Poems, chiefly dramatic and lyric by the Revd. H. Boyd ... containing the following dramatic poems: The Helots, a tragedy, The Temple of Vesta, The Rivals, The Royal Message. Prize Poems, &c. &c |
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HENRIETTA,
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 | Poems, chiefly dramatic and lyric |  |
565
HENRIETTA,
A MONODY, ON THE DEATH OF MISS HENRIETTA FRANCES DIGBY, OF GEASHILL, DAUGHTER OF THE REV. WILLIAM DIGBY, DEAN OF CLONFERT, 1780.
567
What envious hand has twice profan'd my bower,
My myrtle bow'r, with slips of baleful yew,
E'er April's sweets had twice adorn'd the vale,
Or call'd the primrose pale,
To mix her odorous scents with zephyrs new?
Was it for this I left yon mountains blue,
Where harsher seasons rule the bleak domain?
For this, ye nymphs, I heard your gurgling rills,
Invite me down the gentle vale with you,
To taste the softer breezes of the plain.
With you to rove among the sunny hills,
Or indolently laid, remote from view,
To court the woodland muse, with jocund reed,
And never more the sorrowing strain renew?
My myrtle bow'r, with slips of baleful yew,
E'er April's sweets had twice adorn'd the vale,
Or call'd the primrose pale,
To mix her odorous scents with zephyrs new?
Was it for this I left yon mountains blue,
Where harsher seasons rule the bleak domain?
For this, ye nymphs, I heard your gurgling rills,
Invite me down the gentle vale with you,
To taste the softer breezes of the plain.
With you to rove among the sunny hills,
Or indolently laid, remote from view,
To court the woodland muse, with jocund reed,
And never more the sorrowing strain renew?
568
Ah, Henrietta! much I hop'd for thee,
With other notes to wake the woodland choir,
When Time had seen thy full-blown charms entire,
Transplanted hence, to deck another mold,
Had seen thy virtues hold;
Their tenour, bright'ning on for many a year,
But Heav'n forbids the tear;
Heaven saw, perhaps, some dim disaster wait,
Far in the bosom of futurity,
And kindly seal'd the seeming stern decree!
With other notes to wake the woodland choir,
When Time had seen thy full-blown charms entire,
Transplanted hence, to deck another mold,
Had seen thy virtues hold;
Their tenour, bright'ning on for many a year,
But Heav'n forbids the tear;
Heaven saw, perhaps, some dim disaster wait,
Far in the bosom of futurity,
And kindly seal'd the seeming stern decree!
Thine was the blooming wreath of early worth,
And every choicest boon that Heaven bestows;
No dark contagion check'd them in the birth,
Untainted, fair, the vigorous stems arose:
Not such as aged Penitence uprears,
A puny growth, besprent with sickly tears,
When half the vigour of the soul is flown!
Ye parents hear, and mark the warning song,
Time, as he steals along,
And marks the infant mind, with weeds o'ergrown,
Shakes the hoar head, and waves th'impeaching scroll,
Then hurries frowning to th'eternal goal.
And every choicest boon that Heaven bestows;
No dark contagion check'd them in the birth,
Untainted, fair, the vigorous stems arose:
Not such as aged Penitence uprears,
A puny growth, besprent with sickly tears,
When half the vigour of the soul is flown!
Ye parents hear, and mark the warning song,
Time, as he steals along,
And marks the infant mind, with weeds o'ergrown,
Shakes the hoar head, and waves th'impeaching scroll,
Then hurries frowning to th'eternal goal.
Fair soul! it was not half thine early praise,
That every ornamental grace was thine,
The vivid pencil and the chorded shell,
Whatever charms, in these degenerate days,
That unexhausted mine,
Seen only by thy brethren of the skies,
Was hid from common eyes!
Thy soul, was all harmonious as thy lyre,
Thy lyre, attun'd to David's leading strain,
Or Asaph's lute, when full of heavenly fire,
The anthem swell'd beneath his skilful hand,
And halleluias loud, were heard to ring,
Revolving, length'ning thro' the choral band.
That every ornamental grace was thine,
The vivid pencil and the chorded shell,
Whatever charms, in these degenerate days,
569
Seen only by thy brethren of the skies,
Was hid from common eyes!
Thy soul, was all harmonious as thy lyre,
Thy lyre, attun'd to David's leading strain,
Or Asaph's lute, when full of heavenly fire,
The anthem swell'd beneath his skilful hand,
And halleluias loud, were heard to ring,
Revolving, length'ning thro' the choral band.
Warm Faith, and Hope, inspir'd thy angel song,
'Twas Faith that bade thy infant hand explore
The sacred leaves, and trace their sense along;
While on the lap reclin'd of flow'ry May,
Thine equals languish'd out the livelong day,
Or led the dance, or dar'd, devoid of fear,
To weave the amorous snare;
'Twas then, when all enjoy'd the social hour,
The seraph Hope, in saintly stole array'd,
Oft led thee forth, to some sequester'd bow'r,
To talk, with her, of heavenly things unseen,
Where she and angels shar'd the hallow'd shade;
'Twas there, alas! from this sublunar scene,
At the stol'n hour, the sad divorce was made.
'Twas Faith that bade thy infant hand explore
The sacred leaves, and trace their sense along;
While on the lap reclin'd of flow'ry May,
Thine equals languish'd out the livelong day,
Or led the dance, or dar'd, devoid of fear,
To weave the amorous snare;
'Twas then, when all enjoy'd the social hour,
The seraph Hope, in saintly stole array'd,
Oft led thee forth, to some sequester'd bow'r,
To talk, with her, of heavenly things unseen,
Where she and angels shar'd the hallow'd shade;
'Twas there, alas! from this sublunar scene,
At the stol'n hour, the sad divorce was made.
570
Not always thus, in lonely bow'r immur'd,
Meek Charity! thy soul expanding beam,
Found thy sweet pupil lost to human ties,
Reckless of earth, conversing with the skies;
From Want's pale eye, from Pity's melting claim,
And Poverty's imploring call, secur'd;
With ready ear, she heard the orphans pray'r,
With stealthy hand, she dealt the lib'ral boon,
And priz'd the power, to wipe the widows tear,
O'er all the joys that fleet beneath the moon;
O'er all that charms the eye, or sooths the ear.
For what are ye, ye transient gifts of Time,
Compar'd with those that scorn the wasting year,
Gifts from above, immortal as their clime;
When the warm impulse to the soul is given,
That bids her think of Heaven;
When first th'unshackled soul is taught to soar,
And launches from this dull, disastrous shore,
A virgin, tracing out her upward course?—
Ye living precepts! come! my song attest,
That still survive, and warm the grateful breast.
Meek Charity! thy soul expanding beam,
Found thy sweet pupil lost to human ties,
Reckless of earth, conversing with the skies;
From Want's pale eye, from Pity's melting claim,
And Poverty's imploring call, secur'd;
With ready ear, she heard the orphans pray'r,
With stealthy hand, she dealt the lib'ral boon,
And priz'd the power, to wipe the widows tear,
O'er all the joys that fleet beneath the moon;
O'er all that charms the eye, or sooths the ear.
For what are ye, ye transient gifts of Time,
Compar'd with those that scorn the wasting year,
Gifts from above, immortal as their clime;
When the warm impulse to the soul is given,
That bids her think of Heaven;
When first th'unshackled soul is taught to soar,
And launches from this dull, disastrous shore,
A virgin, tracing out her upward course?—
Ye living precepts! come! my song attest,
That still survive, and warm the grateful breast.
For well she lov'd the Pastor's hallow'd trade,
Nor thought it much, to raise with gentle hand,
The lamb, deserted in the thorny glade,
Or on the barren strand,
At random cast, of mother's care forlorn,
Nor Indolence, nor Scorn,
Forbad the nymph, her orphan charge to tend,
To ward the weakly wretch, from nightly spell;
For she had charms to counterwork the guile,
Of dæmon imp, and all the elvish train,
Given by that ancient swain,
Who bade the fisher leave his simple wile,
And learn the mighty shepherd's flock to feed;
What time Tiberias' flood, from shore to shore,
Heard the shrill summons of his vocal reed:
From realm to realm, the thrilling call was heard,
And alien flocks, a mighty train appear'd,
Obsequious, list'ning to his magic lore.
Nor thought it much, to raise with gentle hand,
571
Or on the barren strand,
At random cast, of mother's care forlorn,
Nor Indolence, nor Scorn,
Forbad the nymph, her orphan charge to tend,
To ward the weakly wretch, from nightly spell;
For she had charms to counterwork the guile,
Of dæmon imp, and all the elvish train,
Given by that ancient swain,
Who bade the fisher leave his simple wile,
And learn the mighty shepherd's flock to feed;
What time Tiberias' flood, from shore to shore,
Heard the shrill summons of his vocal reed:
From realm to realm, the thrilling call was heard,
And alien flocks, a mighty train appear'd,
Obsequious, list'ning to his magic lore.
Unusual theme! in these inglorious days,
When the dim cross, that whilom shone so bright,
Scattering the fog of Superstition's night,
So sickly seems to shed her waning light;
And Irreligion, o'er her ancient right,
The leaden sceptre sways!
Yet deem'd ye not your pious labour lost,
Blest pair! when o'er th'expiring saint ye hung,
With all a parents woes, your bosoms wrung,
And saw at once your fondest wishes crost!
Not all the fading charms, by poets sung,
Of ages, long expir'd, the empty boast,
Could match the glories of thy dying bed!—
Tho' Helen's fatal charms, on Asia's coast,
Kindled, of old, the flame of wasting war;
Tho' fierce Zenobia rul'd the rushing car,
And Caria's Queen the line of battle led.
Tho' great Eliza saw th'eternal bar,
Of dashing waves, defend her favour'd strand,
And quench in storms, the flaming wrath of Spain:
Where now are all the mighty deeds they plann'd,
Their names, to more than half the world unknown,
In some old minstrel's song, preserv'd in vain,
Or on some fragment of a mouldering stone,
Not such the portion of the silent train.
Favour'd by him, who fills the sapphire throne,
Who led them onward thro' the vale of pain,
Tho' their hard brethren scarce the wand'rers own.
For them the saints prepare the splendid seat,
Far, far, above the guilty and the great.
When the dim cross, that whilom shone so bright,
Scattering the fog of Superstition's night,
So sickly seems to shed her waning light;
And Irreligion, o'er her ancient right,
The leaden sceptre sways!
Yet deem'd ye not your pious labour lost,
Blest pair! when o'er th'expiring saint ye hung,
572
And saw at once your fondest wishes crost!
Not all the fading charms, by poets sung,
Of ages, long expir'd, the empty boast,
Could match the glories of thy dying bed!—
Tho' Helen's fatal charms, on Asia's coast,
Kindled, of old, the flame of wasting war;
Tho' fierce Zenobia rul'd the rushing car,
And Caria's Queen the line of battle led.
Tho' great Eliza saw th'eternal bar,
Of dashing waves, defend her favour'd strand,
And quench in storms, the flaming wrath of Spain:
Where now are all the mighty deeds they plann'd,
Their names, to more than half the world unknown,
In some old minstrel's song, preserv'd in vain,
Or on some fragment of a mouldering stone,
Not such the portion of the silent train.
Favour'd by him, who fills the sapphire throne,
Who led them onward thro' the vale of pain,
Tho' their hard brethren scarce the wand'rers own.
For them the saints prepare the splendid seat,
Far, far, above the guilty and the great.
More glorious far, to follow such a bier,
And more your triumph, than in ermin'd pride
To see her rais'd on Fortune's fickle sphere,
With Flattery cringing by her chariot's side.
And thou, sweet maid, who feel'st the knot unty'd,
Which once united to thy faithful heart
The lost companion of thy tuneful art,
And mourn'st her fall, as some lone nightingale,
Remote from view, the midnight groves among,
With dying dirge renews her plaintive song,
Tho' yet the recent pang thy heart assail,
Tho' now thou tun'st a solitary string;
Yet know, that still a sympathizing hand
Attunes her virgin harp, to thine above,
Among the choirs of love:
These choirs, whose anthem seem'd a while to stand,
When thro' their bands was heard the summons loud:
“ Go bid the flaming car, thy call obey,
“And half the burning seat, ye seraphs! shroud,
“Dispensing gently round a milder ray,
“When yon fair saint resigns her mortal veil;
“Go gently soothe away her tender fears,
“And waft her up the sky on softest sail.”
The wond'ring saints lean'd forward from their spheres,
To see th'unusual pomp ascend the skies;
And from their thrones, the hero and the seer,
Names which had long ennobled many a clime,
The saint, the chief, the mighty, and the wise,
Exclaim'd “sure some unwonted birth of time,
“Some soul, whose morals warm'd a languid age,
“Some holy pastor comes, from care releast,
“Some gifted bard, or deep reflecting sage;
“Else why in haste, descends the fiery team,
“Like that which bore the saint from Jordan's stream?
“No sage or moralist, “a voice rejoins,
“No pastor late releast, the call obeys,
“No gifted bard his earthly load resigns,
“And claims his wreath of Amaranthine bays!
“A simple maid, unsung by mortal lays.”
“In early youth, the blest assembly joins,
“A fairer soul was ne'er dislodg'd by death,
“Nor sought a purer mind the upward path.
“Heaven on her soul its choicest gifts distill'd,
“And blest with golden fruit the narrow span,
“A few short years, with num'rous virtues fill'd
“The genuine off'rings Heaven expects from man.
“Early recall'd, to shew the thoughtless train,
“Why still 'tis given the ling'rers to remain;
“And what important posts they fill below,
“How short, how insecure, their giddy reign,
“Then why, ye languid triflers, why so slow?
“Haste, seize the golden moments as they fly,
“See! how the fugitives ascend the sky.
“Minute your faults, and chide the fond delay,
“Protracted long by many a faint essay!”—
—Thus sung the youth Ophalia's glades among,
Tuning his ditty to the doleful knell,
Till now approaching near, the funeral throng,
Darken'd the hill, and pour'd adown the dell:
But when the plum'd hearse slowly pac'd along,
His smother'd woe began afresh to swell,
He turn'd him round, and wip'd the falling tear,
Then slowly sad, pursued the passing bier.
And more your triumph, than in ermin'd pride
To see her rais'd on Fortune's fickle sphere,
With Flattery cringing by her chariot's side.
573
Which once united to thy faithful heart
The lost companion of thy tuneful art,
And mourn'st her fall, as some lone nightingale,
Remote from view, the midnight groves among,
With dying dirge renews her plaintive song,
Tho' yet the recent pang thy heart assail,
Tho' now thou tun'st a solitary string;
Yet know, that still a sympathizing hand
Attunes her virgin harp, to thine above,
Among the choirs of love:
These choirs, whose anthem seem'd a while to stand,
When thro' their bands was heard the summons loud:
“ Go bid the flaming car, thy call obey,
“And half the burning seat, ye seraphs! shroud,
“Dispensing gently round a milder ray,
“When yon fair saint resigns her mortal veil;
“Go gently soothe away her tender fears,
“And waft her up the sky on softest sail.”
The wond'ring saints lean'd forward from their spheres,
To see th'unusual pomp ascend the skies;
And from their thrones, the hero and the seer,
Names which had long ennobled many a clime,
The saint, the chief, the mighty, and the wise,
Exclaim'd “sure some unwonted birth of time,
“Some soul, whose morals warm'd a languid age,
574
“Some gifted bard, or deep reflecting sage;
“Else why in haste, descends the fiery team,
“Like that which bore the saint from Jordan's stream?
“No sage or moralist, “a voice rejoins,
“No pastor late releast, the call obeys,
“No gifted bard his earthly load resigns,
“And claims his wreath of Amaranthine bays!
“A simple maid, unsung by mortal lays.”
“In early youth, the blest assembly joins,
“A fairer soul was ne'er dislodg'd by death,
“Nor sought a purer mind the upward path.
“Heaven on her soul its choicest gifts distill'd,
“And blest with golden fruit the narrow span,
“A few short years, with num'rous virtues fill'd
“The genuine off'rings Heaven expects from man.
“Early recall'd, to shew the thoughtless train,
“Why still 'tis given the ling'rers to remain;
“And what important posts they fill below,
“How short, how insecure, their giddy reign,
“Then why, ye languid triflers, why so slow?
“Haste, seize the golden moments as they fly,
“See! how the fugitives ascend the sky.
“Minute your faults, and chide the fond delay,
“Protracted long by many a faint essay!”—
—Thus sung the youth Ophalia's glades among,
Tuning his ditty to the doleful knell,
575
Darken'd the hill, and pour'd adown the dell:
But when the plum'd hearse slowly pac'd along,
His smother'd woe began afresh to swell,
He turn'd him round, and wip'd the falling tear,
Then slowly sad, pursued the passing bier.
FINIS.
The elder Miss Digby had died about a year before;—shortly after the author's acquaintance with the family commenced.
Whatever pecuniary present the young lady received, she either distributed among the poor, or bought religious books, for the instruction of the young and ignorant in the neighbourhood.
| Poems, chiefly dramatic and lyric | |