Poems and Plays By William Hayley ... in Six Volumes. A New Edition |
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| I. |
| II. | EPISTLE
THE SECOND. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| IV. |
| V. |
 | Poems and Plays |  |
29
EPISTLE THE SECOND.
30
ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND EPISTLE.
Character of Ancient Poets—Homer—Apollonius Rho- dius—Virgil—Lucan.
31
Hail, mighty Father of the Epic line,
Thou vast, prolific, intellectual Mine,
Whence veins of ancient and of modern gold,
The wealth of each poetic world, have roll'd!
Great Bard of Greece, whose ever-during Verse
All ages venerate, all tongues rehearse;
Could blind idolatry be justly paid
To aught of mental power by man display'd,
To thee, thou Sire of soul-exalting Song,
That boundless worship might to thee belong;
For, as thy Jove, on his Olympian throne,
In his unrivall'd sway exults alone,
Commanding Nature by his awful nod,
In high seclusion from each humbler God;
So shines thy Genius thro' the cloud of years,
Exalted far above thy Pagan peers
By the rich splendor of creative fire,
And the deep thunder of thy martial lyre;
The conscious world confesses thy controul,
And hails thee Sovereign of the kindling soul.
Thou vast, prolific, intellectual Mine,
Whence veins of ancient and of modern gold,
The wealth of each poetic world, have roll'd!
Great Bard of Greece, whose ever-during Verse
All ages venerate, all tongues rehearse;
32
To aught of mental power by man display'd,
To thee, thou Sire of soul-exalting Song,
That boundless worship might to thee belong;
For, as thy Jove, on his Olympian throne,
In his unrivall'd sway exults alone,
Commanding Nature by his awful nod,
In high seclusion from each humbler God;
So shines thy Genius thro' the cloud of years,
Exalted far above thy Pagan peers
By the rich splendor of creative fire,
And the deep thunder of thy martial lyre;
The conscious world confesses thy controul,
And hails thee Sovereign of the kindling soul.
Yet, could thy mortal shape revisit earth,
How would it move, great Bard! thy scornful mirth,
To hear vain Pedants to thy Verse assign
Scholastic thoughts that never could be thine;
To hear the quaint conceits of modern Pride
Blaspheme thy Fancy and thy Taste deride?
When thus in Vanity's capricious fit,
We see thy fame traduc'd by Gallic wit,
We see a Dwarf, who dares his foot to rest
On a recumbent Giant's ample chest,
And, lifting his pert form to public sight,
Boasts, like a child, his own superior height.
But neither envious Wit's malignant craft,
Tho' arm'd with Ridicule's envenom'd shaft,
Nor fickle Fashion's more tyrannic sway,
Whose varying voice the sons of Earth obey,
Can shake the solid base of thy renown,
Or blast the verdure of thy Laurel crown.
Tho' Time, who from his many-colour'd wings,
Scatters ten thousand shades o'er human things,
Has wrought unnumber'd changes since thy birth,
And given new features to the face of earth;
Tho' all thy Gods who shook the starry pole,
Unquestion'd Rulers of the Pagan soul,
Are fallen with their fanes, in ruin hurl'd,
Their worship vanish'd from th' enlighten'd world;
Still its immortal force thy Song retains,
Still rules obedient man and fires his glowing veins;
For Nature's self, that great and constant power,
One and the same thro' every changing hour,
Gave thee each secret of her reign to pierce,
And stampt her signet on thy sacred Verse;
That awful signet, whose imperial sway
No age disputes, no regions disobey;
For at its sight the subject passions start,
And open all the passes of the heart.
How would it move, great Bard! thy scornful mirth,
To hear vain Pedants to thy Verse assign
Scholastic thoughts that never could be thine;
To hear the quaint conceits of modern Pride
Blaspheme thy Fancy and thy Taste deride?
33
We see thy fame traduc'd by Gallic wit,
We see a Dwarf, who dares his foot to rest
On a recumbent Giant's ample chest,
And, lifting his pert form to public sight,
Boasts, like a child, his own superior height.
But neither envious Wit's malignant craft,
Tho' arm'd with Ridicule's envenom'd shaft,
Nor fickle Fashion's more tyrannic sway,
Whose varying voice the sons of Earth obey,
Can shake the solid base of thy renown,
Or blast the verdure of thy Laurel crown.
Tho' Time, who from his many-colour'd wings,
Scatters ten thousand shades o'er human things,
Has wrought unnumber'd changes since thy birth,
And given new features to the face of earth;
Tho' all thy Gods who shook the starry pole,
Unquestion'd Rulers of the Pagan soul,
34
Their worship vanish'd from th' enlighten'd world;
Still its immortal force thy Song retains,
Still rules obedient man and fires his glowing veins;
For Nature's self, that great and constant power,
One and the same thro' every changing hour,
Gave thee each secret of her reign to pierce,
And stampt her signet on thy sacred Verse;
That awful signet, whose imperial sway
No age disputes, no regions disobey;
For at its sight the subject passions start,
And open all the passes of the heart.
'Twas Nature taught thy Genius to display
That host of Characters who grace thy lay;
So richly varied and so vast the store,
Her plastic hand can hardly model more:
'Twas Nature, noblest of poetic Guides,
Gave thee thy flowing Verse, whose copious tides
Gushing luxuriant from high Fancy's source,
By no vain art diverted in their course,
With splendid ease, with simple grandeur roll,
Spread their free wealth, and fertilize the soul.
That host of Characters who grace thy lay;
So richly varied and so vast the store,
Her plastic hand can hardly model more:
'Twas Nature, noblest of poetic Guides,
Gave thee thy flowing Verse, whose copious tides
Gushing luxuriant from high Fancy's source,
By no vain art diverted in their course,
35
Spread their free wealth, and fertilize the soul.
There are, whom blind and erring zeal betrays
To wound thy Genius with ill-judging praise;
Who rashly deem thee of all Arts the sire,
Who draw dull smoke from thy resplendent fire,
Pretend thy fancied Miracles to pierce,
And form quaint riddles of thy clearest Verse;
Blind to those brighter charms and purer worth,
Which make thy Lays the lasting joy of earth.
For why has every age with fond acclaim
Swell'd the loud note of thy increasing fame?
Not that cold Study may from thee deduce
Vain codes of mystic lore and laws abstruse;
But that thy Song presents, like solar light,
A world in action to th' enraptur'd sight;
That, with a force beyond th' enervate rules
Of tame Philosophy's pedantic Schools,
Thy living Images instruct mankind,
Mould the just heart, and fire th' heroic mind.
E'en Socrates himself, that purest Sage,
Imbib'd his Wisdom from thy moral page;
And haply Greece, the Wonder of the Earth
For feats of martial fire and civic worth,
That glorious Land, of noblest minds the nurse,
Owes her unrivall'd race to thy inspiring Verse;
For O, what Greek, who in his youthful vein
Had felt thy soul-invigorating strain,
Who that had caught, amid the festive throng,
The public lesson of thy patriot Song,
Could ever cease to feel his bosom swell
With zeal to dare, and passion to excel.
In thee thy grateful country justly prais'd
The noblest Teacher of the tribes she rais'd;
Thy voice, which doubly gave her fame to last,
Form'd future Heroes, while it sung the past.
To wound thy Genius with ill-judging praise;
Who rashly deem thee of all Arts the sire,
Who draw dull smoke from thy resplendent fire,
Pretend thy fancied Miracles to pierce,
And form quaint riddles of thy clearest Verse;
Blind to those brighter charms and purer worth,
Which make thy Lays the lasting joy of earth.
For why has every age with fond acclaim
Swell'd the loud note of thy increasing fame?
Not that cold Study may from thee deduce
Vain codes of mystic lore and laws abstruse;
But that thy Song presents, like solar light,
A world in action to th' enraptur'd sight;
That, with a force beyond th' enervate rules
Of tame Philosophy's pedantic Schools,
Thy living Images instruct mankind,
Mould the just heart, and fire th' heroic mind.
36
Imbib'd his Wisdom from thy moral page;
And haply Greece, the Wonder of the Earth
For feats of martial fire and civic worth,
That glorious Land, of noblest minds the nurse,
Owes her unrivall'd race to thy inspiring Verse;
For O, what Greek, who in his youthful vein
Had felt thy soul-invigorating strain,
Who that had caught, amid the festive throng,
The public lesson of thy patriot Song,
Could ever cease to feel his bosom swell
With zeal to dare, and passion to excel.
In thee thy grateful country justly prais'd
The noblest Teacher of the tribes she rais'd;
Thy voice, which doubly gave her fame to last,
Form'd future Heroes, while it sung the past.
What deep regret thy fond admirers feel,
That mythologic clouds thy life conceal;
That, like a distant God, thou'rt darkly shown,
Felt in thy Works, but in Thyself unknown!
Perchance the shades that hide thy mortal days
From keen Affection's disappointed gaze,
And that Idolatry, so fondly proud,
With which thy Country to thy genius bow'd,
Might form the cause why, kindling with thy fire,
No Grecian rival struck thy Epic lyre;
Perchance, not seeing how thy steps were train'd,
How they the summit of Parnassus gain'd,
On thy oppressive Glory's flaming pride
Young Emulation gaz'd, and gazing died.
That mythologic clouds thy life conceal;
37
Felt in thy Works, but in Thyself unknown!
Perchance the shades that hide thy mortal days
From keen Affection's disappointed gaze,
And that Idolatry, so fondly proud,
With which thy Country to thy genius bow'd,
Might form the cause why, kindling with thy fire,
No Grecian rival struck thy Epic lyre;
Perchance, not seeing how thy steps were train'd,
How they the summit of Parnassus gain'd,
On thy oppressive Glory's flaming pride
Young Emulation gaz'd, and gazing died.
The Muses of the Attic Stage impart
To many a Votary their kindred art;
And she who bids the Theban Eagle bear
Her lyric thunder thro' the stormy air,
How high soe'er she leads his daring flight,
Guides his bold rivals to an equal height.
Of all the Grecian Bards in Glory's race,
'Tis thine alone, by thy unequall'd pace,
To reach the goal with loud applause, and hear
No step approaching thine, no rival near.
Yet may not Judgment, with severe disdain,
Slight the young Rhodian's variegated strain;
Tho' with less force he strike an humbler shell,
Beneath his hand the notes of Passion swell.
His tender Genius, with alluring art,
Displays the tumult of the Virgin's heart,
When Love, like quivering rays that never rest,
Darts thro' each vein, and vibrates in her breast.
Tho' Nature feel his Verse, tho' she declare
Medea's magic is still potent there,
Yet Fancy sees the slighted Poet rove
In pensive anger thro' th' Elysian Grove.
From Critic shades, whose supercilious pride
His Song neglected, or his Powers decried,
He turns indignant—unopprest by fears,
Behold, he seeks the sentence of his Peers.
See their just band his honest claim allow!
See pleasure lighten on his laurell'd brow!
He soars the Critic's cold contempt above,
For Virgil greets him with fraternal love!
To many a Votary their kindred art;
And she who bids the Theban Eagle bear
Her lyric thunder thro' the stormy air,
How high soe'er she leads his daring flight,
Guides his bold rivals to an equal height.
38
'Tis thine alone, by thy unequall'd pace,
To reach the goal with loud applause, and hear
No step approaching thine, no rival near.
Yet may not Judgment, with severe disdain,
Slight the young Rhodian's variegated strain;
Tho' with less force he strike an humbler shell,
Beneath his hand the notes of Passion swell.
His tender Genius, with alluring art,
Displays the tumult of the Virgin's heart,
When Love, like quivering rays that never rest,
Darts thro' each vein, and vibrates in her breast.
Tho' Nature feel his Verse, tho' she declare
Medea's magic is still potent there,
Yet Fancy sees the slighted Poet rove
In pensive anger thro' th' Elysian Grove.
From Critic shades, whose supercilious pride
His Song neglected, or his Powers decried,
39
Behold, he seeks the sentence of his Peers.
See their just band his honest claim allow!
See pleasure lighten on his laurell'd brow!
He soars the Critic's cold contempt above,
For Virgil greets him with fraternal love!
Hail, thou rich Column, on whose high-wrought frame
The Roman Muse supports her Epic fame!
Hail, great Magician, whose illusive charms
Gave pleasing lustre to a Tyrant's arms,
To Jove's pure sceptre turn'd his iron rod,
And made the Homicide a Guardian God!
Hail, wond'rous Bard, to Glory's temple led
Thro' paths that Genius rarely deigns to tread;
For Imitation, she whose syren song
Betrays the skilful and unnerves the strong,
Preserving thee on her perfidious shore,
Where many a Poet had been wreck'd before,
Led thee to heights that charm th' astonish'd eye,
And with Invention's heaven in splendor vie.
As Rome herself, by long unwearied toil,
Glean'd the fair produce of each foreign soil;
From all her wide Dominion's various parts
Borrow'd their laws, their usages, their arts;
Imported knowledge from each adverse zone,
And made the wisdom of the world her own:
Thy patient spirit thus, from every Bard
Whose mental riches won thy just regard,
Drew various treasure; which thy skill refin'd,
And in the fabric of thy Verse combin'd.
It was thy glory, as thy fond desire,
To echo the sweet notes of Homer's lyre;
But with an art thy hand alone can reach,
An art that has endear'd the strain of each.
So the young Nymph, whose tender arms embrace
An elder Sister of enchanting grace,
Though form'd herself with every power to please,
By genuine character and native ease,
Yet fondly copies from her favourite Fair
He mien, her motion, her attractive air,
Her robe's nice shape, her riband's pleasing hue,
And every ornament that strikes the view;
But she displays, by imitative art,
So quick a spirit, and so soft a heart,
The graceful mimic while our eyes adore,
We think the model cannot charm us more:
Tho' seen together, each more lovely shows,
And by comparison their beauty grows.
The Roman Muse supports her Epic fame!
Hail, great Magician, whose illusive charms
Gave pleasing lustre to a Tyrant's arms,
To Jove's pure sceptre turn'd his iron rod,
And made the Homicide a Guardian God!
Hail, wond'rous Bard, to Glory's temple led
Thro' paths that Genius rarely deigns to tread;
For Imitation, she whose syren song
Betrays the skilful and unnerves the strong,
Preserving thee on her perfidious shore,
Where many a Poet had been wreck'd before,
Led thee to heights that charm th' astonish'd eye,
And with Invention's heaven in splendor vie.
40
Glean'd the fair produce of each foreign soil;
From all her wide Dominion's various parts
Borrow'd their laws, their usages, their arts;
Imported knowledge from each adverse zone,
And made the wisdom of the world her own:
Thy patient spirit thus, from every Bard
Whose mental riches won thy just regard,
Drew various treasure; which thy skill refin'd,
And in the fabric of thy Verse combin'd.
It was thy glory, as thy fond desire,
To echo the sweet notes of Homer's lyre;
But with an art thy hand alone can reach,
An art that has endear'd the strain of each.
So the young Nymph, whose tender arms embrace
An elder Sister of enchanting grace,
Though form'd herself with every power to please,
By genuine character and native ease,
Yet fondly copies from her favourite Fair
He mien, her motion, her attractive air,
41
And every ornament that strikes the view;
But she displays, by imitative art,
So quick a spirit, and so soft a heart,
The graceful mimic while our eyes adore,
We think the model cannot charm us more:
Tho' seen together, each more lovely shows,
And by comparison their beauty grows.
Some Critics, to decide which Bard prevails,
Weigh them like Jove, but not in golden scales;
In their false balance th' injur'd Greek they raise,
Virgil sinks loaded with their heavy praise.
Ingenuous Bard, whose mental rays divine
Shaded by modest doubts more sweetly shine;
Thou whose last breath, unconscious of the wrong,
Doom'd to destruction thy sublimest Song;
How dull their incense in thy sight must burn,
How must thy spirit with abhorrence turn
From their disgusting rites, who at thy shrine
Blaspheme thy Master's name, to honour thine!
More equal tribute, in their simpler flowers,
The Poets offer to your separate powers;
For all poetic eyes delight to view
Your different forms, and with devotion due
In each the radiant Delphic God they own,
By beauteus majesty distinctly shown:
But they behold the lofty Homer stand
The bright Colossus of the Rhodian land,
Beneath whose feet the waves submissive roll,
Whose towering head appears to prop the pole;
Stupendous Image! grand in every part,
And seeming far above the reach of mortal art.
In thee, thou lovely Mantuan Bard, appear
The softer features of the Belvidere;
That finish'd grace which fascinates all eyes,
Yet from the copying hand elusive flies:
Charms so complete, by such pure spirit warm'd,
They make less perfect beauty seem deform'd.
Weigh them like Jove, but not in golden scales;
In their false balance th' injur'd Greek they raise,
Virgil sinks loaded with their heavy praise.
Ingenuous Bard, whose mental rays divine
Shaded by modest doubts more sweetly shine;
Thou whose last breath, unconscious of the wrong,
Doom'd to destruction thy sublimest Song;
How dull their incense in thy sight must burn,
How must thy spirit with abhorrence turn
42
Blaspheme thy Master's name, to honour thine!
More equal tribute, in their simpler flowers,
The Poets offer to your separate powers;
For all poetic eyes delight to view
Your different forms, and with devotion due
In each the radiant Delphic God they own,
By beauteus majesty distinctly shown:
But they behold the lofty Homer stand
The bright Colossus of the Rhodian land,
Beneath whose feet the waves submissive roll,
Whose towering head appears to prop the pole;
Stupendous Image! grand in every part,
And seeming far above the reach of mortal art.
In thee, thou lovely Mantuan Bard, appear
The softer features of the Belvidere;
That finish'd grace which fascinates all eyes,
Yet from the copying hand elusive flies:
Charms so complete, by such pure spirit warm'd,
They make less perfect beauty seem deform'd.
43
O had thy Muse, whose decorating skill
Could spread rich foliage o'er the leafless hill;
Had she, who knew with nicest hand to frame
The sweet unperishable wreaths of fame;
Had she, exalted by a happier fate,
Virtue's free Herald, and no Slave of State,
Deck'd worthier shrines with her unfading flower,
And given to Freedom what she gave to Power;
Then with more keen delight and warmer praise
The world had listen'd to thy bolder lays;
Perchance had ow'd to thee (a mighty debt)
Verse where Perfection her bright seal had set,
Where Art could nothing blame and Nature nought regret.
Could spread rich foliage o'er the leafless hill;
Had she, who knew with nicest hand to frame
The sweet unperishable wreaths of fame;
Had she, exalted by a happier fate,
Virtue's free Herald, and no Slave of State,
Deck'd worthier shrines with her unfading flower,
And given to Freedom what she gave to Power;
Then with more keen delight and warmer praise
The world had listen'd to thy bolder lays;
Perchance had ow'd to thee (a mighty debt)
Verse where Perfection her bright seal had set,
Where Art could nothing blame and Nature nought regret.
Of coarser form, with less pathetic charms,
Hating with Stoic pride a tyrant's arms,
In the keen fervour of that florid time
When youthful Fancy pours her hasty rhyme,
When all the mind's luxuriant shoots appear,
Untrimm'd by Art, by Interest, or Fear,
See daring Lucan for that wreath contend,
Which Freedom twines for her poetic friend.
'Tis thine, thou bold but injur'd Bard, 'tis thine!
Tho' Critic spleen insult thy rougher line;
Tho' wrong'd thy Genius, and thy Name misplac'd
By vain distinctions of fastidious Taste;
Indignant Freedom, with just anger fir'd,
Shall guard the Poet whom herself inspir'd.
What tho' thy early, uncorrected page
Betrays some marks of a degenerate age;
Tho' many a tumid point thy verse contains,
Like warts projecting from Herculean veins;
Tho' like thy Cato thy stern Muse appear,
Her manners rigid, and her frown austere;
Like him, still breathing Freedom's genuine flame,
Justice her idol, Public Good her aim,
Well she supplies her want of softer art
By all the sterling treasures of the heart;
By Energy, from Independance caught,
And the free Vigour of unborrow'd Thought.
Thou Bard most injur'd by malicious fate,
Could not thy Blood appease a tyrant's hate?
Must He, still gall'd by thy poetic claim,
With falshood persecute thy moral fame?
Shall History's pen, to aid his vengeance won,
Brand thee, brave Spirit! as an impious Son,
Who meanly fear'd to yield his vital flood,
And sought his safety by a Parent's blood?
Base calumny, at which Belief must halt,
And blind Credulity herself revolt.
Could that firm Youth become so vile a slave,
Whose voice new energy to virtue gave;
Whose Stoic soul all abject thoughts abhorr'd,
And own'd no sordid passion as its lord;
Who in the trying hour of mortal pain,
While life was ebbing from his open vein,
Alike unconscious of Remorse and Fear,
His heart unshaken, and his senses clear,
Smil'd on his doom, and, like the fabled bird
Whose music on Meander's bank was heard,
Form'd into tuneful notes his parting breath,
And sung th' approaches of undreaded death?
Rise, thou wrong'd Bard! above Detraction's reach,
Whose arts in vain thy various worth impeach;
Enjoy that fame thy spirit knew to prize,
And view'd so fondly with prophetic eyes.
Tho' the nice Critics of fastidious France
Survey thy Song with many a scornful glance,
And as a Goth the kinder judge accuse,
Who with their great Corneille commends thy Muse,
Let Britain, eager as the Lesbian State
To shield thy Pompey from the wrongs of Fate,
To thee with pride a fond attachment show,
Thou Bard of Freedom! tho' the world's thy foe.
As keenly sensible of Beauty's sway,
Let our just isle such generous honour pay
To the fair partner of thy hapless life,
As Lesbos paid to Pompey's lovely Wife.
Ye feeling Painters, who with genius warm
Delineate Virtue in her softest form,
Let Argentaria on your canvass shine,
A graceful mourner at her Poet's shrine;
For, nobly fearless of the Tyrant's hate,
She mourns her murder'd Bard in solemn state;
With pious care she decks his splendid tomb,
Where the dark Cypress sheds its soothing gloom,
There frequent takes her solitary stand,
His dear Pharsalia in her faithful hand;
That hand, whose toil the Muses still rehearse,
Which fondly copied his unfinish'd Verse.
See, as she bends before his recent urn,
See tender Grief to Adoration turn!
O lovely Mourner! could my Song bestow
Unfading glory on thy generous woe,
Age after age thy virtue should record,
And thou should'st live immortal as thy Lord.
Him Liberty shall crown with endless praise,
True to her cause in Rome's degenerate days;
Him, like his Brutus, her fond eye regards,
And hails him as the last of Roman Bards.
Hating with Stoic pride a tyrant's arms,
In the keen fervour of that florid time
When youthful Fancy pours her hasty rhyme,
When all the mind's luxuriant shoots appear,
Untrimm'd by Art, by Interest, or Fear,
44
Which Freedom twines for her poetic friend.
'Tis thine, thou bold but injur'd Bard, 'tis thine!
Tho' Critic spleen insult thy rougher line;
Tho' wrong'd thy Genius, and thy Name misplac'd
By vain distinctions of fastidious Taste;
Indignant Freedom, with just anger fir'd,
Shall guard the Poet whom herself inspir'd.
What tho' thy early, uncorrected page
Betrays some marks of a degenerate age;
Tho' many a tumid point thy verse contains,
Like warts projecting from Herculean veins;
Tho' like thy Cato thy stern Muse appear,
Her manners rigid, and her frown austere;
Like him, still breathing Freedom's genuine flame,
Justice her idol, Public Good her aim,
Well she supplies her want of softer art
By all the sterling treasures of the heart;
By Energy, from Independance caught,
And the free Vigour of unborrow'd Thought.
45
Could not thy Blood appease a tyrant's hate?
Must He, still gall'd by thy poetic claim,
With falshood persecute thy moral fame?
Shall History's pen, to aid his vengeance won,
Brand thee, brave Spirit! as an impious Son,
Who meanly fear'd to yield his vital flood,
And sought his safety by a Parent's blood?
Base calumny, at which Belief must halt,
And blind Credulity herself revolt.
Could that firm Youth become so vile a slave,
Whose voice new energy to virtue gave;
Whose Stoic soul all abject thoughts abhorr'd,
And own'd no sordid passion as its lord;
Who in the trying hour of mortal pain,
While life was ebbing from his open vein,
Alike unconscious of Remorse and Fear,
His heart unshaken, and his senses clear,
46
Whose music on Meander's bank was heard,
Form'd into tuneful notes his parting breath,
And sung th' approaches of undreaded death?
Rise, thou wrong'd Bard! above Detraction's reach,
Whose arts in vain thy various worth impeach;
Enjoy that fame thy spirit knew to prize,
And view'd so fondly with prophetic eyes.
Tho' the nice Critics of fastidious France
Survey thy Song with many a scornful glance,
And as a Goth the kinder judge accuse,
Who with their great Corneille commends thy Muse,
Let Britain, eager as the Lesbian State
To shield thy Pompey from the wrongs of Fate,
To thee with pride a fond attachment show,
Thou Bard of Freedom! tho' the world's thy foe.
As keenly sensible of Beauty's sway,
Let our just isle such generous honour pay
47
As Lesbos paid to Pompey's lovely Wife.
Ye feeling Painters, who with genius warm
Delineate Virtue in her softest form,
Let Argentaria on your canvass shine,
A graceful mourner at her Poet's shrine;
For, nobly fearless of the Tyrant's hate,
She mourns her murder'd Bard in solemn state;
With pious care she decks his splendid tomb,
Where the dark Cypress sheds its soothing gloom,
There frequent takes her solitary stand,
His dear Pharsalia in her faithful hand;
That hand, whose toil the Muses still rehearse,
Which fondly copied his unfinish'd Verse.
See, as she bends before his recent urn,
See tender Grief to Adoration turn!
O lovely Mourner! could my Song bestow
Unfading glory on thy generous woe,
48
And thou should'st live immortal as thy Lord.
Him Liberty shall crown with endless praise,
True to her cause in Rome's degenerate days;
Him, like his Brutus, her fond eye regards,
And hails him as the last of Roman Bards.
END OF THE SECOND EPISTLE.
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