The Poetical Works of Anna Seward With Extracts from her Literary Correspondence. Edited by Walter Scott ... In Three Volumes |
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PROLOGUE
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 | The Poetical Works of Anna Seward |  |
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PROLOGUE
TO THE CIRCASSIAN,
WRITTEN IN AUTUMN 1782.
Slow from an ebon throne's majestic height,
A beauteous form glides mournful on my sight,
The floating purple, and the lofty mien,
Proclaim the empress of the tragic scene;
Divine Melpomene!—aggrieved she stands,
Tears fast descending on her folded hands;
The showery clouds thus dim the azure skies,
Thus round the moon the misty halos rise.
A beauteous form glides mournful on my sight,
The floating purple, and the lofty mien,
Proclaim the empress of the tragic scene;
Divine Melpomene!—aggrieved she stands,
Tears fast descending on her folded hands;
The showery clouds thus dim the azure skies,
Thus round the moon the misty halos rise.
But soft!—the Muse of Anguish sighing speaks,
Faint on my ear the murmuring accent breaks;
Low hollow gales the plaintive sounds convey,
And thus the mourner says,—or seems to say:
Faint on my ear the murmuring accent breaks;
Low hollow gales the plaintive sounds convey,
And thus the mourner says,—or seems to say:
“Can then the tender female bosom prove
“A keener pang than disappointed love?
“Ah me! for light Thalia more than shares
“My darling Sheridan's devoted cares!
“On her vain brows his lavish wreaths are thrown,
“His thousand radiant gems emblaze her zone.
“A keener pang than disappointed love?
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“My darling Sheridan's devoted cares!
“On her vain brows his lavish wreaths are thrown,
“His thousand radiant gems emblaze her zone.
“What tho' her bounty gave to his bright wand
“O'er each gay grace of wit supreme command,
“Yet, with sublimer force, my chemic fire
“With proud distinction deck'd his sacred lyre;
“To purest gold its warbling wires I turn'd,
“When their sweet lays o'er lifeless Garrick mourn'd.
“O'er each gay grace of wit supreme command,
“Yet, with sublimer force, my chemic fire
“With proud distinction deck'd his sacred lyre;
“To purest gold its warbling wires I turn'd,
“When their sweet lays o'er lifeless Garrick mourn'd.
“And once he sung, in elevated strain,
“My charms superior, and my right to reign;
“When, with the majesty my impulse throws
“In chasten'd splendour, on the poet's brows,
“He bade the tears, that stream'd o'er Asia's Queen,
“Flow soft in real Sorrow's lonely scene:
“And, while they melt the heart, inspire its zeal
“To sooth by pity, or by bounty heal.
“Ah! soon he smiled those graceful tears away,
“And for my frolic Rival wore the lay.
“My charms superior, and my right to reign;
“When, with the majesty my impulse throws
“In chasten'd splendour, on the poet's brows,
“He bade the tears, that stream'd o'er Asia's Queen,
“Flow soft in real Sorrow's lonely scene:
“And, while they melt the heart, inspire its zeal
“To sooth by pity, or by bounty heal.
“Ah! soon he smiled those graceful tears away,
“And for my frolic Rival wore the lay.
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“Yet let me hope the jocund pride of youth
“Alone has warpt from me his love and truth;
“That soon the rover may again be mine,
“And with unfading laurels deck my shrine.
“Alone has warpt from me his love and truth;
“That soon the rover may again be mine,
“And with unfading laurels deck my shrine.
“To-night an humbler hand the meed bestows,
“And on my shrine the cypress garland throws.
“O! may the fost'ring breath of public praise,
“Preserve from cruel blight the votive sprays!”
“And on my shrine the cypress garland throws.
“O! may the fost'ring breath of public praise,
“Preserve from cruel blight the votive sprays!”
I hear no more—for, with a pensive smile,
Slow glides the Muse down yonder winding isle.
Slow glides the Muse down yonder winding isle.
May you, ye brave, ye wise, ye good, ye fair,
Fulfil, with suffrage kind, her fervent prayer!
And since no force of wit, or comic art,
Can shut to Sorrow's plaint the British heart,
Hope whispers that your praise may bless the Bard,
His first ambition, and his bright reward.
Fulfil, with suffrage kind, her fervent prayer!
And since no force of wit, or comic art,
Can shut to Sorrow's plaint the British heart,
Hope whispers that your praise may bless the Bard,
His first ambition, and his bright reward.
| The Poetical Works of Anna Seward | |