University of Virginia Library

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.