University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
The Poetical Works of Anna Seward

With Extracts from her Literary Correspondence. Edited by Walter Scott ... In Three Volumes

collapse sectionI. 
expand section 
  
expand section 
collapse section 
  
  
  
PROLOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
expand sectionII. 
expand sectionIII. 


165

PROLOGUE

WRITTEN FOR THE TRAGEDY OF BRAGANZA.

On Britain's stage, when Roman Portia charms,
And female grace with manly courage arms,
Each sex alike her daring virtues fire,
The fair exult, and all the brave admire.
Beyond her Brutus' life the public weal
Nobly she loves, and animates his zeal,
But soon the o'er-strain'd cords of courage break,
And fatal madness triumphs o'er the wreck.
More self-sustain'd, pride of a recent age,
Louisa's radiance gilds the historic page,
Her portrait here, display'd in faithful light,
A virgin muse exhibits to your sight.
She pleads the unpractised hand of truant Youth,
But boasts the sacred patronage of Truth.

166

Oft have you wept Elfrida's fancied woes,
Charm'd with each virtue that her bard bestows;
While Truth indignant fled the varnish'd theme,
He cloth'd the faithless fair with worth supreme;
Each shrinking voice confess'd the touch refined,
That chased the Ethiop blackness of her mind.
O! let those tears for bright Louisa stream,
Around whose brows the genuine virtues beam!
Contempt of death, in Freedom's glorious cause,
By sterner manhood shown, demands applause;
Such glorious heights when softer woman soars,
Awaken'd Sympathy her tribute pours;
The heart's quick throb, sweet sigh, and raptured tear,
For Love and Beauty, that so greatly dare.
Oft has your rigid justice been disarm'd
When graceful Cleopatra spoke and charm'd.
Still the imperial criminal inspires
Some kind compassion for unhallow'd fires,
Tho' worlds ill-lost o'erwhelm her hero's fame,
And victim millions curse the guilty flame;
Yet still, beneath her self-inflicted fate,
You feel her guilty, but confess her great;

167

Own the rash deed high-soul'd,—in that dark time
Stampt with no dire reproach, no impious crime.
Long years of error thus the generous mourn,
When Courage clasps the expiatory urn.
A purer spirit now demands acclaim,
True patriot virtue in a female frame,
And more than Roman firmness.—In that cause,
Ye Britons, mitigate the critics' laws!
For her dear sake, who your own spirit breathes,
Adorn her poet with your honour'd wreaths!
On you his hopes, on you his fears await,
Your smile is glory, and your frown is fate.
 

Her death, by the application of the Asp.