The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale In two volumes |
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 | II. |
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TO THE AUTHOR OF A POEM, JUST PUBLISHED, entitled THE DYING NEGRO. |
 | The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale |  |
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TO THE AUTHOR OF A POEM, JUST PUBLISHED, entitled THE DYING NEGRO.
Accept, pathetic bard, these generous lays;
A poet will not spurn a poet's praise.
With gratitude I own the liberal aid
That saves me from oblivion's dreary shade.
Let me the same benevolence pursue,
And bring a genius forth to public view.
While we at once to fame in song aspire,
Though I be worsted, let me fan thy fire.
A poet will not spurn a poet's praise.
With gratitude I own the liberal aid
That saves me from oblivion's dreary shade.
Let me the same benevolence pursue,
And bring a genius forth to public view.
While we at once to fame in song aspire,
Though I be worsted, let me fan thy fire.
This offering of a feeling heart I make,
Both for thy verses, and thy virtue's sake;
For thy warm patronage of nature's plan—
I fear the rival, but I love the man.
Both for thy verses, and thy virtue's sake;
For thy warm patronage of nature's plan—
I fear the rival, but I love the man.
May all the curses which thy youth implores
With speedy ruin reach West Indian shores!
Oh! may the Negroes, with an iron rod,
Avenge the cause of Nature, and of God!
May they in happy combination rise,
Torture their doom, or liberty their prize;
Rush with resistless fury on their foes,
By one great effort expiate Afric's woes;
Eager each mark of slavery to efface,
Of their pale tyrants murder all the race!
With speedy ruin reach West Indian shores!
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Avenge the cause of Nature, and of God!
May they in happy combination rise,
Torture their doom, or liberty their prize;
Rush with resistless fury on their foes,
By one great effort expiate Afric's woes;
Eager each mark of slavery to efface,
Of their pale tyrants murder all the race!
When thus I see chastised the worst of crimes,
Of all black deeds in old and modern times;
A vengeance worthy of the heavenly throne;
Then (nor before that period) will I own
That priests are not industrious to deceive;
Then will my mind be open to believe
That Christ, or Israel's awful king of kings,
Minutely regulates terrestrial things.
Of all black deeds in old and modern times;
A vengeance worthy of the heavenly throne;
Then (nor before that period) will I own
That priests are not industrious to deceive;
Then will my mind be open to believe
That Christ, or Israel's awful king of kings,
Minutely regulates terrestrial things.
And as the poet's warm expansive soul
Spreads it's benevolence from pole to pole,
Loves man, his brother, in Siberian snow,
Or where the spicy gales of Afric blow;
Then I'll enjoy the Negro's happy lot,
His purling rivulet, his peaceful cot;
Behold him, stretched beneath a fragrant shade,
Breathe fervid accents to a sable maid;
Or pass, in mirth, and festal song, the day,
Streams, groves, and hills responsive to his lay:
No northern ruffian near, importing woes,
No ruthless Christian to disturb repose!
Spreads it's benevolence from pole to pole,
Loves man, his brother, in Siberian snow,
Or where the spicy gales of Afric blow;
Then I'll enjoy the Negro's happy lot,
His purling rivulet, his peaceful cot;
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Breathe fervid accents to a sable maid;
Or pass, in mirth, and festal song, the day,
Streams, groves, and hills responsive to his lay:
No northern ruffian near, importing woes,
No ruthless Christian to disturb repose!
But when will Time, with swift, indignant wing
When will he realize the bliss I sing?
Fancy still brings me some romantic theme,
Still mocks the poet with some pleasing dream.
Let Reason, then, her vagrant flight restrain;
So let her wish, as not to wish in vain;
Returning to the bard she's proud to praise,
Image the scenes that should adorn his days;
Those pleasures which to worth are sometimes given,
Or by blind chance, or providential Heaven.
When will he realize the bliss I sing?
Fancy still brings me some romantic theme,
Still mocks the poet with some pleasing dream.
Let Reason, then, her vagrant flight restrain;
So let her wish, as not to wish in vain;
Returning to the bard she's proud to praise,
Image the scenes that should adorn his days;
Those pleasures which to worth are sometimes given,
Or by blind chance, or providential Heaven.
Ever, thou ardent patron of mankind,
May the bard's happiness impress thy mind;
Our best enjoyments mayst thou ever prove,
In learned ease, in poetry, and love.
For surely love must in the bosom reign
Of one who sings in such a tender strain.
For most his powerful empire poets know,
The source from which their bliss, and torment flow,
Their sweetest pleasure, and their bitterest woe.
May the bard's happiness impress thy mind;
Our best enjoyments mayst thou ever prove,
In learned ease, in poetry, and love.
For surely love must in the bosom reign
Of one who sings in such a tender strain.
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The source from which their bliss, and torment flow,
Their sweetest pleasure, and their bitterest woe.
But mayst thou ne'er admire a rigorous fair,
Doomed by her frowns a prey to pallid care;
Condemned intenser agony to feel
Than Damien suffered on his bed of steel.
Rather to thee may joyless seasons roll,
No inspiration beaming on thy soul:
May the coy Nine their influence never give;
In dead stagnation may'st thou seem to live;
May thy cold mind be destitute of song;
Mayst thou degenerate to the vulgar throng.
Doomed by her frowns a prey to pallid care;
Condemned intenser agony to feel
Than Damien suffered on his bed of steel.
Rather to thee may joyless seasons roll,
No inspiration beaming on thy soul:
May the coy Nine their influence never give;
In dead stagnation may'st thou seem to live;
May thy cold mind be destitute of song;
Mayst thou degenerate to the vulgar throng.
Ingenuous is thy bard; he'll not pretend
He only meant thy genius to befriend;
Partly the love of self this tribute drew;
He mourns his misery while he praises you.
His love too suffers Fortune's dire controul;
Thy hero's exit shook his tortured soul.
Of painful life inspired, the gloomy state;
He wished, but trembled to embrace his fate.
He only meant thy genius to befriend;
Partly the love of self this tribute drew;
He mourns his misery while he praises you.
His love too suffers Fortune's dire controul;
Thy hero's exit shook his tortured soul.
Of painful life inspired, the gloomy state;
He wished, but trembled to embrace his fate.
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I live tormented by a cruel fair—
But Passion, hold—awhile reproach forbear.
Oft blundering chance defeats the generous will;
Confusion reigns; the world is chaos still.
She, haply, whom I've rashly deemed severe,
Now for her lover drops a tender tear;
Haply this verse is not addressed in vain
To her who felt, who loved my bolder strain:
And if it meets her more expressive eye,
The rosy lustre from her cheek may die;
Her heart may soften on each plaintive line,
And melt with sorrows only less than mine.
But Passion, hold—awhile reproach forbear.
Oft blundering chance defeats the generous will;
Confusion reigns; the world is chaos still.
She, haply, whom I've rashly deemed severe,
Now for her lover drops a tender tear;
Haply this verse is not addressed in vain
To her who felt, who loved my bolder strain:
And if it meets her more expressive eye,
The rosy lustre from her cheek may die;
Her heart may soften on each plaintive line,
And melt with sorrows only less than mine.
But should in her the sex's love of sway
Mark me to female tyranny a prey;
Should she adopt the trifling woman's part,
Amused her fancy, but unmoved her heart;
Should she return my passion with disdain,
Nor change my iron for a silken chain;
Then let me seek the refuge of the grave,
Scorn to exist, a despicable slave;
The bauble, life, with firm contempt resign—
The dying negro's brave despair be mine.
Mark me to female tyranny a prey;
Should she adopt the trifling woman's part,
Amused her fancy, but unmoved her heart;
Should she return my passion with disdain,
Nor change my iron for a silken chain;
Then let me seek the refuge of the grave,
Scorn to exist, a despicable slave;
The bauble, life, with firm contempt resign—
The dying negro's brave despair be mine.
Clitander. July 1, 1773.
| The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale | |