Original poems on several subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Attend, fair Maria, not averse to hear
A friendly Muse in Elegy complain;
But why brood o'er distress, when Maria's near,
Whose blooming charms inspire the sprightly strain?

Yet, gentle Maid, the tender thrill of thought
Is now implor'd, the sorrow-humid eye;
The melting heart with sweet sensations fraught,
The soften'd aspect, and the heaving sigh.

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So fine a swell of sentimental grief,
So soft a touch of sympathetic wo,
That seek no vulgar impotent relief;
Virtue alone can boast, or Maria show.

When Pity moves the trembling strings of life,
The quicken'd heart feels exquisite all o'er;
Feels, no rude passions in unfriendly strife,
But pleasure mix'd with sadness please the more.

To pity Worth, is to esteem it too,
Esteem in others, is ourselves to claim;
Pity is Merit's immemorial due,
Thus, then, self-praise and pity are the same.

No heart can Pity's prompt emotions feel,
But that once moulded by Love's gentle hand;
The unrelenting heart's fenc'd round with steel,
Beneath no social Passion's mild command.

Who pities then, a nice-form'd taste declares,
All that is fair or lovely to admire;
A bias soft to Friendship's tender cares,
And all the sweets of elegant desire.

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Here, as a Lily sunk beneath the storm,
Your beauteous likeness, save in woes, behold;
For manner, sweetness, and exteriour form,
Where charms beyond the vulgar boast unfold.

The breath of Spring, with her selected sweets,
But a faint emblem of her temper give;
How seldom one her fair resemblance meets,
Too excellent to die, too good to live!

But these avail'd not to his ruffian eye,
Who void of all, would meanly all despise;
Ne'er did the gildings of a vernal sky
Prevent the Earthquake's shock, or tempest's rise.

Attend then, Maria, let your candour plead
The Muse's pardon, as your smiles inspire;
And suffer her your lonely steps to lead
Where only Folly's backward to retire.

The rueful vault, the mattock, and the grave,
The bust funereal, and the cypress shade,
That set the monarch level with his slave,
Make only little vulgar minds afraid.

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Come then, the meek superiour of your sex,
For beauty, though that beauty least your praise;
Behold what ills unnumber'd may perplex
A helpless maid, yet all her virtues raise.

If, from the pure expanse of rural skies,
Where vernal breezes, dews, and sunshine cheer,
Prison'd in rooms, the lily deigns to rise,
How alter'd all her native charms appear!

Diseas'd and languid looks her form throughout,
Which Spring abroad as her first beauty shows,
Less balmy sweets she breathes profuse about,
And all her leaves their glossy whiteness lose.

Just so, to gratify some wretched view,
The little caprice of an abject mind;
What changes in the fair one's looks ensue,
If by severe tyrannic laws confin'd!

The lily, then, on Sorrow's call attends,
In sickly languor o'er her features spread;
Not love-meek Innocence herself befriends,
From each bright eye the living lustre fled!

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Such was, alas! Monimia's hapless doom,
For shall the Muse the secret deed conceal?
Guilt all would bury in eternal gloom,
But Justice must the direful truth reveal,

This boast of Beauty, and of Virtue twain,
A fatal law Lorenzo forc'd to wed;
He woo'd, not Merit, but vile sordid Gain,
Not for his heart a partner, but his bed.

Those, who assum'd, stretch'd pow'r parental too,
Beyond what God or Nature ever meant;
True; she from them her breath precarious drew,
But not that soul which knows no mean restraint.

Oft on her knees, and with tear-flooded eye,
Would she implore one favour, one alone,
Which pride with meanness only could deny,
Her choice implore, a Man of worth, or none.

“If wed I must, let Theron be the man,
“Whose birth and manners all conspire to please;
“Though not by Fortune fashion'd to your plan,
“Yet at his board sit Plenty, Joy, and Ease.

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“His form—but not his beauty strikes my eye,
“Yet is he lovely, and from childhood known;
“He hears Distress, but not unpitied, sigh,
“Virtue and he long since familiars grown.

“Yet Theron, and his offers, I resign,
“To purchase all to me, a Parent's smile;
“This be your triumph, as the duty mine,
“But ah! my ruin not your triumph style!

“What though Lorenzo's coffers swell with pelf,
“Still is he wretched, poor, and mean withal;
“His god, his friend, his neighbour, is—himself,
“Malice may blast, he can no lower fall.

“Be his!—O let a prostrate suppliant move!
“This filial tear, this heart-commission'd sigh!
“Command me to respect him, but to love—
“Thine, Theron, must I be—a maid—or die!—”

Sweet injur'd fair!—what, such distress survey,
Hear the fond pleadings of a heart so soft,
Yet Nature's rising impulse disobey!
Oft as the sob recurr'd, suppress'd as oft!

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Such too, (to blot the annals of mankind,
And blast with infamy those tender names)
Her parents!—Nature them as such design'd,
But she the brutal violence disclaims.

They saw her gentle soul dissolv'd in tears,
And heard the melting arguments she sobb'd;
But with the adder's unrelenting ears,
The eye of savage, of her younglings robb'd!

In words, that on each sense like thunder broke,
Which scarce the Muse repeats unruffled o'er;
Thus they replied, and menac'd as they spoke,
“Lorenzo's your's, or you our child no more.

“Lorenzo!—think what honours grace his name!
“How high thro' times remote runs his descent!
“How vast his riches, which by lineage came!
“Lorenzo slight?—would you too late repent?

O Gold! thou splendid enemy to Love!
What crouds, for thee, to ruin headlong run!
When Merit, Youth, and Beauty fail to move,
For thee we wed, we wed, and are undone!

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But not thus, in expostulations vain,
They still control'd the freedom of her choice;
By actual force each conquer'd her disdain,
Too mild the threat'nings of a loud-rais'd voice.

They conquer'd? no; superiour to delay,
Monimia chose, though all her scorn alive,
Chose rather certain death, than disobey,
Deeply impress'd, not long she could survive.

But here, let none her sad example prize,
Monimia err'd, howe'er her motive pure;
Nature's first sacred mandate we practise,
When we ourselves from misery secure.

Not so Monimia; she, with great resolve,
Her fate provok'd, her piety to save;
But such excesses few in woes involve,
For Virtue's sake how few prefer the grave!

Who dare the Hymeneal rites profane,
Concord's chaste joys with souls mispair'd to taste?
Justly all such seek happiness in vain,
Winter's chill damps their hopes in blossom waste.

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“Let two be one,” kind Nature loud proclaims,
But men with sacrilegious hands divide;
The selfish wed, while only Virtue blames,
By scrolls and settlements, not hearts, ally'd.

But let not pert Detraction, foul-mouth'd elf,
Blot the fair transcript of the sex's fame;
Let men caress that bosom-viper, self,
At once their crime, their punishment, and shame.

Let Nature dictate, Prudence fix the choice,
And Love preside, with tender wish, o'er all;
Be then the words pronounc'd with steady voice,
Men must them equal, angels happy call.

But ah! far other sad Monimia's fate,
Born underneath some dark ill-omen'd star!
When Paradise had op'd her blissful gate,
Some dæmon interpos'd a triple bar!

While, in the sunshine of a summer's day,
Through the dun umbrage coo'd the Turtle-dove,
The falcon spy'd his unsuspecting prey,
And to her guiltless heart his talons drove.

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But be that wretch abandon'd to despair,
From his curs'd roof let Happiness depart,
Who would by base compulsions gain the Fair,
Who would commit an outrage on the heart.

Lorenzo! what black fiend thy breast inspir'd,
To murder Innocence, in horrid glee;
A fair Disconsolate, by all admir'd,
As form'd the exquisite reverse of thee?

Though gibbets rot e'er such fell miscreants die,
Guilt, like some vulture, shall thy heart-strings gnaw;
Dire in thy face shall Hydra terrours fly,
And thou on racks expire, in spite of law.

Monimia trembling to the altar goes,
All speechless, like a lamb to slaughter led!
Warm on her cheek no blush connubial glows,
The lily triumphs in the rose's stead!

Her hand, that hung down lifeless by her side,
The guilty bridegroom seizes as his own;
Scarce her despair and anguish could she hide,
Yet sigh'd not, haply, lest reluctance shown!

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Oh! had Death's summons all his hopes beguil'd,
And snatch'd her senseless from his horrid arms!
Or had she bloom'd in some far distant wild,
In all her virgin elegance of charms!

There, haply, soon some shepherd swain had stray'd,
His soul all gentle, as unmatch'd his form;
Beheld, admir'd, and woo'd the charming maid,
Each other's star through life's tumultuous storm.

Each other's Heav'n, from rude inspection hid,
Undamp'd by envy, and remote from wo;
Each other's soul of harmony, amid
The bustle of discordant strife below.

Each other's treasure, though no diamonds flame
With lustre of vain glory on their hands;
Though, tack'd fantastic to a paltry name,
No mouldy rent-rolls swell with charter-lands.

Each other's fame, though no loud trumpets blow,
While human ears, as sponges rain, absorb;
Each other's world in miniature, to throw
A shadow of eclipse on Bourbon's orb.

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Oh! had Monimia, from the tyger's fangs,
Been folded thus in Lov's encircling arms;
No beauteous prey to Sorrow's wasting pangs,
No fiend to riot on an angel's charms!

But how superlative had Virtue shone,
How thus Religion prov'd her birth divine,
Riches uncurs'd, not to Lorenzo thrown,
And thus marr'd Heav'n's just, righteous, good design?

He gain'd Monimia, nor her value knew,
But as the conquest gratified his pride;
Her fortune was the object in his view,
Nor could disguise his low pretensions hide.

Alas! hard is the lot of womankind,
By mercenary traffic bought and sold!
Reason ne'er weighs the beauties of the mind,
If but the sordid balance sinks with gold!

Nor wonder, with the first revolving moon,
Scarce common proofs of tenderness she shar'd;
How much unlike, her fate evinc'd too soon,
An angel and a fiend in union pair'd.

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As Love no corner of his heart possest,
And all his schemes of vile ambition gain'd;
A jealous frenzy seiz'd his troubled breast,
Though not a thought Monimia's honour stain'd.

But let not Candour varnish o'er the tale,
His jealous qualms were feign'd, the wretch confest,
That the pretext his views might more avail,
And she with seeming justice be distrest.

Conscious how little merit he can claim,
Or to attract, or fix, a female heart,
To lower her's, a base unmanly aim,
He acts the villain's, and detractor's part.

Rudely from all society cut off,
But that abhorr'd, society with him;
She lives a cloister'd object of his scoff,
His hated passion, petulance, and whim.

The tyrant soon he proves, wrapt in disguise,
Veiling his curs'd design with specious art;
Naked before her view at once it lies,
Alarms her fears, and wounds her to the heart.

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With all Love's tender, meek, persuasive pow'rs,
Would she engage that heart she never priz'd,
While tears escape her in portentous show'rs,
In vain, her soft endearments all despis'd.

Till Cruelty grew weary of restraint,
Some medium still the sly deceiver kept;
Once too, in spite of all the tyrant meant,
Nature relented, and Lorenzo wept.

But not alone avowedly severe,
He treats this matchless wonder of her sex;
His very kindnesses how insincere!
His blandishments themselves all fram'd to vex!

But would Monimia's hardships claim belief,
Varied by ev'ry wicked mean device?
Her gentle spirit sinks beneath her grief,
How could she purchase death, whate'er the price!

Yet so resign'd, so humble in her wo,
Still she possess'd such dignity of thought,
That from her lips no bitter railings flow,
No murmurs with a bold impatience fraught.

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True; she is wretched, of all hope bereft,
Touch'd in her quickest sense of home-felt smart;
But still uninjur'd Innocence is left,
Not wounded is her conscience, but her heart.

Little reflect the gay fantastic croud,
Whose ev'ry wish its darling object meets,
What numbers would to life prefer the shroud,
Those too whom Folly Fortune's chosen greets.

Within the circle of domestic life
What passes, by the vulgar eye unseen;
Howe'er the sphere of misery and strife,
Affects us coolly, as it ne'er had been.

Boast not those tyrants born of regal line,
Whom crowns protect, howe'er enlarg'd their crimes;
Such milder seem, in caprice and design,
Than each home-thron'd Lorenzo of our times.

Let poets, ne'er to real life confin'd,
Emblazon forth great names whom kings oppress;
Their ranks, but not misfortunes, strike mankind,
These, like their virtues, than Monimia's less.

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The silent grief, that preys upon the heart,
The inward anguish, and the bosom-pang;
Like deadly serpents twist round life, nor part,
Till Death releases from the poison'd fang.

But O! may happier suns on Maria shine,
In the soft radiance of one cloudless day!
And, at mild Evening's gradual late decline,
May not a shade obscure their setting ray!

May no false traitor, in Love's sacred mask,
Be her's, as once, alas! Monimia's lot;
But He, with whom would please the rural task,
The sylvan banquet, and the shepherd's cot.

Nor scorn that softness, Charmer, to with-hold,
That silent tear, that gently-swelling sigh;
Her ills, howe'er in simple numbers told,
Might melt the flinty heart, and savage eye.

Nature to Man the daring soul assign'd,
At but his Maker's dread rebuke to start;
But, of materials soften'd and refin'd,
To tender feelings form'd the female heart:

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And while Monimia's sorrows we deplore,
We pay that tribute Virtue styles her own,
A tribute that enriches us the more,
Tears are the debt, and Merit is the loan.

Beyond the maxims of the Stoic page,
Researches vain of metaphysic pride;
Her mournful story may instruct the age,
At once to mend its manners, and deride.

But who would purchase, at Monimia's rate,
The fatal lesson, better ah untaught!
Tho' hence styl'd philosophically great,
And high on Fame's celestial pinion caught?

Who to shine forth, tho' mark'd by Virtue's stamp,
A bright and fair example to mankind,
Would certain hopes of bliss remorseless damp,
Or in Lorenzo's arms them blasted find!

Sure, boding screech-owls hover'd round, to pour,
While Justice equipois'd her balance hangs,
Black frightful omens on his natal hour,
Thrown into life with more than wonted pangs.

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When births enormous Nature bursts to light,
By previous signals she forewarns mankind;
Lest the fell wonder might o'erwhelm the sight,
And fatally surprise the guardless mind.

Yet, who of Heav'n could once himself persuade,
If no Monimias grac'd our world below?
Their bright example comes to Reason's aid,
When her bewilder'd pow'rs no farther go.

Nor for probation were this life design'd,
Did no Lorenzos on its joys obtrude:
Thus all-wise Providence to humankind,
Ill but permits, as conducive to good.

But now the Muse digresses from her theme,
Fond of a respite from indignant grief;
But ah! Lorenzo, cruel to extreme,
Ne'er knew the art divine to give relief!

Soon on her health his brutal usage preys,
Howe'er a more than female firmness bore;
His merc'less eyes her wasting charms surveys,
As if a smile their lustre would restore.

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Long tir'd of life, with all its rude alarms,
Its phantom comforts, and substantial ills;
Now but Religion boasts intrinsic charms,
While chaste Devotion all her bosom fills.

Nor did Affliction kindle in her breast
A sacred flame that glow'd not there before;
Her brighter days the same pure flame confest,
Though Virtue, haply, now endear'd the more.

When some distress with hasty step invades,
For aid let cowards to Religion turn;
Their holy fires, but in Grief's sullen shades,
Seldom in Fortune's sunshine, partial burn.

The ray from Fortune vainly shot around,
To throw a splendour on Monimia's fame,
Its ample sphere illum'd already found,
There lost, or back reflected whence it came.

“Let Fortune turn aside, with footstep proud,
“And Fortune's haughty minions, Wealth and Fame,
“And Grandeur, circled by their menial croud,
“Nor waste their honours on Monimia's name:

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“If fair Religion, with her gentle guests,
“Her cherub train of Graces, scorn her not;
“Unpinion'd from her flight Ambition rests,
“Nor would a crown add splendour to her lot.

“Religion! with what peace, a life well spent,
“For thee employ'd its each returning breath,
“What rapture, words would vainly represent,
“In thy divine embrace we yield to death!

Thus, with an intellectual soar of thought,
Would she her heart's fond wishes oft express;
Nor were those angel inmates vainly sought,
To grace Monimia's dwelling, or to bless.

But ah! such is the dread decree below,
The brightest worth oft-times seems most oppress'd;
That vain short-sighted mortals hence might know,
Life is not her reward, but Virtue's test.

Who, else, could bear the burden of his woes?
Who fight with pain, nor hope a kind discharge?
Monimia, else, had ne'er to angel rose,
Her patience vast, as her misfortunes large.

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But shall the Muse on her sad story dwell,
To taste the bitter anguish of her fate?
—A victim to his cruelty she fell!
He saw his dreadful errour when too late!

Yet, while eternal slumbers seal'd her eyes,
And thro' each vein Death's freezing chillness ran;
With feeble voice, and falt'ring lips, she cries,
“May mercy and forgiveness meet the man!

“O Love Immortal! thine's the Godlike pow'r,
“And thine alone, to pity and forgive!
“If pardon then awaits my dying hour,
“O may He not that hour unpardon'd live!”

Nor more she utter'd: like the lily pale,
The sweetness of her looks scarce chang'd by death;
While no fierce throbs her tender frame assail,
As saints expire, she draws her latest breath.

Yet though Monimia's sorrows wing'd the dart
That stopt a while her temporary breath;
Her and distress Fate could alone dispart,
Her glory dawn'd amid the shades of death.

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O'er her decease the Muses love to weep,
Nor from the bier can Friendship lift her eye!
Together both sad mournful vigils keep,
Sighing for man, that such Desert should die!

But who can paint his horrour and surprise,
That conflict of outrageous passions shown,
When he beheld the lustre leave her eyes,
And from her lips the ruby tincture flown?

Too well, alas! she her decline conceal'd,
He but her wonted delicacy blam'd,
Nor dream'd the fatal change, till Death reveal'd;
—Vain, false excuse, howe'er by Candour fram'd.

By slow advance the strings of life unloos'd,
And Beauty gradual sinking to decay,
Silent and calm, no arts officious us'd,
To all appear'd remote Monimia's day.

No sudden change to give the dread alarm,
Unless to Friendship's eye, that ne'er survey'd,
Or mark'd her temper, or defac'd one charm,
Lovely in life's last stage the dying maid.

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But Oh! one eve, when, to the sad-pleas'd eye,
Her gentle sister, Cynthia, rose serene,
As if to light her passage to the sky;
Monimia fled life's grief-o'erclouded scene.

Who would not like Monimia fall asleep,
Howe'er affliction clos'd her willing eye;
Rather than rush down Fate's tremendous steep,
Or in the pomp of wretched greatness, die?

She fell, but to announce another's lapse
From honour, like a Lucifer of old!
She fell, her certain is the world's perhaps,
That others might the way to rise behold!

She fell, but Virtue saw Monimia's fall,
Above a tear, with triumph in her look!
She fell, but rais'd in excellence by all,
Death gave her more (kind spoiler) than he took!

She fell, but not as angels from the skies,
Their glory lost for ever to condole!
She fell, but with a seraph's wing to rise,
Her flight commenc'd when to the grave she stole!

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So on the polish'd mirrour falls a ray,
To rise more splendid on the dazzled sight;
So westward sinks the glorious orb of day,
That he may rise in pomp of Eastern light.

Cease then to boast, thou tyrant of the grave,
Whose trophies are the tombs of humankind,
Where from oblivion Art affects to save
Thy deeds, by epitaphs, and busts reclin'd!

Though to the purple canopy of state,
Oft flies thy shaft, wing'd by the dread decree;
Though humbled oft the mighty and the great,
Vaunt not, Monimia triumphs over thee.

Nor here let mere Humanity pretend,
To claim a compliment, far nobler pass'd;
Alas! brought hopeless to our latter end,
How unassisted Nature looks aghast!

To smoothe the frown on Death's tremendous brow,
And blunt the pointed terrours of his sting;
Quick at Religion's altar pay the vow,
The sole resource, whate'er bold poets sing.

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Let some to Stoic apathy recur,
Others to fine-spun metaphysic schemes;
While some at non-existence scarce demur,
These are Despair's last shifts, fick Fancy's dreams.

Wishes, that mount on Faith's triumphant wings;
Hopes, nought less than Eternity can bound;
Joy, that but from approving Conscience springs;
These are alone our dying cordials found.

When lawless Sense has rioted at large
Through a long period of licentious joys,
As Heav'n can ne'er the mighty debt discharge,
Extinction then the horrid thought employs.

O shame to Reason! shame to manly Sense!
Rank cowardice, and meanness undisguis'd!
To live in anxious torture and suspense,
Then die like brutes, more wretched, more despis'd!

But O, dread arbiter of life and death!
Be Faith's firm hold, be Hope's prompt comforts mine!
Begun to live, when I resign my breath,
Thou my solace, as boundless mercy thine!

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Thus shall Monimia's fair example live,
Approv'd, admir'd, nor imitated less;
While Candour would Lorenzo half forgive,
Though Justice might the weak design repress.

Ye abject sons of tyranny and pride,
To horrid doubts whom Jealousy inflames;
Hence lay your wretched impious schemes aside,
Monimia's tomb your guilt and doom proclaims.

Virtue, oft-times, howe'er oppress'd she seems,
How few to rescue, though deplor'd by all!
Though Folly's eye the angel vanquish'd deems,
Survives her death, and triumphs in her fall.

Vice, though high swoln in insolence of pow'r,
By some with dread beheld, with plaudits some,
At best but poorly conquers for an hour,
Or in the very conquest is o'ercome.

How strove Lorenzo with avow'd intent,
To sink her virtues level with his own;
But, all his views o'ershot, his malice spent,
Behold! an angel still the more she shone.

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As Night's surrounding darkness deeper glooms,
Hushes each warbler, and the view confines;
A brighter sparkle ev'ry star assumes,
Till all the firmament illumin'd shines.

Nor be impartial Justice once impeach'd,
Even here Lorenzo meets his righteous doom;
By Heav'n's emphatic vengeance quickly reach'd,
Conviction's deep remorse, despair, and gloom.

With all his anxious efforts to forget,
Her injur'd shade still on his view obtrudes;
Though studious to avoid, indignant yet,
Each fear-ey'd object to her fate alludes.

His disappointed hopes, his broken vows,
His meanness, cunning, cruelty, and pride;
Deep fix in horrour on his down-cast brows,
Or whelm his thoughts in one tumultuous tide.

But when her merit rises to his view,
Her innocence, her unaffected charms,
Which, as her woes increas'd, still brighter grew;
With keener sting his conscious heart alarms.

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But hold; the moral hence new force deriv'd,
Else had unmark'd Monimia's tyrant pass'd;
Though he that angel Excellence surviv'd,
His peace departed, when she breath'd her last.

Nor scorns the Muse one sacrifice to Truth,
Not to her Worth deceas'd he seem'd unjust;
Though once o'erlook'd her virtues, charms, and youth,
How could he but revere her in—the dust?

Doom'd to the pressure of heart-rending grief,
In marble what remain'd of her he laid;
And, eager to insure a short relief,
These lines inscrib'd, a debt which justice paid.

But be these lines extorted from his pen,
By Worth extorted, on each heart ingrav'd;
A caution of no light import to men,
One ruin'd, that a thousand may be sav'd.