A collection of poems on various subjects including the theatre, a didactic essay; in the course of which are pointed out, the rocks and shoals to which deluded adventurers are inevitably exposed. Ornamented with cuts and illustrated with notes, original letters and curious incidental anecdotes [by Samuel Whyte] |
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OCCASIONAL ADDRESS. SPOKEN AFTER OTHELLO |
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 | A collection of poems on various subjects |  |
96
OCCASIONAL ADDRESS. SPOKEN AFTER OTHELLO
MONDAY, AUGUST IIIRD, MDCCLXXXIX.
The giddy youth, with emulative pride,
Views the smooth surface of the frozen tide,
And, ah! unconscious of the perils near,
Arms his rash foot, and tempts the wild career:
But many a doubtful struggle, many a pain,
And many an anxious hour must he sustain,
Ere, haply so atchiev'd, the envied poise he gain.
Tho, friendly omens should his ardour bless,
And persevering toil induce success,
The slightest crosses startled hope confound,
And prone he falls, the sport of all around.
Views the smooth surface of the frozen tide,
And, ah! unconscious of the perils near,
Arms his rash foot, and tempts the wild career:
But many a doubtful struggle, many a pain,
And many an anxious hour must he sustain,
Ere, haply so atchiev'd, the envied poise he gain.
Tho, friendly omens should his ardour bless,
And persevering toil induce success,
The slightest crosses startled hope confound,
And prone he falls, the sport of all around.
New to the world, and panting for a name,
Such he who tries the slippery paths of fame,
And, like a desperate gamester, hazards all,
With none to pity, none to break his fall:
For oft, too oft, unripen'd to withstand
Envy's chill breath, or power's oppressive hand,
True genius droops beneath inclement skies,
Shrinks up its tender leaves, and, in oblivion, dies.
Such he who tries the slippery paths of fame,
And, like a desperate gamester, hazards all,
With none to pity, none to break his fall:
For oft, too oft, unripen'd to withstand
Envy's chill breath, or power's oppressive hand,
True genius droops beneath inclement skies,
Shrinks up its tender leaves, and, in oblivion, dies.
97
So the fond novice in a land unknown,—
My feelings speak, the picture is my own,—
Prompted by flattering dreams of bright renown,
Maugre the Cynic's sneer, the Critic's frown,
Plunges at once into the depths of fate,
And gains—experience—tho' full oft too late;
Nay oft success's syren charms he spurns,
And to his dear, dear native soil returns.—
Oh! with what extacies my bosom swell'd,
When these known mansions I once more beheld;
And, tho' a while I folly's course had run,
My honour'd parents bless'd once more their son;
When hoping still, and meeting your regard,
The generous welcome of your hands I heard;
Oh! on your patience let me not intrude,
'Twas joy extreme, 'twas heartfelt gratitude.
My feelings speak, the picture is my own,—
Prompted by flattering dreams of bright renown,
Maugre the Cynic's sneer, the Critic's frown,
Plunges at once into the depths of fate,
And gains—experience—tho' full oft too late;
Nay oft success's syren charms he spurns,
And to his dear, dear native soil returns.—
Oh! with what extacies my bosom swell'd,
When these known mansions I once more beheld;
And, tho' a while I folly's course had run,
My honour'd parents bless'd once more their son;
When hoping still, and meeting your regard,
The generous welcome of your hands I heard;
Oh! on your patience let me not intrude,
'Twas joy extreme, 'twas heartfelt gratitude.
If self-deceiv'd, or following nature's bent,
In this rough road I fail to give content,
With indiscretion comes its punishment.
But from these shores tho' I again depart,
No time shall raze your goodness from my heart;
And howsoe'er my destinies incline,
My country's glory always shall be mine;—
On your indulgence if I have trespass'd aught,
Impute it to misfortune, not my fault.
In this rough road I fail to give content,
With indiscretion comes its punishment.
But from these shores tho' I again depart,
No time shall raze your goodness from my heart;
And howsoe'er my destinies incline,
My country's glory always shall be mine;—
On your indulgence if I have trespass'd aught,
Impute it to misfortune, not my fault.
| A collection of poems on various subjects | |