 | Poems |  |
Yes! 'tis a passion o'er which taste hath breath'd
Her cool soft tints; such as a STRAFFORD's air
Of plaintive eloquence might haply move,
If aided by his injur'd worth alone;
Nor borrowing ought of adventitious help
From what thy fashionable audience deems
But artificial trick. The feeling scene,
Where stood his little offspring rang'd around—
Lifting their pleading eyes—had yet impell'd
Our senatorial fathers to forgive,
(Ere fashion chas'd pure instinct from the heart)
Had not a persecuting spirit steel'd
Their breasts to momentary pardon prone.
Who could despise his unaffected strain
So arm'd by truth and goodness? Who, the pause,
The tear, the look of pity sweetly-thrown
On his dear artless innocents; the sigh
Light-rising, of a soul resign'd to heaven?
Her cool soft tints; such as a STRAFFORD's air
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If aided by his injur'd worth alone;
Nor borrowing ought of adventitious help
From what thy fashionable audience deems
But artificial trick. The feeling scene,
Where stood his little offspring rang'd around—
Lifting their pleading eyes—had yet impell'd
Our senatorial fathers to forgive,
(Ere fashion chas'd pure instinct from the heart)
Had not a persecuting spirit steel'd
Their breasts to momentary pardon prone.
Who could despise his unaffected strain
So arm'd by truth and goodness? Who, the pause,
The tear, the look of pity sweetly-thrown
On his dear artless innocents; the sigh
Light-rising, of a soul resign'd to heaven?
| Poems | |