University of Virginia Library

I. VOLUME I.

SYMPATHY, A POEM.

TO THE AUTHOR OF SYMPATHY,

A POEM.

TO THE AUTHOR OF SYMPATHY

SYMPATHY.

BOOK I.

O'er yon fair lawn, where oft in various talk
The fav'ring Muses join'd our evening walk,
Up yonder hill that rears its crest sublime,
Where we were wont with gradual steps to climb,
To hear the Lark her earliest matin sing,
And woo the dew-bath'd zephyrs on the wing;
Fast by yon shed, of roots and verdure made,
Where we have paus'd, companions of the shade
In yonder cot just seated on the brow,
Whence, unobserv'd, we view'd the world below;
Whence oft we cull'd fit objects for our song,
From land or ocean widely stretch'd along;
The morning vapours passing thro' the vale,
The distant turret or the lessening sail,
The pointed cliff which overhangs the main,
The breezy upland, or the opening plain;
The misty traveller yet dimly seen,
And every hut which neighbours on the green,
Or down yon foot-way saunter'd by the stream,
Whose little rills ran tinkling to the theme,
More softly touch'd the woe in Hammond's lay,
Or laps'd responsive to the lyre of Gray;
O'er these dear bounds like one forlorn I roam,
O'er these dear bounds, I fondly call'd my home.
Whence this neglect? say, in thy lov'd domain,
Where all the virtues in thy presence reign;
Where gathering round thee, youth and age conspire,
While some as brother court thee, some as sire;
Where all the social passions fondly blend,
To give the smiling neighbourhood a friend;
Where somewhat of thy gentle heart is seen,
A grace, or goodness, adding to the green;
Where the babe lisps thy bounties on the knee,
And second childhood leans its crutch on thee;
Whence this neglect? Ingratitude retreat!
Go: and in shades less sacred fix thy seat:
Go to the treach'rous world, thy proper sphere;
But oh! forbear to scatter poisons here:
About this dwelling and these harmless bounds,
Friendship and love alone should take their rounds,
Fair as the blossoms which the walls sustain,
Rich as the fruits, and generous as the grain;
Secure as yonder warblers nesting near,
Like Honour steady, and like faith sincere.
“But soft, my friend! tho' shrubs and bow'rs remain
The fix'd productions of th' unconscious plain;
Though these no gentle sympathies can know,
But as the planter bends them learn to grow;
To higher parts as nature lifts her plan,
The kinder creatures, haply, feel for man;
The tame domestics, which attend his board,
Haply partake the fortune of their lord,
His presence hail, his absence long deplore,
Droop as he droops, and die when he's no more
Pleas'd at the thought, still onward let me tread,
Where flocks and herds diversify the mead,
Where breathing odours, winnow'd by the gale,
Fan the soft bosom of the smiling vale;
The rooks behind their brawling councils hold,
And the proud peacock trails his train of gold;
Around the doves their purple plumage show,
And clucking poultry saunter, pleas'd, below;
While there the house-dog, with accustom'd glee,
Fawns on the hind—as late he fawn'd on thee.
These crop the food, those press the flow'ry bed
Nor weep the absent, nor bewail the dead;
Their stinted feelings seem but half awake,
Dull as yon steer now slumbering on the brake.
Whence then the gloom that shrouds the summer sky?
Whence the warm tear now gathering in my eye?
And whence the change when bosom friends depart?
From fancy striking on the feeling heart.
Oh should I follow where she leads the way,
What magic meteor to her touch would play!
Then, far from thee, this sun which gilds my brow
In deep eclipse would darken all below;
The herds, tho' now plain reason sees them feed,
Smit by her touch would languish in the mead;
The breeze which now disports with yonder spray,
The flocks which pant beneath the heat of day,
The pendant copse in partial shadows drest,
The scanty herbage on the mountain's crest,
The balmy pow'rs that mix with every gale,
The glassy lakes that fertilize the dale,
Struck by her mystic sceptre all would fade,
And sudden sadness brood along the shade.
As poets sing, thus Fancy takes her range,
Whose winds æthereal waves a general change;
A change, which yielding Reason still obeys,
For scepter'd Reason oft with Fancy plays;
Soon as the gen'rous master leaves his home,
What vision'd sorrows deep invest the dome?
Soon as the much-lov'd mistress quits the scene,
No longer smiles the grateful earth in green:
In solemn sable ev'ry flow'r appears,
And skies relent in sympathising tears!
Scarce had the bard of Leasowe's lov'd domain
Clos'd his dimm'd eye upon the pensive plain,
Ere birds and beasts funereal honours paid,
Mourn'd their lov'd lord and sought the desart shade;
His gayest meads a serious habit wore,
His larks would sing, his lambs would frisk no more,
A deeper cadence murmur'd from his floods,
Cimerian horror brooded o'er his woods:
At ev'ry solemn pause, the raven scream'd,
The sun set sanguine, and the dog-star gleam'd;
But chief the conscious laurels droop'd their head,
While every bower its leafy honours shed;
Around his walks the Muses wander'd slow,
And hung their lyres on every naked bough.
Yet separate facts from fairy scenes like these,
Nature, we find, still keeps her first decrees;
The order due which at her birth was giv'n,
Still forms th' unchanging law of earth and heav'n,
In one fair tenor, on the circle goes,
And no obstruction no confusion knows.
When Shenstone, nay, when Shakespeare press'd the tomb,
The shrubs that saw their fate maintain'd their bloom;
Clear ran the streams to their accustom'd shore,
Nor gave one bubble less, one murmur more;
Nor did a single leaf, a simple flower,
Or fade or fall to mark their mortal hour.
But, is it Fancy all! what, no reserve?
From one dull course can nature never swerve?
Is change of seasons all the change she knows,
From autumn's sickly heats to winter snows;
From chilling spring, to summer's dog-star rage;
From boy to man, from man to crawling age?
These her transitions, ling'ring, sad, and slow,
Whence then, in these lov'd shades, my bosom's woe?
Ah! is it Fancy, that, with silent pace,
Impels me thus to range from place to place;
To see on ev'ry side an harvest bend,
Yet look on ev'ry side to find my friend?
Or is it fancy makes yon village train,—
For now 'tis ev'ning,—sport around in vain?
That plighted pairs, amidst the hazel boughs,
By me unseen, impart their tender vows;
While unsuspicious of a witness near,
They mix with Nature's language, Nature's tear?
That twilight's gentle grey which now comes on,
To wait, a sober hand-maid on the sun,
To watch his parting tinge, his soften'd fires,
Then blush with maiden grace as he retires;
The full-orb'd moon, which now ascending high
Her silver shade throws light across the sky;
The still serene that seems to lull the breeze,
Soft in a leafy cradle 'midst the trees;
The lessen'd sound of yonder distant bell,
Some mournful moral in each pausing knell;
The dropping dew that settles on my cheek,
The frugal lights that from each cottage break;
The just-dropp'd latch, the little lattice clos'd,
To shield from evening's damp the babe repos'd,
And note the hour when temperance and health
Yield the pale vigils of the night to wealth.
Say, is it vision'd Fancy works the charm,
When these blest objects lose their power to warm?
Ah! no; from other sources spring the smart,
Its source is here, hard pressing on my heart.
Yes, 'tis the heart, my friend, which rules the eye,
And turns a gloomy to a cloudless sky;
The soft magician governs ev'ry scene,
Blossoms the rock, or desolates the green;
Along the heath bids fancied roses blow,
And sunshine rise upon a world of snow.
Yes, 'tis the heart endears each smiling plain,
Or to his native mountain binds the swain;
His native mountain where his cottage stands,
More lov'd, more dear, than all the neighb'ring lands;
For tho' the blast be keen, the soil be bare,
His friends, his wife, his little ones are there.
Oh, had the brother of my heart been nigh,
When morning threw her mantle o'er the sky;
Or when gay noon a gaudier robe display'd,
Or modest ev'ning drew her softest shade;
Then had the shrubs breath'd forth their full perfume,
And like his flow'rs my feelings been in bloom
For still to prove the naturel bias right,
Should each fair season with each sense unite.
Man's favour'd soul then tracing thro' each state,
Behold it fitted for a social fate;
Behold how ev'ry link in nature tends
One chain to form of relatives and friends.
One chain, unnumber'd beings to confine,
Till all affimilate and all combine.
Yon spacious dome, which earth and sea commands,
Where Lelius dresses his paternal lands;
Where water gushes, and where woods extends,
To share each beauty, Lelius calls his friends;
A desert scene, 'till they adorn his bow'rs;
A naked waste, till they partake his flow'rs,
Nor this, though sweet, the greatest bliss he feels,
That greatest bliss his modesty conceals.
Pass the green slope which bounds his fair domain,
And seek the valley drooping from the plain;
There, in a blossom'd nook, by pomp unseen,
An aged couple lead a life serene;
And there, behind those elms, a sickly pair
Exchange their labours for a softer care:
'Twas Lelius that gave to sickness this repose,
And plac'd life's second cradle near th' rose;
In his own hall though louder joys prevail,
A dearer transport whispers from the vale;
Though mirth and frolic echo thro' the dome,
In those small cots his bosom finds a home.
Fame, fortune, friends, can Providence give more?
Go, ask of Heav'n the blessings of the poor!
A greater comfort would you still supply?
Then wipe the tear from Sorrow's streaming eye;
For social kindness to another shown,
Expands the bliss to make it more your own.
Lo! the rude savage, naked and untaught,
Shares with his mate what arts and arms have caught;
When winter darkness clouds his long, long night,
See how he strives to find the social light;
His woodland wife, his forest children dear,
Smooth the bleak storms that sadden half his year.
For them he tracks the monster in the snow;
For them he hurls his sling, and twangs his bow.
Nor scorching sunshine, nor the driving show'r,
Nor vollied thunder, nor the light'ning's pow'r,
Nor climes, where sickness pants in every breeze,
Nor worlds of ice, where nature seems to freeze,
Check the fair principle, which bursts away,
Like yon blest sun, when clouds attempt his ray.
Hence, ever lean the feeble on the strong,
As tender sires their children lead along;
While, by degrees, as transient life declines,
And blooming youth to withering age resigns,
The social passion shifts with place and time,
And tender sires are led by sons in prime;
The guide becomes the guided in his turn,
While child and parent different duties learn.
Not then from fancy only, from the heart,
Pours the keen anguish on th' immortal part,
And Truth herself destroys the bloom of May,
When Death or Fortune tears a friend away;
From virtuous passion, virtuous feeling, flows
The grief that dims the lily and the rose.
Drops a soft sorrow for a friend in dust?
There, Truth and Fancy both may rear the bust;
While one pours forth the tribute of the heart;
The other plies her visionary art,
Potent she calls her airy spectres round,
And bids them instant consecrate the ground;
Fancy presides as sov'reign of the scene,
And darkens every leaf of every green;
Whilst Reason loves to mix with her's the tear,
And the fair mourners form a league sincere;
Her airy visions Fancy may impart,
And Reason listen to the charmer's art.
In life's fair morn, I knew an aged seer,
Who sad and lonely past his joyless year;
Betray'd, heart-broken, from the world he ran,
And shunn'd, oh dire extreme! the face of man;
Humbly he rear'd his hut within the wood,
Hermit his vest, a hermit's was his food,
Nitch'd in some corner of the gelid cave,
Where chilling drops the rugged rockstone lave
Hour after hour, the melancholy sage,
Drop after drop to reckon, would engage
The ling'ring day, and trickling as they fell,
A tear went with them to the narrow well;
Then thus he moraliz'd as slow it past,
“This, brings me nearer Lucia than the last;
“And this, now streaming from the eye,” said he,
“Oh! my lov'd child, will bring me nearer thee?’
When first he roam'd, his dog with anxious care,
His wand'rings watch'd, as emulous to share;
In vain the faithful brute was bid to go,
In vain the sorrower sought a lonely woe.
The Hermit paus'd, th' attendant dog was near,
Slept at his feet, and caught the falling tear;
Up rose the Hermit, up the dog would rise,
And every way to win a master tries.
“Then be it so. Come, faithful fool,” he said;
One pat encourag'd, and they sought the shade;
An unfrequented thicket soon they found,
And both repos'd upon the leafy ground;
Mellifluous murm'rings told the fountains nigh,
Fountains, which well a pilgrim's drink supply.
And thence, by many a labyrinth it led,
Where ev'ry tree bestow'd an ev'ning bed;
Skill'd in the chace, the faithful creature brought
Whate'er at morn or moon-light course he caught;
But the sage lent his sympathy to all,
Nor saw unwept his dumb associates fall;
He was, in sooth, the gentlest of his kind,
And though a hermit, had a social mind:
“And why, said he, must man subsist by prey,
“Why stop yon melting music on the spray?
“Why, when assail'd by hounds and hunter's cry,
“Must half the harmless race in terrors die?
“Why must we work of innocence the woe?
“Still shall this bosom throb, these eyes o'erflow;
“A heart too tender here from man retires,
“A heart that aches, if but a wren expires.”
Thus liv'd the master good, the servant true,
'Till to its God the master's spirit flew;
Beside a fount which daily water gave,
Stooping to drink, the Hermit found a grave;
All in the running stream his garments spread,
And dark, damp verdure ill conceal'd his head;
The faithful servant from that fatal day
Watch'd the lov'd corpse, and hourly pin'd away:
His head upon his master's cheek was found,
While the obstructed waters mourn'd around.
But sordid fouls are ever in distress,
To bless himself each must a second bless;
Then kindle on 'till he the world embrace,
And in love's Cæstus gird the human race.
Thus social grief can finer joys impart
Than the dull pleasures of a miser's heart:
Thus with more force can melancholy warm,
Than wild ambition's solitary charm.
And oh, just heav'n, what gift canst thou bestow,
What gem so precious as a tear for woe?
A tear more full of thee, oh pow'r divine,
Than all the dross that ripens in the mine!
As man with man, with creature creature keeps,
In summer feeds in view, in winter creeps
More fondly close; but take the lamb apart
From its lov'd mother, then the social heart
'Plains in its voice, while sad, the dam around
Bleats at the theft, and leaves uncropt the ground.
In yonder huts, at this profound of night,
The twelfth hour striking as the line I write,
In yonder scatter'd huts, now ev'ry swain,
With ev'ry maid and matron of the plain,
In sleep's soft arms on wholsome pallets prest,
Breathe forth the social passion as they rest:
But should dire fate the father make its prey,
Or snatch untimely one lov'd child away;
Or bear the faithful housewife to the tomb,
Or should the damsel sicken In her bloom,
No aid from fancy seeks the sorrowing heart,
But truth, with force unborrow'd, points the dart.
For me, as weary of myself I rise,
To seek the rest which wakeful thought denies?
O'er the lov'd mansion as I lonely range,
Condemn'd at ev'ry step to feel the change;
Through each apartment, where so oft my heart
Hath shar'd each grace of nature and of art,
Where memory marks each object that I see,
And fills the bosom, oh my friend, with thee;
Through each apartment as I pass along,
Pause for relief, and then pursue my song;
For me, who now with midnight taper go,
To lose in sleep's oblivious shade my woe,
No greater good my closing thoughts can bless,
Ere this remember'd, little couch I press,
Than the sweet hope that at this sacred hour
My friend enjoys kind nature's balmy power;
Than the soft wish which on my bended knee,
I offer up, Eliza, warm for thee!
Wife of my friend, alike my faithful care,
Alike the object of each gentle pray'r;
Far distant tho' thou art, thy worth is near,
And my heart seals its blessing with a tear.

BOOK II.

And now again 'tis morn, the orient sun
Prepares once more his radiant course to run;
O'er yon tall trees I see his glories rise,
Tinge their green tops, and gain upon the skies;
The social principle resumes the shade,
Basks on the banks, or glides along the glade:
See how it pants, my friend, in yonder throng,
Where half a village bears the sheaves along;
Low stoops the swain to dress his native soil,
And here the housewife comes to soothe his toil;
While heav'n's warm beams upon her bosom dart,
She owns the fondness of her wedded heart,
From his damp brow the labour'd drop removes,
And dares to show with what a force she loves;
Where'er the mother moves, her race attend,
And often cull the corn, and often bend;
Or bear the scrip, or tug the rake along,
Or catch the burthen of the reaper's song;
Or shrinking from the sickle's curving blade,
Cling to the gown, half pleas'd, and half afraid;
While he who gave them life looks on the while,
And views his little houshold with a smile;
Imprints the kiss, then blessing ev'ry birth,
Carols his joy, and hails the generous earth.
But not to scenes of pleasantry confin'd,
Though, hap'ly, simpler there, as less refin'd,
Not circumscrib'd to these the social plan,
Which more extends, as more pursu'd by man.
Just as yon path-way, winding through the mead,
Grows broad and broader by perpetual tread,
The social passion turns the foot aside,
And prompts the swains to travel side by side;
Both edge, by turns, upon the bord'ring sod,
And the path widens as the grass is trod.
In cities thus, though trade's tumultuous train
Spurn at the homely maxims of the plain,
Not all the pride of rank, the trick of art,
Can chase the generous passion from the heart:
Nay more, a larger circle it must take,
Where men embodying, larger int'rests make,
And each, perforce, round each more closely twine,
Where countless thousands form the social line.
As slow to yonder eminence I bend,
Gradual the views of social life extend,
Where benches ease the steep ascent I stray,
And stop at each to take a just survey;
At every step, as sinks the vale behind,
A wider prospect opens on mankind.
Far to the right where those blue hills arise,
And bathe their swelling bosoms in the skies,
The barks of commerce set the flapping sail,
And the dark sea-boy sues the busy gale;
There the deep warehouse shows its native store,
There flame the riches of a foreign shore;
Thick swarm the sons of trade on every hand,
And either India breathes along the strand;
Gold, give me gold, each bustler cries aloud,
As hope or fear alternate seize the crowd;
To careless eyes the love of pelf alone,
Seems to drain off the golden tide for one;
But closer view'd a various course it takes,
And wide meanderings in its passage makes;
Through many a social channel see it run,
In splendid heritage from sire to son;
From thence in many a mazy stream it flows,
And feels no ebb, no dull stagnation knows;
Thus nature and necessity agree
The social chain to stretch from land to sea.
Thus e'en the miser, tho' his sordid soul
Loves but himself, befriends perforce the whole.
Ask you a stronger proof? Place wealth alone
With some hard niggard, lock up all his own:
Pile bills, and bags, and bonds upon his shelf,
And a close prisoner chain him to his pelf.
Unhappy man! from family and friends,
From all which heav'n in soft compassion sends,
From touch of kindred, tune of tender speech,
And exil'd from the social passion's reach;
How would he sigh, tho' every hope were vain,
And buy a glance at man with half his gain!
How, at some chink or crevice would he ply,
And envy each poor beggar limping by!
Far happier he, who breasting every wind,
Lives on the common mercy of his kind,
Who roams the world to tell his piteous case,
And dies as last amidst the human race.
MAN dragg'd the splendid stranger first to view,
And, like a meteor, round the world it flew,
A ready welcome from the world it found,
And Phœbus hail'd the Phœnix from the ground.
Immediate wonder seiz'd the circling crowd,
But chief Europa to her idol bow'd,
Her bark, her car, with emblems gilded o'er
The homage spread from ocean to the shore;
Attractive Gold obsequious votaries drew,
Till useful fondness into dotage grew.
Yet still be just. In shape of fraud or force,
Ere Gold appear'd the Passions took their course;
Like whirldwinds swept the flowers of life along,
And crush'd the weak, and undermin'd the strong;
Lord as thou wert, Tibullus, of the strains
That sweetest paint an hapless lover's pains,
Long, long ere execrated Gold from earth
Arose to give each tender trespass birth,
Full many a mistress knew, like thine, the art,
To sport with vows, and practise on the heart.
Let sage Tradition's reverend records tell,
Unbrib'd by gold, what hosts in battle fell,
Unbrib'd by gold,—when acorns were the food,
And man with beast roam'd naked thro' the wood,
Ev'n in those times which raptur'd bards have sung,
When nature triumph'd, and the world was young,
Blest days! whose charms so many lays rehearse,
Blest days, alas! which only bloom in verse—
Ev'n then let Hist'ry tell what follies sped,
Assail'd the hut, and thro' the forest spread;
How daring guilt in proud obtrusion stood,
And dy'd his dreadful robe in brothers blood;
How son and sire, with unrelenting strife,
Ensanguin'd sought each other's kindred life;
How matrons stopt the new-born infants breath,
And bold self-slaughter rush'd on impious death;
How darkling error stain'd the blushing morn,
And life's first roses bore the pointed thorn;
How ages past exhibit all the crimes
That random satire aims at modern times;
How varying modes alone divide the plan
Betwixt the savage and the social man;
How ruder vices now refin'd appear,
Adopting still the fashion of the year;
Conclude we then the vices are the same,
Conclude that Man, not Gold, is still to blame,
Rail then no more at gold, for plain to view
Behold an antidote and poison too:
Oh save the shining metal from abuse,
And the heart turns it to a social use!
The widow, orphan, and ten thousand more,
Prove that no dross need hang about the ore;
Prove, that this glittering treasure may dispense
The sterling joys of pure benevolence,
While from the golden reservoir may flow
The richest streams of sympathy below.
In soft alliance with the tender heart,
The senses too, their sympathy impart:
No longer blessings than as all conspire
With kindred zeal to fan the social fire.
Of sight, or smell, say what the mighty power,
If but to see the sun, or scent the flower?
Of touch, taste, hearing, what the wond'rous boast,
If narrow'd all to self, they all are lost?
But ye of finer souls, who truly know
The rich division of a joy and woe,
Oh tell the rapture when a friend is nigh
To charm the ear, or to delight the eye,
To draw amusement from the pictur'd air,
As fancy shapes her thousand visions there,
Now paints her monsters, now her armies strong,
When slow she drives her twilight car along:
Oh tell the rapture that each pleasure wears,
When the soul's friend each passing pleasure shares,
When with twin'd arms ye watch the opening rose,
Or trace the devious streamlet as it flows,
Together mark fair summer's radiant store,
Together nature's vernal haunts explore;
And fondly jealous of each object new,
Contend who first shall point it to the view;
Then part awhile, o'er hill and valley stray,
And anxious court the fortune of the day.
But if long absent, hail'd be every power
That blots the sunbeam and destroys the bower,
That wraps th' affrighted atmosphere in storms,
And each gay vision of the sky deforms,
The social senses then partake the grief,
And seek some kindred object of relief.
Oh hark, my soul, to yonder Stockdove's note,
Sweet as the woe from Philomela's throat;
Soft let me steal along the copse to hear
The mournful murmur break upon my ear;
Ah, gentle bird! indulge thy tender pains,
While the Muse greets thee with congenial strains,
Nor quit thy sombrous seat, nor, needless fly
The still, small breathings of a social sigh:
That ruffled plumage, that disorder'd wing,
More soothing now than softest blooms of spring,
And that deep sob, to every sense more dear
Than all the music of the vocal year.
Blest be the hand that lends the power to feel,
And frames us subject to the wounds we heal,
That urges all to minister relief,
And instant fly with open arms to grief;
That veils the soft attraction in a tear,
Each bliss makes poignant, and each sorrow dear;
Eternal incense from the soul ascend
To him who made each being want a friend,
Who plac'd us in a world 'twixt sun and shade,
That those which bloom might succour those that fade;
And doubly bless'd the providence, whose skill
In life's thin loom has woven many an ill;
Tho' weak the texture, from that weakness springs
The strength and beauty of all human things;
For still as fate or nature deals the blow,
The balms we now solicit, now bestow,
And all our miseries but clearly prove
The social powers of pity and of love.
Ask the pale mother why 'tis joy to weep
When o'er her stricken babe faint slumbers creep?
Ask why the child at midnight's thickest gloom
Still fondly lingers at a parent's tomb?
Or why the wife, in times of raging death,
Yet leans to catch her lord's polluted breath?
Go, warn them straight of pestilential air,
Point to the weakness here, the danger there,
Let mirth and music all their powers employ,
To spread for every sense its favourite joy,
Then, arm'd with all the world's seductions try
To wean the mourners from so dark a sky,
Oh! they will spurn the offer'd gales of health,
The lures of pleasure and the snares of wealth,
Prefer the dark recesses of disease,
The sickly pillow and the tainted breeze,
And call it conscience, nature, bliss, to know
The last extremities of social woe.
Hence the great principle to all expands,
Thaws Lapland's ice, and glows on India's sands;
Above, below, its genial splendours play,
Where'er an human footstep marks the way.
“Oh! for one track of man upon the snow,
“The trace of sweet society to show;
“Oh! for one print on swarthy Afric's shore!”
Thus prays the wanderer 'scap'd from Ocean's roar;
In every clime is felt the thorb divine,
By land, by water, here, and at the Line.
Nor climates only, but each age imparts
The kindly bias to our social hearts.
See the swath'd infant cling to the embrace,
Th' instinctive fondness dawning in its face,
See it, ascending, strengthen as it grows,
Till ripe and riper the affection glows,
Then view the child, its toys and trinkets share,
With some lov'd partner of its little care:
Behold the man a firmer bond requires,
For him the passion kindles all its fires;
Next, see his numerous offspring twining near,
Now move the smile, and now excite the tear;
Terror and transport in his bosom reign,
Succession sweet of pleasure and and of pain,
As age advances, some sensations cease,
Some, lingering, leave the heart, while some increase:
Thus, when life's vigorous passions are no more,
Self-love creeps closest to the social power;
The stooping vet'ran with time-silver'd hair,
Crawls to the blazing hearth and wicker chair;
There huddled close, he fondly hopes to spy
His goodly sons and daughters standing by;
To the lisp'd tale he bends the greedy ear,
And o'er his children's children drops a tear;
Or, every friend surviv'd, himself half dead,
Frail nature still demands her board, her bed;
And these some kindred spirit shall bestow,
His wants supply, or mitigate his woe;
Still Sympathy shall watch his fleeting breath,
And gently lead him to the gates of death.
Yet more; e'en war, the scourge of human kind,
But serves more close the social links to bind;
Confed'rate courage forms th' embattled line,
Firm on each side connecting passions join;
'Tis social danger either troop inspires,
'Tis social honour either army fires,
'Tis social glory burnishes the van,
'Tis social faith spreads on from man to man;
As front to front the warring parties meet,
For social ends they dare the martial feat;
As breast to breast, and eye to eye they fix,
For social ends they seperate or mix.
King, country, parents, children, prompt the fight,
For these alone they bleed, resist, unite;
And, hap'ly, first hostilities arose
From nice distinctions made of friends and foes;
Some scornful slight where nature most can smart,
Some stinging insult forest to the heart,
Some wrong detected, forfeited some trust,
A treaty broken, or a barrier burst,
Bade Sympathy call Vengeance to her aid,
Till where the laws avail'd not wars were made;
Affection sought from arms the wish'd relief,
And bore them 'gainst the assassin and the thief;
Eager o'er those who faith's fair league invade
With social zeal to lift th' avenging blade;
Or from the spoiler's hand to fence the flowers
That sweetly blossom round life's private bowers:
'Tis thus, the steady eye of Reason finds
What seems to snap the chain, more closely binds;
And thus each peril like each pleasure try'd,
Unites the rosy bonds on either side.
But less do arms than arts assist the plan,
Those may defend, but these embellish man;
These softly draw him nearer to his kind,
And mark distinct his seraph form of mind.
Lo, in firm compact, hand, and head, and heart,
To aid the system take an helping part,
Their various powers by various modes they lend,
And serve in union as one common friend;
Hence, by consent, men clear the unthrifty wood,
New model earth, and navigate the flood;
Hence hamlets grow into the city's pride,
While the soul opens, like the talents, wide.
By social pleasure, social profit sway'd,
Some soar to learning, and some stoop to trade.
Studious to gain the love of human kind,
The social sage at midnight stores his mind,
Robs weary nature of her just repose,
Nor drinks the dew that bathes the morning rose,
Nor when the sun to Cynthia gives the night,
Eyes the soft blessing of her tender light,
But o'er the taper leans his pensive head,
And for the living communes with the dead.
The dusky artizan, his effort made;
Asserts his rights, and leaves the sickly shade;
At eve he quits the spot where glooms annoy,
And seeks the bosom of domestic joy;
The social faggot, and the light repast,
Await to cheer him when his toils are past.
And hence each class of Elegant and Great,
Art decks the dome, and commerce crounds the street;
The heav'n-born Muse impetuous wings her way,
When her lov'd Seward seeks the realms of day;
Queen of the comic power, hence Cowley wooes
Fair visitations of the gayer Muse;
The painter hence his magic pencil plies,
And Reynolds bids a new creation rise;
Hence Kauffman sketches life's lov'd forms anew,
And holds the mirror of past times to view,
Restores each grace that mark'd the Grecian age,
And draws her lovely comment on the page;
And still to chear the solitary hour,
For this has Beach display'd his happiest power;
I see my friend upon the canvas glow,
And feel the smile that lightens every woe.
All, Sympathy, is thine; th' Immortal strung,
For thee that more than golden harp the tongue:
The sphere's best music taught it to impart,
And bade each soft vibration strike the heart.
Thine too, the varied fruitage of the fields,
The clustering crops which yonder valley yields
That thymy down where feeds a thousand sheep,
This bower umbrageous, and yon cultur'd steep;
The still smooth joys that bloom o'er life's serene,
And all the bustle of its public scene.
Nor think the dull cold reasoners, can disprove
These varied powers of Sympathetic love;
Nor hope, ye cynics, all your skill can find
From partial spots a flaw in human kind;
As well the panther might ye charge with sin,
And call each streak a blemish on his skin;
Allow to self the broadest scope ye can,
Still breathe the social principle in man.
Oft when pride whispers that he stands alone,
His strength proceeds from other than his own;
Oft when he seems to walk the world apart,
Another's interest twines about his heart;
And call his project rash, his effort vain,
The end is social which he sighs to gain;
Or say, this builds for pomp, that digs for bread,
This shews you pictures, that a pompous bed,
This toils a niggard at his lonely trade,
That rears the bower but asks not to its shade;
That this for vanity his wealth displays,
As that for pride unravels learning's maze;
Trace but their purpose to one general end,
You see it work the good of wife, or friend,
Parent or child their privilege still claim,
And social comfort springs from what we blame,
Frailty itself our sympathy may spare,
A graceful weakness when no vice is there.
Who hopes perfection breaks down nature's fence,
And spurns the modest bounds of sober sense.
When straw-like errors lean to virtue's side.
Ah! check, ye bigots, check your furious pride.
Some venial faults, like clouds at dawn of day,
Blush as they pass, and but a moment stay;
Those venial faults from sordid natures start,
And spring up only in the generous heart,
As florid weeds elude the labourer's toil,
From too much warmth or richness of the soil;
While meaner souls, like Zembla's hills of snow,
Too barren prove for weeds or flowers to grow.
This then is clear, while human kind exist,
The social principle must still subsist,
In strict dependency of one on all,
As run the binding links from great to small.
Man born for man some friendly aid requires,
The contract strengthening till the soul retires;
Nor then, ev'n then it breaks, for still we pay
A brother's homage to the breathless clay;
Jealous of destiny the heart would save
Its favour'd object from the closing grave,
Its favour'd object chosen from the rest,
In grief, in joy, the monarch of the breast;
To earth we trust what fondness would retain,
And leave the corpse to visit it again;
Nay, unconfin'd by partial ties of blood,
We brave e'en peril for a stranger's good.
Once, and not far from where those seats are seen,
Just where yon white huts peep the copse between,
A damsel languish'd, all her kin were gone,
For God who lent, resum'd them one by one;
Disease and penury in cruel strife,
Had ravish'd all the decent means of life,
E'en the mark'd crown, her lover's gift, she gave,
In filial duty for a father's grave,
That so the honour'd clay which caus'd her birth
Might slumber peaceful in the sacred earth,
Chim'd to its grass-green home with pious peal,
While hallow'd dirges hymn the last farewel;
At length these piercing woes her sense invade,
And lone and long the hapless wanderer stray'd,
O'er the black heath, around th' unmeasur'd wood,
Up the huge precipiece, or near the flood;
She mounts the rock at midnight's awful hour,
Enjoys the gloom, and idly mocks the shower;
Now scorns her fate, then patient bends the knee,
And courts each pitying star to set her free,
Then starting wilder, thinks those stars her foes,
Smites her sad breast, and laughs amidst her woes;
Oft would she chace the bee, or braid the grass,
Or crop the hedge-flower, or disorder'd pass;
Else, restless loiter in the pathless mead,
Sing to the birds at roost, the lambs at feed;
Or if a nest she found the brakes among,
No hand of hers destroy'd the promis'd young;
And when kind nature brought the balmy sleep,
Too soon she woke to wander and to weep;
Across her breast the tangled tresses flew,
And frenzied glances all around shew threw;
Th' unsettled soul those frenzied glances speak,
And tears of terror hurry down her cheek;
Yet still that eye was bright, that cheek was fair,
Though pale the rose, the lilly blossom'd there.
A wandering swain the beauteous Maniac found,
Her woes wild warbling to the rocks around;
A river roll'd beside, aghast she ran,
Her vain fears startling at the sight of man;
And, save me, God! my father's ghost! she cry'd,
Then headlong plung'd into the flashing tide.
The youth pursues—but wild the waters rose,
And o'er their heads in circling surges close,
Not heav'n-born Sympathy itself could save;
Both, both alas! were whelm'd beneath the wave.
And lives the man, who senseless could have stood
To see the victim buffet with the flood?
Whose coward cheek no tinge of honour feels,
Flush'd with no pride at which the Muse reveals?
If such a man, if such a wretch there be,
Thanks to this aching heart, I am not he.
Hail, lovely griefs, in tender mercy giv'n,
And hail, ye tears, like dew-drops fresh from heav'n;
Hail, balmy breath of unaffected sighs,
More sweet than airs that breathe from eastern skies;
Hail, sacred source of sympathy divine,
Each social pulse, each social fibre thine;
Hail, symbols of the God, to whom we owe
The nerves that vibrate, and the hearts that glow;
Love's tender tumult, friendship's holy fires,
And all which beauty, all which worth inspires,
The joy that lights the hope illumin'd eye,
The bliss supreme that melts in pity's sigh,
Affection's bloom quick rushing to the face,
The choice acknowledg'd and the warm embrace:
Oh power of powers, whose magic thus can draw,
Earth, air, and ocean, by one central law;
Join bird to bird, to insect insect link,
From those which grovel up to those which think;
Oh, ever blest! whose bounties opening wide
Fill the vast globe, for mortals to divide,
Thy heav'nly favours stretch from pole to pole,
Encircle earth, and rivet soul to soul!
Cease then to wonder these lov'd scenes impart
No more the usual transport to my heart;
Tho' modest Twilight visit Eve again,
At whose soft summons homeward steps the swain;
Though from the breath of oxen in the vale,
I catch the spirit of the balmy gale,
And from the brakes the answering thrushes sing,
While the grey owl sails by on solemn wing;
Nor wonder, if when morning blooms again,
In discontent I quit the flowery plain.
Thus the poor mariner, his traffic o'er,
Crouds ev'ry sail to reach his native shore,
With smiles he marks the pennons stream to port,
And climbs the top-mast mast to eye the fort;
Dim through the mist the distant lands appears,
And far he slopes to hail it with his tears;
From foreign regions, foreign faces come,
Anxious he seeks his much-lov'd friends at home,
Warm, and more warm, the social passions glows,
As near and nearer to the place he goes;
Quick beats his heart as pressing on he sees
His own fair cottage canopy'd with trees;
For there, in blessed health, he hopes to find
His wife and cradled infant left behind;
Panting, he plucks the latch that guards the door,
But finds his wife, his cradled babe no more!
Like some sad ghost he wanders o'er the green,
Droops on the blossom'd waste, and loaths the scene
Yet haply you, by Sympathy, may know
That here a-while I paus'd to paint my woe,
For sure if ever Silph or Silphid bore
One true friend's message to a distant shore;
If ever spirit whisper'd gentle deed,
In such an absence most its aid we need.—
Perhaps, for now let Fancy take her flight,
My friend, like me, may wander thro' the night,
Amidst a different scenery may roam,
And many gentle sigh address at home;
Ev'n now, where moon-beams tremble on the wave,
And circling seagulls their long pinions lave,
Where anchor'd vessels in the harbour ride,
To wait the flux of the returning tide,
Where the salt billow beats against the strand,
My friend may take his solitary stand;
Or to the rock projecting to the main,
May sit him down to mark the social strain,
Along the frothing beach may bend his way,
And suit, like me, his sorrows to his lay.
Farewel! my hour approaches with the dawn,
And up I spring to leave the flowery lawn;
The pain increases as I stay to trace
Another sunshine rising o'er the place:
Adieu then, balmy shrubs and shades, adieu,
This passing incense o'er your leaves I strew;
Adieu, thou dear and hill-screen'd cottage fair;
Adieu, thou decent dome of Sunday prayer;
To each, to all, adieu! your lonely guest
Retire. The social passions speaks the rest.

THE TEARS OF GENIUS.

THE TEARS OF GENIUS,

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF DR. GOLDSMITH.

The village-bell toll's out the note of death,
And thro' the echoing air, the length'ning sound,
With dreadful pause, reverberating deep;
Spreads the sad tidings, o'er fair Auburn's vale.
There, to enjoy the scenes his bard had prais'd,
In all the sweet simplicity of song,
GENIUS, in pilgrim garb, sequester'd sat,
And herded jocund with the harmless swains:
But when he heard the fate-foreboding knell,
With startled step, precipitate and swift,
And look pathetic, full of dire presage,
The church-way walk, beside the neighb'ring green,
Sorrowing he sought; and there, in black array,
Borne on the shoulders of the swains he lov'd,
He saw the boast of Auburn mov'd along.
Touch'd at the view, his pensive breast he struck,
And to the cypress, which incumbent hangs
With leaning slope, and branch irregular,
O'er the moss'd pillars of the sacred fane,
The briar-bound graves shadowing with a funeral gloom,
Forlorn he hied; when, lo! the crowding woe
(Swell'd by the parent) press'd on bleeding thought.
Big ran the drops from his paternal eye,
Fast broke the bosom sorrow from his heart,
And pale Distress, sat sickly on his cheek,
As thus his plaintive Elegy began:
And must my children all expire?
Shall none be left to strike the lyre?
Courts Death alone a learned prize?
Falls his shafts only on the wise?
Can no fit marks on earth be found,
From useless thousands swarming round?
But must th' Ingenious drop alone?
Must Science only grace his throne?
Oh murd'rer of the tuneful train!
I charge thee, with my children slain!
Scarce has the Sun thrice urg'd his annual tour,
Since half my race have felt thy barbarous power;
Sore hast thou thinn'd each pleasing art,
And struck a muse with every dart:
Bard, after bard, obey'd thy slaughtering call,
Till scarce a poet lives to sing a brother's fall.
Then let a plunder'd parent pay
The tribute of a parting lay.
Tearful, inscribe the monumental strain,
And speak aloud his feelings and his pain!
And first, farewel to thee, my son, he cried,
Thou pride of Auburn's dale —sweet bard, farewel.
Long for thy sake, the peasants tear shall flow,
And many a virgin-bosom heave with woe,
For thee shall sorrow sadden all the scene,
And every pastime, perish on the green;
The sturdy farmer shall suspend his tale,
The woodman's ballad shall no more regale,
No more shall Mirth, each rustic sport inspire,
But every frolic, every feat, shall tire.
No more the evening gambol shall delight,
Nor moonshine revels crown the vacant night,
But groups of villagers (each joy forgot)
Shall form a sad assembly round the cot.
Sweet bard, farewel—and farewel, Auburn's bliss,
The bashful lover, and the yielded kiss;
The evening warble Philomela made,
The echoing forest, and the whispering shade,
The winding brook, the bleat of brute content,
And the blithe voice that “whistled as it went.”
These shall no longer charm the plowman's care,
But sighs shall fill the pauses of despair.
Goldsmith adieu! the “book-learn'd priest” for thee
Shall now in vain possess his festive glee,
The oft-heard jest in vain he shall reveal,
For now alas, the jest he cannot feel.
But ruddy damsels o'er thy tomb shall bend,
And conscious weep for their and virtue's friend:
The milkmaid shall reject the shepherd's song,
And cease to carol as she toils along:
All Auburn shall bewail the fatal day,
When from her fields, their pride was snatch'd away;
And even the matron of the cressy lake
In piteous plight, her palsied head shall shake,
While all adown the furrows of her face
Slow shall the lingering tears each other trace.
And, Oh my child! severer woes remain,
To all the houseless, and unshelter'd train:
Thy fate shall sadden many an humble guest,
And heap fresh anguish on the beggar's breast.
For dear wert thou to all the sons of pain;
To all that wander, sorrow, or complain.
Dear to the learned, to the simple dear,
For daily blessings mark'd thy virtuous year;
The rich receiv'd a moral from thy head,
And from thy heart the stranger found a bed.
Distress came always smiling from thy door;
For God had made thee agent to the poor;
Had form'd thy feelings on the noblest plan,
At once to grace the Poet and the Man.
Here Genius paus'd to dry the gathering tear,
Which conscious Nature started in his eye.
He paus'd an instant, then the strain renew'd.

EPITAPH.

Now sighing, stopt again the querulous power,
And ruminated thoughtful—o'er the turf,
Swell'd into mountains by the mingled dead,
He cast a serious eye—and now the hours,
The light-wing'd messengers of hoary Time,
Brought on the fable zenith of the night,
Cloudless and incompos'd by gale or shower,
Save that the Zephir rising from the south,
Rustled the light leaf of the spreading beech.
Far thro' the cærule air, the timid moon
Her faint ray flung upon the shadowy earth;
Struck by the scene, Imagination turn'd
Reflective, on a loss still more severe;
A loss that all the Muses mourn at once.
The cheek of GENIUS stream'd with warmer tears,
Deepen'd the searching sigh, and throbb'd the heart,
As thus at length the bursting grief found way:
Child of my heart—thou matchless soul of Song!
Guide of fair Truth, and lead star of Fame,
Etherial in thy talents, as thy mind,
Wise as all wisdom here below could be,
Sublimely tuneful, but not more sublime
Than delicate—nor more refin'd, than good;
For Virtue ever brighthen'd in thy lay,
And beam'd fresh graces thro' thy ardent song;
A song, that dar'd a flight above the spheres,
Cælestially ambitious; Heaven-inspir'd,
Thy hopes angelic, and thy theme a God!—
Thou Muses miracle—thou Nation's pride,
Whose worth, yon silver Queen of night proclaim'd,
When thou her pitying sympathy address'd,
Whose wisdom all our sages loudly praise,
Sages of science, by deep thought made sage,
Whose virtue, Immortality rewards,
Whose GENIUS, scorning narrow human ken,
And the pent limits of this pigmy world,
(Where in a circle circumscrib'd by fate,
The mole-ey'd mortal dimly gazes round,
And boasts his deep sagacity of sight;
Important emmet—pride-elated mite,
Infinite atom—momentary worm—)
Superior soars to scenes behind the cloud,
Oh YOUNG—thou day-bright poet of the night,
Accept sincere the genuine plaint of woe
Maternal—struck immediate from the heart;
An heart that labours deep with various grief!
And thou, Oh Cynthia—thou who lent thine aid
Cærulian; and shed thy influence round,
Chearing the darkness of thy Poet's fate;
A fate envelop'd deep in Fortune's gloom,
Dark beyond all the horrors of the night,
When intercepting clouds repel thy rays,
And not a gleam softens the black opaque,
Genius, cherubic,—near allied to Heaven,
Of heavenly themes ambitious—Oh my Son!
Oh, what a stroke upon the feeling heart!
Oh what a fall to Britain, and to me!
And rises then my sorrow into guilt,
Verges my fondness on impiety,
Reason, religion, duty, all forgot?
I almost mingle blushes with my woe,
Confusion flings her crimson in my cheek,
And colouring Conscience dyes a deeper red!
Fall, did I say?—say rather what a rise!
A rise high-bounding to his native skies,
How great! how vast! how glorious! how profound!
To us how vital—to himself how fair?
He wish'd for Heav'n, and Heav'n has heard his prayer.
Then let me hail his beatific shade—
The well-rewarded spirit bower'd in bliss!—
Yet Nature, feeble Nature, clinging to the chords,
And pressing hard upon the tender strings,
That move the finer feelings in our frame,
With arbitrary rage, demands her right,
And usurer-like exacts the parent-sigh.
Spite of the exultations I should feel,
The hymn of triumph, and the peal of praise,
The tender tyrant tugs about my breast,
Strikes on each pulse, and sluices every vein—
Ah rebel nerves, be still—or if too hard,
The thoughts of losing him the most ador'd,
Bears on thy weaker sense—indulge a pause,
From Nature—Passion—Torture and Thyself.
Oh, turn my soul from the distracting theme,
Probe not the agonizing wound to deep,
Search not the sore with too minute an eye,
But from his dear idea, turn away!
He turn'd—he stopt—but found no sweet relief;
The cormorant monster of the gorging grave,
Had multiplied his woe—still ran his thoughts
On some lov'd child, which yet remain'd unsung;
Another and another to his mind
Rose terrible—and starting, thus he cried,
While Grief in every feature wrote Despair:

And shall I pass thee o'er, thou gentle spirit?—Was there ought in thy propensions—or in thy way of journeying through the windings of this sad world?—Was there ought unfilial in thy feelings?—ought undeserving or forbidding, that should incline me to overlook thee?—Ah; No—no—Trust me, gentle YORICK, I more than lov'd thee—There was a courtesy in thy demeanor—a milky and humane temperature about thy pulses—and a compassion in the turn of thy mind—however excursive—however retrograde—however digressive—that awaken the most tender recollection—A recollection which hurries the blood into the most affectionate extremities.—Gracious God, what a throb was there!—As I live—and as I love thee—and by the soul of thy venerable relation, the tears are bathing my eye-lashes, while I am talking of thee—And could'st thou

—(Oh that Death should have made it necessary to cry alas! in a parenthesis)—could'st thou, YORICK, at this moment, lay thy hand upon my heart—the violence of the motion about the center, would confess the mother—and the tumult of the vessels, together with the rebounds of the pulsation, might assure thee, how thou art rank'd in my estimation—Estimation!—hear me, Yorick, there is another Alas for thee—Thou can'st not hear—Genius has much to say of thee—Thou wert nothing else—Thy heart, and head, and every delicate appendage, were the constant champions of all the Charities—all the Civilities.—Thou had'st not, indeed any parade—any ostensibility—or religious prudery about thee—but yet hast thou done more to the cause of Virtue, than if thou had'st gone scowling through life.—In all thy excursions—and whimsical meanders—Sensibility took thee by the hand—by the heart I might have said—and made thee accessible to every tender entreaty—every soft petition found its way into thy pocket—the thing was irresistible—Pity seconded the request, Sympathy thirded it—and if thou haply had'st nothing to bestow—why it was an hard case, and would cost thee a tear—a drop of disappointment—an elixir to the sorrowing soul—a treasure rising from the fulness of a rich heart, and it was given without grudging—so would it, had it been chrystal.—I honour thy sentiments, and I venerate thy memory—thou would'st not suffer a nettle to grow upon the grave of an enemy—nor shall Genius ever suffer a weed to grow upon thine.—Peace—peace to thy shade.

Once more did Genius cease the mournful lay,
But the fresh anguish soon assail'd his heart;
Still call'd the populous tomb for his lament,
And bade him prove vicissitude of woe,
As thus he sighing, spoke:
Scarce had he finish'd his disasterous song,
When thus again lamenting, he began—
So when some oak, that long supreme hath stood,
The stately monarch of th' imperial wood,
Whose arms superior shed a verdure round,
And shadow'd wide beneath, th' umbrageous ground,
Long time we view its top impierce the skies,
Its broad leaf flourish, and its branches rise,
Long time we gaze upon the glowing sight,
And eye with wonder its majestic height,
Till time, impatient for its destin'd prey,
Full at the root directs the blow,
And down it drops below;
The mighty ruin, of the groaning plain.

Nor, in lamenting the havock, which Death hath triumphantly made (continued Genius) in the letter'd generation, can Hawkesworth, be forgotten: A name which is particularly endear'd to me, by the affection which its owner bore to virtue and to science. Every stroke of his pen, corresponding with every idea in his mind, however playful, or however pathetic, always terminated in the most useful knowledge: that knowledge which might regulate the conduct of life, or afford tranquillity and quietude at the hour of expiration. The ardour which uniformly animated his endeavours, gave constant vigour to his thought, activity to his powers, and dignity to his sentiment: Nor did his excellence arise so

much from the ambition which panted after fame, and aim'd at popularity—which apppeal'd to the acclamations of the mob, or sought the distinctions of this world; as from the hearty hope of contributing, in whatever degree, to the investigation of truth, the amendment of manners, and the rectitude of the mind. Of those who have acquir'd a literary immortality, there are few who could dispute with my Hawkesworth, strength of sense, or elevation of expression; and still fewer have given to the world so valuable, or so copious a fund of virtuous entertainment. Amidst all the efforts of his intellect, whether his instructions were prepared in the dress of history—or convey'd in the vehicle of fabulous narration—whether they assum'd the graver style of argumentative profundity, or whether they adopted the still deeper researches of philosophical raciocination;—their constant greatness of design was equally apparent, and the promotion of virtue was always strongly mark'd in the language of the writer. My dear, my regretted Hawkesworth, was indeed never long seduc'd by any temptations, or abstracted by any scientific allurements, from those views which are alone of intrinsic importance, and which he well knew, would retain that importance, when all that now flutters to the fancy, plays upon the passions, or fascinates the heart, shall confess their insignificance, and fly like the atom, that is driven before the tempest.

Here, interrupting, broke upon his plaint
The peering morn—the dun-discolour'd clouds,
Dispersing fast, unveil the fleecy white:
Fair dawns the new-born-day; and o'er the sky
The ruddy crimson, and the heaven-dipt blue,
Mix'd with the fainter yellow's streaky gold,
Chequering the air in rich variety,
Fortell the Sun's uprise—from his broad beam,
(Too garnish for the melancholy mind)
GENIUS withdrew, and clos'd his tender lay.

THE ART OF RISING ON THE STAGE.

A POEM.

CANTO I.

To grace the elbow chair of age,
Roscius the Monarch of the Stage,
Resolv'd to lay the sceptre down,
And make his exit from the town.
His purpose fix'd, he summon'd strait,
The Lords and Commons of his State,
A motley tribe as you shall see;
The Theatre's variety;
From Madam Yates to Columbine:
He summon'd them, exact at nine,
Exact at nine, the parties came,
Some known to Famine, some to Fame.
In the same room, for once, they met;
The tragic ladies, took their seat:
The little lords, were on the scout
And fairly wish'd themselves without:
The gentlemen, stroll'd here and there
Till Roscius came, and took the chair:
He stood, in attitude profound,
And thus address'd the circle round.
Princesses, Potentates, and Peers,
Behold me in the vale of years:
My friends and favourites adieu,
Lo I am come, to part with you.
Full forty years, in various places,
Have I, alas, been making faces:
During which time, as ye can tell,
Much have I talk'd of heaven, and hell;
Myself have stabb'd, through every part;
And often broke my pliant heart;
Imaginary crimes committed,
Been hated, scorn'd, admir'd, and pitied:
My father strangled, kill'd my brother,
And play'd the devil with my mother;
To day a fool, to-morrow wiser,
A monarch, manager, and miser.
How oft ye powers this hand has press'd,
In mimic agony, my breast;
How oft I've died with pleasing pain,
How oftne have I “slew the slain;”
How oft the hated tyrant play'd,
And kill my man, and kiss'd my maid.
Not Sir John Hill, so much has wrote,
As I have spoken through my throat;
Hard fate, my friends, thus to rehearse
Each year, a waggon load of verse;
We, when the bard has lost his gift,
Have kindly given the man a lift,
When weighty matters poets cobble,
And their gall'd jades begin to hobble,
The player, doctors up their feet,
And makes them seem both sound and fleet;
This have I done—with your assistance,—
Tho' sometimes, have scarce sav'd my distance:
Bards, now a days, would lose the race,
If players did not mend their pace,
So apt their hackneys are to trip,
That did we not work spur and whip,
Scarce is there one among them all,
But woud, ere course the second, fall;
To tell you then my serious wish,
I'm tir'd of this dramatic dish,
Farewel, a long farewel to verse,
Hail honest prose, hail honest purse;
I'm on the edges of threescore,
'Tis time to give the plaything o'er;
I need not counterfeit a wrinkle!
Behold—it strikes you in a twinkle!
The step of sixty, as I stir
Ye see, ah me! 'tis angular!
Age is unfit for rant and riot,
Now determine to be quiet;
No more will I the Proteus play,
But choose henceforth the private way:
Nay, my good friends, you need not stare,
By yonder blessed moon I swear!
As actor, manager, and poet,
“I've done some service, and ye know it:”
I've had my struggles, like the moor,
A time there was, when I was poor:
Now farewel hair-breadth 'scapes, and slavings,
Hail—hail—thrice hail, my little savings:
I never coveted such stuff,
Put shall retire, with just enough
To line my evening couch with down,
And keep my cottage out of town,
My homely Hampton hut I mean,
Altho' a plain, a pleasant scene;
These palaces ill suit with age,
Mine is the season to be sage;
And that the modest reason, why
I lay this bustling business by:
Altho' of players, I am king,
The fearful hour is on the wing
When I, and other monarchs, must
Lay our mock royalties in dust;
An awful part remains to act,
The baseless vision yields to fact:
Such is my purpose, such my plan;
No more the actor, but the man.
Then friends farewel, but ere I quit
These well known scenes of sense and wit;
These ever-honour'd, sacred boards,
Where such a levee grand, of lords,
Where Kings and queens so oft have stood,
And died—with little loss of blood;
Where conquerors of every clime,
Have, night by night, harangued in rhime;
And, by the aid of good blank verse,
Stout heroes, have improved their curse:
Where dukes, of every sort and size,
Have complimented ladies eyes;
Where chiefs, have fought their country's cause,
And statesmen made, and unmade laws;
Where countesses, have drain'd the bowl,
Or stabb'd the form, to save the soul;
Where virgins, rather than submit,
Their pretty panting hearts have hit;
Where all of us, have had our blows,
Our sieges, battles, joys, and woes;
My eyes will linger to this spot,
Till you my last advice, have got.
The actors is a dangerous trade,
Take then a recipe I've made,
Twill move the soul, and mend each feature,
I'm told, there's not the like in nature,
And as a proof, 'twill bear the test,
Me, it hath made—Probatum est.
Take first a well-siz'd Looking-Glass,
“And view your shadows as you pass:”
Manage each motion of the eye,
And learn, at will, to laugh and cry,
Observe to step, and start, with grace,
And call up meaning, in the face:
Walk not too narrow, nor too wide,
'Tis like Sir Punch, to strut and stride:
As bad it is, to jerk, and run,
Pray ladies, copy Abington.
Observe the breeding in her air,
There's nothing of the actress there:
Assume her fashion if you can;
And catch the graces of her fan.
Learn in her mirror, how to stare,
To smile in joy, to droop in care:
With ease, “to catch the cloud, and in it
“Paint the fair Cynthia of the minute :”
Change passions with the changing scene,
And methodise like her your mien,
In drawing off her glove, you'll see,
She has been used to company.
Pray heroes never pause too long,
A trick I got, when I was young,
A trick, my enemies have told,
But habits, seldom leave the old.
The glass may teach, to bow and kneel,
But heaven alone can make you feel:
From that fair fount, the truth must flow,
Yet art can make a shift you know;
I've found it frequently supply,
The want of sensibility.
But oh, 'twill take up all your leisure,
Ere of such toil you make a pleasure;
For where dame Nature is unkind,
And scarcely half makes up the mind;
While Fortune, like a scurvy jade,
Tosses that mind, upon our trade,
It follows, as a clear effect,
That notwithstanding such neglect,
If Nature will not do her part,
The business must be done by art.
In stage-affairs, as in a watch,
There's many a wheel, and many a catch,
In both the mechanism's fine,
Your lookers-on, can ne'er divine,
What a mere juggle 'tis to play;
And yet this juggle does, I say.
Who only views the watch's face,
Conceive not what's within the case;
Enough for them, if truth it tell,
And bids Sue roast the mutton well,
The fine machinery they miss;
As 'tis in that, so 'tis in this.
I would not have you then despair,
Tho' Nature, should her blessing spare,
Tho' some of you should feel no more,
Than Dunstan's giants o'er church door:
Sheer art, may move a man about,
Pray who's to find the secret out?
Take heed, 'twill seem all skill and knowledge,
Might pose the fellow of a college.
Have you not seen, in Lear, and Fool,
Where players often rave by rule,
The calling out—a mouse, a mouse,
Has fairly taken in, the house.
If well the changeling throws his hat,
Make sure of your applause for that:
One minute marks a start, at most,
But, if on entrance of a ghost,
You stamp but loud enough, and fix,
Instead of one, you may take six:
'Twere well indeed, if, when it's come,
With dext'rous dash of hand, or thumb,
You caus'd the hair, to stand an end;
As that would much the horror mend:
When Hamlet's phantom you pursue,
Gaze, as if every lamp burnt blue:
But when its errand you would know,
Take care, to stagger as you go:
Then, as it waves you, not to vex it,
Let the sword tremble in your exit.
To make King Richard, there's a knack;
Be perfect, in the leg, and back;
The eyebrow, should be broad and dark:
And give to murder, every mark
His fell complottings and designs,
Should startle in the face's lines;
Give him the dark assassin's airs
And catch the audience unawares.
Much, much, dear folks, depends on dress;
The seemly ruff of royal Bess,
The flourish, when she gives the blow,
The royal train, and furbelow,
The thundering boast of blustering Pierre,
The straw-made crown of crazy Lear,
Othello's face, Ophelia's willow,
And Desdemona's strangling pillow:
Your hose, ye fair, when boys you play,
White chins, when age is in decay,
Fat Falstaff's shield, and mountain belly,
Are half the battle, let me tell ye:
If once the galleries give the hand,
A fig, for those that understand,
The men of taste you know, are rare,
The boxes seldom heed the player:
The critic's hiss at classic flaws,
Is buried in the fool's applause.
Is genius wanting?—trust to trick,
It is the actor's walking-stick:
There are, who use it every year:
Tho' none of my good people here.
Where there is genius—in such cases,
The passions know their proper places;
Just where they ought, behold them rise,
Or flow in tears, or heave in sighs:
They animate the brightest jest,
And mighty nature stands confest:
What, therefore, I remark'd, at first,
Was putting matters at the worst;
As providence bestow'd the power,
I ne'er could bear finesse an hour:
My Archer, is your comic sample,
And Lear affords a grave example.
Of other points, there are a few,
That I will now reveal to you.
And first, it would not be amiss,
But here and there prevent a hiss,
If some of you would condescend
A certain careless air to mend;
'Tis villainous to search the pit,
To find where your admirers sit.
Nor is it well, to stare on high,
Intriguing with the gallery:
Or to the boxes, give your eyes,
While on the stage a lady sighs:
Believe me, there is much to play,
Ev'n when you have no more to say:
Some, at the close of every speech,
Will, saucy, turn upon their breech;
Never conclude your business past,
Till act the fifth, and line the last.
Oft have I been the friend in danger,
When him I lov'd, stood like a stranger;
And tho' next scene I was to die,
By draught, or dart, or sympathy:
The fellow was so lost to feeling,
I might as well have hugg'd the ceiling;
One of his hands, indeed, was near
To take my tributary tear;
While eyes and lips were making love,
And set to trap the nymphs above.
Sure, gentlemen, you'll grant me this:
A time to act, a time to kiss;
Refrain but till the curtain's down,
Then Ranger-it thro' all the town.
And faith, my friends, there's no excuse,
Where kissing, is so much in use,
The modern stage, is no way slack,
In granting ye an honest smack:
I cannot recollect the play,
Where poets do not shew the way;
We've scarce a scene of tragic bliss,
But they have introduc'd a kiss,
And when a heroine's at her gasp,
She always gives a loving clasp;
Or if a comedy's their forte,
There's always something of that sort.
The drama now, however chaste,
In tender matters, near the waist;
Tho' they run round and round the riddle,
Girding a cestus 'bout the middle:
Yet all who deal in deaths and faintings,
Our dapsters at dramatic paintings,
However artfully, each draws
O'er sacred parts the virtuous gauze:
There's none so churlish to dispute,
The players right to a salute.
It now remains, ere I go hence,
To thank you, for your diligence.
Sickness, 'tis true, will oft disable:
Pretended sickness, is a fable;
The papers, have been full of this;
I Nature blame for every miss;
At Duty's call you all would come,
But—that you could not get from home:
Nay you'd have ventur'd in a chair,
Had you not fear'd—the evening air.
I know a lady's resolution,
But who can help her constitution?
And had you left your hoods and screens,
You might have died behind the scenes.
I credit not the idle tale,
“He is not sick, she does not ail,”
I've seldom pry'd for your complaint,
Convinc'd, you were above a feint,
But sure, of your indisposition,
Have kindly sent you my physician.
My friends, I have no more to say,
I wish you long to live, and play:
And when, like me, you've sav'd a pittance,
Make your last bows, and cry, acquittance.”
The Green-room, echoed approbation,
And thus broke up the Convocation.

CANTO II.

CANTO III.

THE MUSES TO ROSCIUS.
While Mel. and Tha. are gone to heaven,
We, your admirers, sisters seven,
Send this, to beg you may not sell,
Till he who buys, can act as well;
When such a bidder you can find,
We'll bear to hear, that you've resign'd;
Consent, we have a right to claim;
Obey, and trust us with your fame;
From each, a compliment receive,
And kiss the wreathe the Muses weave.
I Clio, in th' immortal page,
Will bid you live thro' every age;
And I, Calliope the fair,
Will make your harmony my care;
Your dulcet powers of voice record,
And tell the music of each word.
Erato and Terpsichore,
Will guard your dance and poetry,
Ours be the office to rehearse
Your turn for epilogue, so terse:
Our Phoebus scorns the epigram.
And blazons only epic fame;
The gentle sallies of a morning,
His godship trusts, to our adorning:
Euterpe, though you seldom sing,
Pays you the honours of a king:
I, Polyhymn your memory love,
Urane, historian above,
Upon a sunbeam, writes your name,
And Garrick consecrates to fame:
While we, the sister Graces, vow,
To celebrate your air and bow.
Given at our court, Parnassus mountain,
By us—Princesses of the fountain:
By us, your friends, the Muses seven,
While t'other two are gone to heaven.

POEMS FROM THE ANNUAL REGISTER.

THE PARTRIDGES:

AN ELEGY.

TO AN INFANT,

SLEEPING IN THE ARMS OF ITS MOTHER.

EXTRACTED FROM VERSES,

SENT TO A LADY ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

POETICAL PIECES FROM LIBERAL OPINIONS.

ELEGY OF A NIGHTINGALE,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY HERSELF.

EPITAPH ON A LAP-DOG.

To courts accustom'd yet to cringe asham'd,
Of person lovely, as in life unblam'd;
Skill'd in those gentle and prevailing arts,
Which lead directly to soft female hearts;
A kind partaker of the quiet hour,
Friend of the parlour, partner of the bow'r,
In health, in sickness, ever faithful found,
Yet, by no ties, but ties of kindness bound,
Of instinct, nature, reason, what you will,
For to all duties he was constant still;
Such was the being underneath this shrine;
Study the character, and make it Thine.

ALMERIA;

OR, THE PENITENT.

SOLILOQUIES OF A HIGHWAYMAN.

ODE TO A SCHOOL-FELLOW.

TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES,

A POEM.

EPITAPHS.

EPITAPH ON ------

What tho' no titles speak thy modest worth,
Nor proud processions, nor the pomps of birth;
Nor trophied tombs where labour'd emblems shine
To mark, in gloomy state, an ancient line
Of Kings and heroes crumbling near the spot,
Where ev'ry folly but their Pride's forgot?
The glare of fortune and the swell of blood,
Ill suits the decent grave, that holds the good;
Ill suits, oh parent shade! thy humble dust,
Which asks no flatt'ry from the breathing bust:
Far other power, no marble can impart,
Records the hist'ry of a father's heart;
Far other incense shall thy ashes grace,
Ah dear support and comfort of thy race!
Thine the fair homage filial loves supplies,
In balmy tribute from thy childrens sighs,
The bosom'd shrines that own thy deathless sway,
No moth shall perish, and no worm decay;
A son's mute grief shall make thy fame more clear,
Thy virtues shine more graceful in the tear,
That duteous bathes a daughter's cheek, than all
The vaunting plumage of the gorgeous pall,
And more true honour from such offering springs
Than the mock woe which grandeur buys for Kings.

TO THE MEMORY OF CAPTAIN DRUMMOND, A BRAVE YOUNG OFFICER.

EPITAPH

On a DOG born at Rome, and brought by Lady S---y into England, from thence carried to her Ladyship's Family Seat in Wales, where he died.

In soft repose, beneath this Cambrian tomb,
Here lies—an ancient citizen of Rome:
And that great mistress of the world must own
Ne'er did she look upon a worthier son:
Not the Twelve Cæsars shew'd a soul more free,
Than shone, O venerable sage! in thee.
In her proud empire, all her chiefs around,
Not a more generous hero could be found.
By instinct taught to act a Roman part,
Fear trembled to approach thy dauntless heart;
No blood of Nero enter'd thy firm breast,
Yet bold as godlike Cato when oppress'd;
The first Dictator not more mild than thee,
Wise as Pompilius, gay as Anthony;
With Trajan kind and Pertinax the just,
Far from vile Cataline, should sleep thy dust.
Ev'n Pompey's generous slave, who gently bore
His master's headless body stain'd with gore,
Far from the strand to bathe it in the main,
When haughty Julius left it on the plain,
Not that good freed-man with a heart more brave
Than thine, a charge so lov'd, so dear would save.
Nor Decius' self, who for his country died,
Had more of glowing zeal or patriot pride.
Thanks to thy gentle mistress, thou wert brought
With all th' imperial, ancient graces fraught,
To this blest isle, from the Italian shore,
When Rome's primeval glories were no more;
As in thy native land thou here might see
Reviv'd, reform'd, the Roman Liberty;
Here was thy Freedom giv'n on Albion's coast,
And three great nations shall thy friendship boast.
England thy residence, Rome claims thy birth,
Thy ashes rest in Cambria's holy earth;
In that unconquer'd soil is rear'd thy shrine,
And near thy tomb, th' illustrious S---ys join!
Thrice honour'd Roman, 'twas thy happy fate,
To live and die amongst the Good and Great.

SILVANA, THE HIGHLAND SHEPHERDESS.

BALLAD POEMS FROM EMMA CORBET, AND SONGS.

VERSES WRITTEN IN THE MOMENTS OF WAITING AN INTERVIEW.

ADDRESS TO A LOCKET.

WITH A PRESENT OF SOME PENS SENT TO EMMA.

SONG.

PLEASING AND TEASING.

A SONG.

SONG.

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.

PROLOGUE, WRITTEN FOR MRS. HUNTER, AT BIRMINGHAM.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS, On her last Benefit Night at Bath.

To please, to soothe, to soften, to unite,
O'er Life's dark shades to draw the tenderest light,
From grief the real object to erase,
And show a fancied sorrow in its place;
The shocks of Fortune, kindly to remove,
And woo the powers of Pity and of Love,
All these, blest office! to display, is ours.
But oh—an office still more blest—is yours:
Rich from the bounty of the public heart,
Springs the lov'd recompense which crowns our art;
The actor but reflects your generous aid,
And thus by you his toils are—over paid, Curtseys.

To night—and shining thro' the grateful tears,
An honour'd object of your smile appears;
Appears herself—to play no borrow'd part,
But pour the tribute of—this throbbing heart.
You gave me courage to pursue the scene,
And when I fail'd your candour stepp'd between;
Warm'd by your praise, I felt th' inspiring glow,
And from that fount, my humble efforts flow;
By you I spoke, thro' you I trode the stage,
And try'd the Comic mask, the Tragic rage.
Behold THIS night's sensation—in my eyes—
And faithful memory all the past supplies;
Yes—I am yours; and when you most approv'd,
When most my little skill your plaudits mov'd,
When you most honour'd what I anxious play'd,
It was but smiling on the powers you made;
'Twas but approving your creative plan;
Just as you sovereign artist smiles on man,
Thus, the shrubs gratify the planters toil,
Who, pleas'd surveys them flourish in his soil;
Thus feeble streams acquire unwonted force,
When daily fed by some superior source;
Some sacred fountain the rich tide bestows,
While broad as mine from you, each blessing flows.

AN OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE, WRITTEN FOR MRS. SIDDONS AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

EPILOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF THE FATAL INTERVIEW.

PROLOGUE FOR THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF MRS. SIMPSON.

PROLOGUE TO THE ORPHAN OF CHINA.

EPILOGUE.