Sympathy is seated, charming fair,
Thine eye-balls turn, and view the needle roll,
True to her heart as to the faithful pole:
“She speaks to thee!” mild Ariel rejoin'd,
(For so the fay was titled by mankind.)
“Blest Queen,” the alter'd belle extatic cry'd,
“Blest Queen, my pensive joy, my bosom's pride,
To thy best pow'r I bow, to thee import
The sway, the conquest of my milden'd heart.
For thee I bid the giddy world farewel,
For thee who all the tricks of ton excel;
And take, my varied turn of mind to prove,
The man of merit to my constant love.
Come, Henry, come.”—“Enough,” the sprite exclaim'd,
Thy soul the fire of Pity has inflam'd;
Thy humid eye with tears the goddess arms,
And gives new graces to thy bright'ning charms.

176

My charge is o'er.” He said, and stole away,
Forth from the hollow bracelet where he lay.
Quick when he flew, a band of sylphids rear
The beaming sorcery sublime in air;
And as it rose, in jewell'd letters flame,
Those words divine around the glitt'ring frame,
“From this device, unfeeling mortals learn,
That Pity always must to Goodness turn.”