 | The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison |  |
218
TO THE Countess of Hertford.
Madam,
If the following Lines, the Result of my Misfortunes this Morning, can engage your Ladyship's Encouragement to the Poems I propose afterwards, it will be no small Recommendation to their publick Appearance; and, a very great Favour to their Author.
Your Ladyship's most Devoted, and most Humble Servant, William Pattison.
Fair
Patroness of gentle Arts excuse,
This rude Address of an unhappy Muse;
A Muse, bereft of every worldy View!—
Unknown she comes—but then She comes to You!
And, if a Stranger's Soul distrestful, Sigh,
Tun'd by kind Sympathy, our Souls reply;
Explore the Cause thro' a long Train of Ills,
And, pitying, share those Woes the Sufferer feels:
The Loss of Fortune, Friends, or Fame-Divine,—
O grievous Loss! and must I call it mine!
And must I still reflect those happier Hours,
When, peaceably retir'd, in Granta's Bowers
I lay, the pleasing Paths to Learning plann'd,
And, Moses-like, just saw the Promis'd-Land.
Just saw—but, O my Soul! I live to mourn
The joyous Scene, that can no more return!
Distrest!—and have my boundless Griefs reveal'd
The Thought—Ambition labouring had conceal'd!
In vain, for when we dictate from the Heart,
Nature will speak at every Pause of Art;
And like a bashful Virgin, half exprest,
In spite of all the Woman, blush the Rest—
Tho' pangful-Martyrs smile upon their Grief
To Man, yet Sigh to Him, who sends Relief.
Whence then, my Muse, thy Blush, and why thy Tears,
'Tis not the World—alleviate thy Fears;
Remember well, that Virtue still the same,
Sounds the soft Earnest of immortal Fame!
Tho' Want it self might feed her famish'd Eye,
And Sorrow sweeten into Harmony!
O how I long to change this mournful Strain,
But when Fate frowns, the Muses smile in vain!
Doom'd by the sad Severity of Fate,
And must I bound my Glory with my Hate!
It must be so—like Noah's Dove distrest,
In vain I wander up and down for Rest,
From Spray to Spray I traverse every Tree,
And offer up my greenest Branch to Thee!
This rude Address of an unhappy Muse;
A Muse, bereft of every worldy View!—
Unknown she comes—but then She comes to You!
And, if a Stranger's Soul distrestful, Sigh,
Tun'd by kind Sympathy, our Souls reply;
219
And, pitying, share those Woes the Sufferer feels:
The Loss of Fortune, Friends, or Fame-Divine,—
O grievous Loss! and must I call it mine!
And must I still reflect those happier Hours,
When, peaceably retir'd, in Granta's Bowers
I lay, the pleasing Paths to Learning plann'd,
And, Moses-like, just saw the Promis'd-Land.
Just saw—but, O my Soul! I live to mourn
The joyous Scene, that can no more return!
Distrest!—and have my boundless Griefs reveal'd
The Thought—Ambition labouring had conceal'd!
In vain, for when we dictate from the Heart,
Nature will speak at every Pause of Art;
And like a bashful Virgin, half exprest,
In spite of all the Woman, blush the Rest—
Tho' pangful-Martyrs smile upon their Grief
To Man, yet Sigh to Him, who sends Relief.
220
'Tis not the World—alleviate thy Fears;
Remember well, that Virtue still the same,
Sounds the soft Earnest of immortal Fame!
Tho' Want it self might feed her famish'd Eye,
And Sorrow sweeten into Harmony!
O how I long to change this mournful Strain,
But when Fate frowns, the Muses smile in vain!
Doom'd by the sad Severity of Fate,
And must I bound my Glory with my Hate!
It must be so—like Noah's Dove distrest,
In vain I wander up and down for Rest,
From Spray to Spray I traverse every Tree,
And offer up my greenest Branch to Thee!
| The Poetical Works of Mr. William Pattison | |