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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THE BALLOON.
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 | A collection of poems on various subjects |  |
195
THE BALLOON.
TO RICHARD CROSBIE, ESQ. ON HIS ATTEMPTING A SECOND AERIAL EXCURSION,
TUESDAY MAY THE XIITH, MDCCLXXXV.
Tho' envy, Crosbie! vilify thy name,
And strive to blast the harvest of thy fame,
'Tis virtue's common lot; nor thou repine,
The tribute due to great attempts is thine.
Deep tho' the barbed shaft of rancour pierce,
The sentence past, time only can reverse;
To time, the impartial arbiter, submit,
And let dark calumny her venom spit.
You, of Hibernia's sons, none can deny,
A Dedalus, first launch'd into the sky,
And with the flame of patriot glory fir'd,
To the third region of the air aspir'd;
Untutor'd and alone pursu'd your slight
Thro' untried space impervious to the sight.
So in the fiery car the prophet caught,
Majestic rising pierc'd the azure vault;
Towards earth from high his awful presence bow'd,
Look'd up, and vanish'd thro' the impending cloud.
Eyes! take your last—thy soul's soft partner cried,
Her trembling infants clinging to her side,
As down her woe-wan cheeks the silent torrents glide.
What must the husband, what the father prove,
Leaving the weeping pledges of his love!
And, in his fate involv'd, where's the relief
To sooth the orphans' cries, the widow's grief?
Nature knock'd at his heart, but knock'd in vain;
His noble daring nothing can restrain;
Thro' hope's prospective, scenes remote he view'd,
Nor dreamt how near him lurk'd ingratitude.
Generous as brave the Irish are renown'd,
In that presumption all his cares are drown'd,
And what his soul superior had conceiv'd,
He plann'd, constructed, gloriously atchiev'd;
His country's fame among the nations rais'd,
Prov'd his desert, and liberally was—prais'd.
But in the zenith of his triumph crost,
Chang'd is the scene, his occupation lost:
On frail foundations all his castles rear'd,
In one capricious moment disappear'd!—
The multitudes that gaz'd with straining eyes,
The tongues that rent with pealing shouts the skies,
The knees that suppliant for thy safety bent,
The astonish'd crowds that witness'd thy descent,
The hearts that even with adoration glow'd,
The hands that flowers beneath thy footsteps strew'd,
Crosbie! more sickle than the inconstant wind,
Mere weather-cocks to every gust you find;
And tho' exalted to the lunar sphere,
Foul-mouth'd detraction would pursue thee there;
The hard-earn'd laurel from thy temples wrest,
And plant with thorns thy unoffending breast.
And strive to blast the harvest of thy fame,
'Tis virtue's common lot; nor thou repine,
The tribute due to great attempts is thine.
Deep tho' the barbed shaft of rancour pierce,
The sentence past, time only can reverse;
To time, the impartial arbiter, submit,
And let dark calumny her venom spit.
You, of Hibernia's sons, none can deny,
A Dedalus, first launch'd into the sky,
And with the flame of patriot glory fir'd,
To the third region of the air aspir'd;
Untutor'd and alone pursu'd your slight
Thro' untried space impervious to the sight.
So in the fiery car the prophet caught,
Majestic rising pierc'd the azure vault;
Towards earth from high his awful presence bow'd,
Look'd up, and vanish'd thro' the impending cloud.
196
Her trembling infants clinging to her side,
As down her woe-wan cheeks the silent torrents glide.
What must the husband, what the father prove,
Leaving the weeping pledges of his love!
And, in his fate involv'd, where's the relief
To sooth the orphans' cries, the widow's grief?
Nature knock'd at his heart, but knock'd in vain;
His noble daring nothing can restrain;
Thro' hope's prospective, scenes remote he view'd,
Nor dreamt how near him lurk'd ingratitude.
Generous as brave the Irish are renown'd,
In that presumption all his cares are drown'd,
And what his soul superior had conceiv'd,
He plann'd, constructed, gloriously atchiev'd;
His country's fame among the nations rais'd,
Prov'd his desert, and liberally was—prais'd.
But in the zenith of his triumph crost,
Chang'd is the scene, his occupation lost:
On frail foundations all his castles rear'd,
In one capricious moment disappear'd!—
The multitudes that gaz'd with straining eyes,
The tongues that rent with pealing shouts the skies,
The knees that suppliant for thy safety bent,
The astonish'd crowds that witness'd thy descent,
197
The hands that flowers beneath thy footsteps strew'd,
Crosbie! more sickle than the inconstant wind,
Mere weather-cocks to every gust you find;
And tho' exalted to the lunar sphere,
Foul-mouth'd detraction would pursue thee there;
The hard-earn'd laurel from thy temples wrest,
And plant with thorns thy unoffending breast.
No wonder babblers swell the daily lie,
When better judgments follow in the cry;
Injurious clamours raise on vague report,
And with the miseries of nature sport.
Lives there from human casualties exempt?
His crime imputed, What? His last attempt—
He fail'd—yet firmly to his purpose stood,
And all perform'd that art and nature could;
But still he fail'd—and nothing can atone
For disappointments—tho' the worst his own;
His fame, his fortunes, what had'st thou? at stake;
Blush, censure! blush, and retribution make.
When better judgments follow in the cry;
Injurious clamours raise on vague report,
And with the miseries of nature sport.
Lives there from human casualties exempt?
His crime imputed, What? His last attempt—
He fail'd—yet firmly to his purpose stood,
And all perform'd that art and nature could;
But still he fail'd—and nothing can atone
For disappointments—tho' the worst his own;
His fame, his fortunes, what had'st thou? at stake;
Blush, censure! blush, and retribution make.
Columbus thus his daring sails unfurl'd,
Stemm'd seas unknown and gain'd another world;
But found at last, to recompence his pains,
His throne a dungeon, and his trophies chains.
Stemm'd seas unknown and gain'd another world;
But found at last, to recompence his pains,
His throne a dungeon, and his trophies chains.
From wisdom merit consolation draws,
Not from the breath of popular applause.
Not from the breath of popular applause.
| A collection of poems on various subjects | |