Literary relics of the late Joseph Richardson Dedicated by permission to His Grace the duke of Northumberland: Consisting of The Comedy of the fugitive, and a few short poems; with a sketch of the life of the author by an intimate friend; in which those numbers of the rolliads and probationary odes written by Mr. Richardson are particularized. The whole collected and prepared for the press by Mrs. Richardson |
 | POETRY.
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 | Literary relics of the late Joseph Richardson |  |
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POETRY.
DETACHED PIECES: SOME WRITTEN WHEN AT COLLEGE.
167
PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. KEMBLE, TO AN AFTER-PIECE, ENTITLED, “THE GLORIOUS FIRST OF JUNE,”
PERFORMED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE WIDOWS AND ORPHANS OF THOSE SEAMEN WHO FELL DURING THE ACTION, IN WHICH THE ENGLISH FLEET, UNDER THE COMMAND OF LORD HOWE, OBTAINED A SIGNAL VICTORY OVER THE FRENCH.
Of all the virtues which enamour'd Fame
Connects for ever with a Briton's name,
None sounds more sweetly from her trump than thee,
Thou first, best excellence, Humanity!
Say, shall a light which from its beaming sphere
Dispels the mist of sad Misfortune's tear;
Pierces the worst abodes which Miseries haunt,
And cheers the languid eye of drooping Want;
Shall it to-night with feebler lustre shine,
When Justice joins her rites at Pity's shrine?
No—every eye with generous drops bedew'd,
Shall own that bounty here, is gratitude.
Connects for ever with a Briton's name,
None sounds more sweetly from her trump than thee,
Thou first, best excellence, Humanity!
Say, shall a light which from its beaming sphere
Dispels the mist of sad Misfortune's tear;
Pierces the worst abodes which Miseries haunt,
And cheers the languid eye of drooping Want;
Shall it to-night with feebler lustre shine,
When Justice joins her rites at Pity's shrine?
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Shall own that bounty here, is gratitude.
Ye hapless Orphans, doom'd no more to share
The fond protection of a father's care;
Ye widow'd mourners doom'd no more to know
The sheltering kindness which the brave bestow;
To-night our tenderest sympathy shall prove,
(Our sympathy!—a sad exchange for love,)
That when those slaughter'd heroes you bemoan,
Your sacred griefs you do not bear alone,
For in each British heart your sorrows are their own.
The fond protection of a father's care;
Ye widow'd mourners doom'd no more to know
The sheltering kindness which the brave bestow;
To-night our tenderest sympathy shall prove,
(Our sympathy!—a sad exchange for love,)
That when those slaughter'd heroes you bemoan,
Your sacred griefs you do not bear alone,
For in each British heart your sorrows are their own.
Ye gallant spirits who to Heaven are fled,
Now rank'd, now honour'd, with the glorious dead;
If of your former Being aught survive,
And Memory hold her fond prerogative;
How will your heighten'd natures joy to see
Old England safe!—Old England safe and free!
Sav'd by that Valour, which, dismiss'd from earth,
Claims from above, the meed of patriot worth.—
These the grac'd ornaments that deck your bier,
The brave man's sigh and gentle beauty's tear;
Glory herself at such a shrine may bow—
And what is glory, but a name for Howe!
Pity's sweet records still shall bear his name,
Exalting conquest into nobler fame:
Touch'd by her hand, the Victor's wreaths assume
A softer verdure, and a richer bloom.
As, when the Sun impetuous pours his ray,
And dazzles nature with redundant day,
If on some lonely spot his beams he throws,
Where, dress'd in sweets, retires the bashful rose,
We feel his gentler virtue in the flower,
And love his mildness, while we own his power.
Now rank'd, now honour'd, with the glorious dead;
If of your former Being aught survive,
And Memory hold her fond prerogative;
How will your heighten'd natures joy to see
Old England safe!—Old England safe and free!
Sav'd by that Valour, which, dismiss'd from earth,
Claims from above, the meed of patriot worth.—
These the grac'd ornaments that deck your bier,
The brave man's sigh and gentle beauty's tear;
Glory herself at such a shrine may bow—
And what is glory, but a name for Howe!
Pity's sweet records still shall bear his name,
Exalting conquest into nobler fame:
Touch'd by her hand, the Victor's wreaths assume
A softer verdure, and a richer bloom.
169
And dazzles nature with redundant day,
If on some lonely spot his beams he throws,
Where, dress'd in sweets, retires the bashful rose,
We feel his gentler virtue in the flower,
And love his mildness, while we own his power.
Divided eulogy this night imparts,
To British spirit, and to British hearts;
Those who assert their injur'd Country's cause,
Those who crown Valour with its best applause:
Alike in cherish'd memory shall live,
They who have won the Laurel, you who give.
To British spirit, and to British hearts;
Those who assert their injur'd Country's cause,
Those who crown Valour with its best applause:
Alike in cherish'd memory shall live,
They who have won the Laurel, you who give.
170
SONG INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN INTRODUCED IN THE BEFORE-MENTIONED AFTER-PIECE.
I
Say what is love so widely prais'dIn tuneful lay and cadence rude?
'T is just esteem by passion rais'd,
'T is tender ardent gratitude.
Then British maids shall ever prove
That honour is the soul of love.
II
'T is not the flame that feebly playsIn hearts benumb'd by wealth and rest;
'T is not the fierce relentless blaze
That transient fires the wanderer's breast:
Nought such do British maids approve,
Or sanction with the name of love.
III
The gallant sailor braves the main,Forgetting danger, death, and fear;
Yet still his faithful hopes retain
The cherish'd image of his dear.
To him then beauty's smiles shall prove
That valour bears a claim to love.
171
Iterare cursus cogor relictos.
I
O welcome ye grots and ye bowersWhence I have been absent so long;
Where oft I deceiv'd the dull hours,
And time did beguile with my song.
II
Blest there above human condition,What mortal but I would have stray'd,
Misguided by headstrong ambition—
Forsaken the joys of the shade?
III
On the verge of yon musical stream,How sweet were the songs of the seer!
How charming was then my lov'd theme,
How grateful did science appear!
172
IV
But 't was not enough, that I knewThe blessings the Muses supply;
Like Wharton, the world I must shew
The extent of my skill, “or I die.”
V
Abstracted I liv'd, and recluse,Where none with my art were to vie;
And thought, of the sons of the muse,
That none was more favour'd than I.
VI
But, alas! sad experience has taught,I partially judg'd of my skill;
Nor else, but with proof, had I thought
The pipe I had handled so ill.
VII
Compell'd to return with disgrace,Ye sweet holy grottos, to you,
I'll there (for ye see not my face)
My long-forgot labours renew.
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Virtutem videant, intabescantque relictâ.
Where the brown trees a darker shade compose,
And, friend to woe, the murm'ring rivulet flows,
Oppress'd with grief, the hapless Delia sat,
And mourn'd the rigours of a cruel fate.
And, friend to woe, the murm'ring rivulet flows,
Oppress'd with grief, the hapless Delia sat,
And mourn'd the rigours of a cruel fate.
I
“Ye gloomy scenes that sympathize with grief,With kindred horror soothing the distrest,
From you the wretched find a sure relief,
With you the guilty in repose may rest.
II
“Here let me sit, and, since my joys are flown,Indulge in thought the dear delusive theme,
Enjoy again the pleasures that are gone,
And once more find my innocence in dream.
III
“Blythe as the fields that gentle showers regale,Soft as the lambkins in their evening play,
Sweet as the lily in the fragrant vale,
Was Delia once—for she was pure as they.
174
IV
“Still to my steps obedient was delight,(Such is the power where innocence prevails;)
Alike I found it on the mountain's height,
And felt its influence in the flowery dales.
V
“One only task solicited my care,Delightful labour! with a filial love
To watch with duty o'er an aged pair,
Their joys to brighten, and their pains remove.
VI
“But here! ah, here! the tale of joy must end—The rest for guilt and misery to fill;
For those whom nature orders us to tend,
My impious guilt contributed to kill.
VII
“'T was love, soft source of many a maiden's tear,That led my steps from virtue's paths astray,
'T was Edwin's grace—'t was Edwin's form and air,
That charm'd my soul from innocence away.
175
VIII
“Skill'd in the arts that faithless swains pursue,Endow'd with all that tempts the mind from grace,
In luckless hour—what could not Edwin do?
He stole at once my virtue and my peace.
IX
“Stung with his falsehood, but more stung with guilt,In vain I seek for shelter and repose;
The virtuous pleasures which I once have felt,
Render but now more exquisite my woes.”
TO ROSALIND.
I
In loftier verse and moral strainLet wiser poets sing,
“How circling years come round again,
What varied joys they bring.”
II
To Time no wreath my muse shall bear,No chaplet gay from me;
For 't is to Time that yet I'm far,
Ah! Rosalind, from thee.
176
III
Would he but mend his tardy pace,And move more swift along,
Then would I join his power to bless,
His godhead own in song.
IV
The power of Time they say will meltAll human things away;
But sure who say so never felt
Imperial Beauty's sway:
V
For though the mouldering touch of ageTo worlds may fatal prove,
Though meaner things may feel its rage,
It but increases love.
THE END.
| Literary relics of the late Joseph Richardson | |