Literary relics of the late Joseph Richardson Dedicated by permission to His Grace the duke of Northumberland: Consisting of The Comedy of the fugitive, and a few short poems; with a sketch of the life of the author by an intimate friend; in which those numbers of the rolliads and probationary odes written by Mr. Richardson are particularized. The whole collected and prepared for the press by Mrs. Richardson |
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Virtutem videant, intabescantque relictâ.
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 | Literary relics of the late Joseph Richardson |  |
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Virtutem videant, intabescantque relictâ.
Where the brown trees a darker shade compose,
And, friend to woe, the murm'ring rivulet flows,
Oppress'd with grief, the hapless Delia sat,
And mourn'd the rigours of a cruel fate.
And, friend to woe, the murm'ring rivulet flows,
Oppress'd with grief, the hapless Delia sat,
And mourn'd the rigours of a cruel fate.
I
“Ye gloomy scenes that sympathize with grief,With kindred horror soothing the distrest,
From you the wretched find a sure relief,
With you the guilty in repose may rest.
II
“Here let me sit, and, since my joys are flown,Indulge in thought the dear delusive theme,
Enjoy again the pleasures that are gone,
And once more find my innocence in dream.
III
“Blythe as the fields that gentle showers regale,Soft as the lambkins in their evening play,
Sweet as the lily in the fragrant vale,
Was Delia once—for she was pure as they.
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IV
“Still to my steps obedient was delight,(Such is the power where innocence prevails;)
Alike I found it on the mountain's height,
And felt its influence in the flowery dales.
V
“One only task solicited my care,Delightful labour! with a filial love
To watch with duty o'er an aged pair,
Their joys to brighten, and their pains remove.
VI
“But here! ah, here! the tale of joy must end—The rest for guilt and misery to fill;
For those whom nature orders us to tend,
My impious guilt contributed to kill.
VII
“'T was love, soft source of many a maiden's tear,That led my steps from virtue's paths astray,
'T was Edwin's grace—'t was Edwin's form and air,
That charm'd my soul from innocence away.
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VIII
“Skill'd in the arts that faithless swains pursue,Endow'd with all that tempts the mind from grace,
In luckless hour—what could not Edwin do?
He stole at once my virtue and my peace.
IX
“Stung with his falsehood, but more stung with guilt,In vain I seek for shelter and repose;
The virtuous pleasures which I once have felt,
Render but now more exquisite my woes.”
| Literary relics of the late Joseph Richardson | |