Poems By Anthony Pasquin [i.e. John Williams]. Second Edition |
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VERSES TO ANTHONY PASQUIN, Esq. THE BRITISH MARTIAL. |
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xxii
VERSES TO ANTHONY PASQUIN, Esq. THE BRITISH MARTIAL.
Hail to the bard whose bold and manly lay,
Warms as it flows with a resistless sway!
With powers increasing may his genius rove
“O'er the sad ills that wait illicit love!”
Lamented Cargill! lost, but not forgot,
The feeling bard has sung thy hapless lot,
And thus recorded thy sad tale will stand
A lesson to the daughters of our land.
The child of Virtue in a distant age
Shall strike her bosom as she meets the page;
Then, sweetly smiling, through the trembling tear,
Shall own that guilt, and only guilt, can fear.
Warms as it flows with a resistless sway!
With powers increasing may his genius rove
“O'er the sad ills that wait illicit love!”
Lamented Cargill! lost, but not forgot,
The feeling bard has sung thy hapless lot,
And thus recorded thy sad tale will stand
A lesson to the daughters of our land.
The child of Virtue in a distant age
Shall strike her bosom as she meets the page;
Then, sweetly smiling, through the trembling tear,
Shall own that guilt, and only guilt, can fear.
Long may my Pasquin glow with honest rage,
Long lash the idle flutt'rers of the age:
Long may the richness of his mind expand,
At once the pride and terror of the land.
Those hearts too light to hear the private friend,
'Tis only public satire can amend:
Then still proceed, my Pasquin, rush along,
In all the thund'ring eloquence of song.
View Vice and Folly shrinking from thy lay;
View Reformation mark thy glorious way:
Thy pen, the lancet, strike at all around,
Extract the core, and Time will heal the wound:
To crush the giant villainies be thine,
View Folly redden, paler Guilt repine,
Stung by the just rebuke which marks thy nervous line.
Long lash the idle flutt'rers of the age:
Long may the richness of his mind expand,
At once the pride and terror of the land.
Those hearts too light to hear the private friend,
'Tis only public satire can amend:
Then still proceed, my Pasquin, rush along,
In all the thund'ring eloquence of song.
xxiii
View Reformation mark thy glorious way:
Thy pen, the lancet, strike at all around,
Extract the core, and Time will heal the wound:
To crush the giant villainies be thine,
View Folly redden, paler Guilt repine,
Stung by the just rebuke which marks thy nervous line.
In ev'ry age keen satire's wholesome spring
Has heal'd the wounds of prejudice's sting:
Pure is its stream, its glassy surface flows
Clear as the day, and every foible shews:
Its genial influence mental health imparts,
The richest med'cine for corrupted hearts.
Its waters clear the sickly mists away,
That, rising, check the force of Wisdom's ray;
While brighten'd Reason, beaming o'er the mind,
Exulting views each faculty refin'd.
Has heal'd the wounds of prejudice's sting:
Pure is its stream, its glassy surface flows
Clear as the day, and every foible shews:
Its genial influence mental health imparts,
The richest med'cine for corrupted hearts.
Its waters clear the sickly mists away,
That, rising, check the force of Wisdom's ray;
While brighten'd Reason, beaming o'er the mind,
Exulting views each faculty refin'd.
THOMAS BELLAMY.
| Poems | |