Poems and Plays :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems and Plays

By William Hayley ... in Six Volumes. A New Edition

Hayley, William (1745-1820)

VOL. I.

[section]

SONNETS, SONGS, AND OCCASIONAL VERSES.

II.

III.

IV.

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I. VOL. I.

AN ESSAY ON PAINTING:

IN TWO EPISTLES TO Mr. ROMNEY.

[_]

Some notes have been omitted.

Συγγενειαν τινα προς ποιητικην εχειν η τεχνη ευρισκεται, και κοινη τις αμφοιν ειναι φαντασια,

—α λεγειν οι ποιηται εχουσι ταυτα εν τω γραμματι σημαινουσα.

Philostratus.

---Patet omnibus Ars, nondum est occupata, multum ex illâ etiam futuris relictum est.
Senec. Epist. 33.

EPISTLE THE FIRST.

ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST EPISTLE.

Introduction—The flourishing state of Art in this country—Disadvantages attending the modern Painter of Portraits—Short encomium on this branch of Art, with the account of its origin in the story of the Maid of Corinth—Superiority of Historical Painting—Some account of the Greeks who excelled in it—Its destruction and revival in Italy—Short account of the most eminent Italian and Spanish Painters—Those of Flanders and France—The corruption of Art among the latter.

Blest be the hour, when fav'ring gales restore
The travell'd Artist to his native shore!
His mind enlighten'd, and his fancy fraught
With finest forms by ancient genius wrought;
Whose magic beauty charm'd, with spell sublime,
The scythe of Ruin from the hand of Time,
And mov'd the mighty leveller to spare
Models of grace so exquisitely fair.

While you, whom Painting thus inspir'd to roam,
Bring these rich stores of ripen'd judgment home;
While now, attending my accomplish'd friend,
Science and Taste his soften'd colours blend;
Let the fond Muse, tho' with a transient view,
The progress of her sister art pursue;

Eager in tracing from remotest time
The steps of Painting through each favour'd clime,
To praise her dearest sons, whose daring aim
Gain'd their bright stations on the heights of fame,
And mark the paths by which her partial hand
Conducts her Romney to this radiant band.

Painting, sweet Nymph! now leaves in lifeless trance
Exhausted Italy and tinsel France,
And sees in Britain, with exulting eyes,
Her vot'ries prosper, and her glories rise.
Yet tho', my friend, thy art is thus carest,
And with the homage of the public blest,
And flourishes with growing beauty fair,
The child of Majesty's adoptive care,
The youthful artist still is doom'd to feel
Obstruction's chilling hand, that damps his zeal:
Th' imperious voice of Vanity and Pride
Bids him from Fancy's region turn aside,
And quit the magic of her scene, to trace
The vacant lines of some unmeaning face:
E'en in this work his wishes still are crost,
And all the efforts of his art are lost;
For when the canvas, with the mirror's truth,
Reflects the perfect form of age or youth,

The fond affections of the partial mind
The eye of judgment with delusion blind:
Each mother bids him brighter tints employ,
And give new spirit to her booby boy;
Nor can the painter, with his utmost art,
Express the image in the lover's heart:
Unconscious of the change the seasons bring,
Autumnal beauty asks the rose of spring,
And vain self-love, in every age the same,
Will fondly urge some visionary claim.
The luckless painter, destin'd to submit,
Mourns the lost likeness which he once had hit,
And, doom'd to groundless censure, bears alone
The grievous load of errors not his own.

Nor is it Pride, or Folly's vain command,
That only fetters his creative hand;
At Fashion's nod he copies as they pass
Each quaint reflection from her crowded glass.
The formal coat, with intersecting line,
Mars the free graces of his fair design;
The towering cap he marks with like distress,
And all the motley mass of female dress.
The hoop extended with enormous size,
The corks that like a promontory rise;

The stays of deadly steel, in whose embrace
The tyrant Fashion tortures injur'd Grace.
But Art, despairing over shapes like these
To cast an air of elegance and ease,
Invokes kind Fancy's aid—she comes to spread
Her magic spells—the Gothic forms are fled;
And see, to crown the painter's just desire,
Her free positions, and her light attire!
Th' ambitious artist wishes to pursue
This brilliant plan with more extensive view,
And with adopted character to give
A lasting charm to make the portrait live;
All points of art by one nice effort gain,
Delight the learned, and content the vain;
Make history to life new value lend,
And in the comprehensive picture blend
The ancient hero with the living friend.
Most fair device! “but, ah! what foes to sense,
What broods of motley monsters rise from hence!”
The strange pretensions of each age and sex
These plans of fancy and of taste perplex;

For male and female, to themselves unknown,
Demand a character unlike their own,
Till oft the painter to this quaint distress
Prefers the awkward shapes of common dress.
Sweet girls, of mild and pensive softness, choose
The sportive emblems of the comic Muse;
And sprightly damsels are inclin'd to borrow
The garb of penitence, and tears of sorrow:
While awkward pride, tho' safe from war's alarms,
Round his plump body buckles ancient arms,
And, from an honest justice of the peace,
Starts up at once a demi-god of Greece;
Too firm of heart by ridicule to fall,
The finish'd hero crowns his country hall,
Ordain'd to fill, if fire his glory spare,
The lumber-garret of his wiser heir.
Not less absurd to flatter Nero's eyes
Arose the portrait of colossal size:
Twice fifty feet th' enormous sheet was spread,
To lift o'er gazing slaves the monster's head,
When impious Folly sway'd Oppression's rod,
And servile Rome ador'd the mimic God.

Think not, my friend, with supercilious air,
I rank the portrait as beneath thy care.
Blest be the pencil! which from death can save
The semblance of the virtuous, wife, and brave;
That youth and emulation still may gaze
On those inspiring forms of ancient days,
And, from the force of bright example bold,
Rival their worth, “and be what they behold.”
Blest be the pencil! whose consoling pow'r,
Soothing soft Friendship in her pensive hour,
Dispels the cloud, with melancholy fraught,
That absence throws upon her tender thought.
Blest be the pencil! whose enchantment gives
To wounded Love the food on which he lives.
Rich in this gift, tho' cruel ocean bear
The youth to exile from his faithful fair,
He in fond dreams hangs o'er her glowing cheek,
Still owns her present, and still hears her speak:
Oh! Love, it was thy glory to impart
Its infant being to this magic art!
Inspir'd by thee, the soft Corinthian maid
Her graceful lover's sleeping form portray'd:

Her boding heart his near departure knew,
Yet long'd to keep his image in her view:
Pleas'd she beheld the steady shadow fall,
By the clear lamp upon the even wall:
The line she trac'd with fond precision true,
And, drawing, doated on the form she drew;
Nor, as she glow'd with no forbidden fire,
Conccal'd the simple picture from her sire:
His kindred fancy, still to nature just,
Copied her line, and form'd the mimic bust.
Thus from thy power, inspiring Love, we trace
The modell'd image, and the pencil'd face!

We pity Genius, when, by interest led,
His toils but reach the semblance of a head;
Yet are those censures too severe and vain,
That scorn the Portrait as the Painter's bane.
Tho' up the mountain winds the arduous road
That leads to pure Perfection's bright abode,
In humbler walks some tempting laurels grow,
Some flowers are gather'd in the vale below:
Youth on the plain collects increasing force,
To climb the steep in his meridian course.
While Nature sees her living models share
The rising artist's unremitting care,

She on his mind her every charm imprints,
Her easy postures, and her perfect tints,
Till his quick pencil, in maturer hour,
Becomes her rival in creative power.

Yet in these paths disdain a long delay,
While eager Genius points a nobler way:
For see! expanding to thy raptur'd gaze,
The epic field a brighter scene displays!
Here stands the temple, where, to merit true,
Fame gives her laurel to the favour'd few:
Whose minds, illumin'd with cœlestial fire,
Direct the pencil, or awake the lyre;
Who trace the springs of nature to their source,
And by her guidance, with resistless force,
The tides of error and of transport roll
Thro' every channel of the human soul!

How few, my friend, tho' millions boast the aim,
Leave in this temple an unclouded name!
Vain the attempt, in every age and clime,
Without the slow conductors toil and time;
Without that secret, soul-impelling power,
Infus'd by Genius in the natal hour;
And vain with these, if bright occasion's ray
Fail to illuminate the doubtful way.

The elders of thy art ordain'd to stand
In the first circle of this honour'd band,
(Whose pencil, striving for the noblest praise,
The heart to soften and the mind to raise,
Gave life and manners to the finish'd piece)
These sons of glory were the sons of Greece!
Hail! throne of genius, hail! what mighty hand
Form'd the bright offspring of this famous land?
First in the annals of the world they shine:
Such gifts, O Liberty, are only thine;
Thy vital fires thro' kindling spirits run,
Thou soul of life, thou intellectual sun;
Thy rays call forth, profuse and unconfin'd,
The richest produce of the human mind.
First taught by thee, the Grecian pencil wrought
The forceful lessons of exalted thought,
And generously gave, at glory's call,
The patriot picture to the public hall.

'Twas then Panæus drew, with freedom's train,
The Chief of Marathon's immortal plain,
In glorious triumph o'er the mighty host
That Persia pour'd in torrents on their coast.

There Polygnotus, scorning servile hire,
Display'd th' embattled scene from Homer's lyre.
His country view'd the gift with fond regard,
And rank'd the painter with their noblest bard.

Thy tragic pencil, Aristides, caught
Each varied feeling, and each tender thought;
While moral virtue sanctified thy art,
And passion gave it empire o'er the heart.

Correct Parrhasius first to rich design
Gave nice proportion, and the melting line,
Whose soft extremes from observation fly,
And with ideal distance cheat the eye.

The gay, the warm, licentious Zeuxis drew
Voluptuous Beauty in her richest hue:
Bade in one form her scatter'd rays unite,
And charm'd the view with their collected light.

But Grace consign'd, while her fair works he plann'd,
Her softest pencil to Apelles' hand:
Yet oft to gain sublimer heights he strove,
Such strong expression mark'd his mimic Jove,

Inimitably great he seem'd to tower,
And pass the limits of the pencil's power.

Ye sons of art, tho' on the gulph of years
No floating relic of your toil appears,
Yet glory shews, in every cultur'd clime,
Your names still radiant thro' the clouds of time.

Thy pride, O Rome, inclin'd thee to abhor
Each work that call'd thee from thy sphere of war:
By Freedom train'd, and favour'd by the Nine,
The powers of eloquence and verse were thine,
While chilling damps upon the pencil hung,
Where Tully thunder'd and where Virgil sung,
Yet Grecian artists had the splendid fate
To triumph o'er the Romans' scornful hate.
Their matchless works profusion toil'd to buy,
Their wonders glitter'd in the public eye,
Till Rome's terrific pomp, and letter'd pride,
Were sunk in Desolation's whelming tide.

Oh! lovely Painting! long thy cheering light
Was lost and buried in barbaric night;
The furious rage of Anarchy effac'd
Each hallow'd character thy hand had trac'd,

And Ign'rance, mutt'ring in her monkish cell,
Bound thy free soul in her lethargic spell.

At length from this long trance thy spirit rose,
In that sweet vale where silver Arno flows;
There studious Vinci treasur'd every rule,
To form the basis of a rising school:
Like early Hesiod, 'twas his fate to shine,
The herald of a master more divine.

Inflam'd by Genius with sublimest rage,
By toil unwearied, and unchill'd by age,
In the fine phrenzy of exalted thought
Gigantic Angelo his wonders wrought;
And high, by native strength of spirit rais'd,
The mighty Homer of the pencil blaz'd.

Taste, Fancy, Judgment, all on Raphael smil'd,
Of Grandeur and of Grace the darling child:
Truth, passion, character, his constant aim,
Both in the human and the heavenly frame,
Th' enchanting painter rules the willing heart,
And shines the finish'd Virgil of his art.

The daring Julio, tho' by Raphael train'd,
Reach'd not the summit where his master reign'd;
Yet to no common heights of epic fame
True Genius guided his adventurous aim.
Thus Statius, fraught with emulous regard,
Caught not the spirit of the Mantuan bard:
Tho' rival ardour his ambition fir'd,
And kindred talents his bold verse inspir'd.

More richly warm, the glowing Titian knew
To blend with Nature's truth the living hue:
O! had sublime design his colours crown'd!
Then had the world a finish'd painter found:
With powers to seize the highest branch of art,
He fix'd too fondly on an humbler part;
Yet this low object of his partial care
Grew from his toil so exquisitely fair,
That dazzled judgment, with suspended voice,
Fears to condemn the error of his choice.
Thus pleas'd a flowery valley to explore,
Whence never Poet cull'd a wreath before,

Lucretius chose the epic crown to lose
For the bright chaplets of an humbler muse.

Soft as Catullus, sweet Corregio play'd
With all the magic charms of light and shade.
Tho' Parma claim it for her rival son,
The praise of sweetest grace thy pencil won:
Unhappy Genius! tho' of skill divine,
Unjust neglect and penury were thine.
Lamenting o'er thy labours unrepaid,
Afflicted Art opprest with wrongs decay'd,
Till with pure judgment the Caracci came,
And, raising her weak powers and sinking frame,
Reclaim'd the pencil of misguided youth
From Affectation's glare to tints of modest Truth.
They form'd the Pencil, to whose infant fame
Young Zampieri ow'd his nobler name:
Profoundly skill'd his figures to dispose,
The learned Lanfranc in their school arose,

And, train'd to glory, by their forming care,
The tender Guido caught his graceful air.

Nor shall ye fail your well-earn'd praise to gain,
Ye! who adorn'd with art your native Spain!
The unfrequented shore, that gave you birth,
Tempts not the faithful Muse to hide your worth:
Just to all regions, let her voice proclaim
Titian's mute scholar, rival of his fame.
The power, that Nature to his lips denied,
Indulgent Art, with fonder care, supplied:
The cruel bar his happy genius broke;
Tho' dumb the painter, all his pictures spoke.

And thou, Velasquez, share the honour due
To forceful tints, that fascinate the view!
Thy bold illusive talents soar'd so high,
They mock'd, with mimic life, the cheated eye.
Thou liberal artist! 'twas thy praise to guide
Thy happy scholar with parental pride;
Thy care the soft, the rich Murillo form'd,
And, as thy precept taught, thy friendship warm'd.

Yet other names, and not a scanty band!
Have added lustre to th' Iberian land;
But generous Italy, thy genial earth
Superior numbers bore of splendid worth!
And rais'd amidst them, in thy golden days,
No mean historian to record their praise.

On Thee, whom Art, thy patroness and pride,
Taught both the pencil and the pen to guide;
Whose generous zeal and modest truth have known
To blazon others' skill, not boast thy own;
On thee, Vasari, let my verse bestow
That just applause, so freely seen to flow
From thy ingenuous heart and liberal hand,
To each great artist of thy native land!
Tho' many shine in thy elaborate page,
And more have risen since thy distant age,
Their various talents, and their different fame,
The Muse, unskilful, must decline to name,
Lest in the nice attempt her judgment fail
To poise their merits in Precision's scale.

E'en public Taste, by no determin'd rule,
Has class'd the merit of each nobler school:

To Rome and Florence, in Expression strong,
The highest honours of Design belong;
On her pure Style see mild Bologna claim
Her fairest right to secondary fame;
Tho' prouder Venice would usurp that praise,
Upon the splendid force of Titian's golden rays.
But ill they know the value of their art,
Who, flattering the eye, neglect the heart.
Tho' matchless tints a lasting name secure,
Tho' strong the magic of the clear-obscure,
These must submit, as a dependant part,
To pure Design, the very soul of Art;
Or Fame, misguided, must invert her course,
And Raphael's Grace must yield to Rembrandt's Force;
Fancy's bold thought to Labour's patient touch,
And Rome's exalted genius to the Dutch.
Yet, Holland, thy unwearied labours raise
A perfect title to peculiar praise:
Thy hum'rous pencil shuns the epic field,
The blazing falchion, and the sanguine shield;

But hap'ly marks the group of rural Mirth,
In social circle round the chearful hearth;
And rustic Joy, from busy cares releas'd,
To the gay gambols of the village feast:
While Nature smiles her very faults to view,
Trac'd with a skill so exquisitely true.
These faults, O Rembrandt, 'twas thy praise to hide!
New pow'rs of Art thy fertile mind supplied;
With dazzling force thy gorgeous colouring glows,
And o'er each scene an air of grandeur throws:
The meanest Figures dignity assume,
From thy contrasted light, and magic gloom.
These strong illusions are supremely thine,
And laugh at Imitation's vague design:
So near to blemishes thy beauties run,
Those who affect thy splendor are undone:
While thy rash rivals, loose and incorrect,
Miscall their shadowy want of truth Effect,
And into paths of affectation start:
Neglect of Nature is the bane of Art.
Proud of the praise by Rubens' pencil won,
Let Flanders boast her bold inventive son!

Whose glowing hues magnificently shine
With warmth congenial to his rich design:
And him, her second pride, whose milder care
From living Beauty caught its loveliest air!
Who truth of character with grace combin'd,
And in the speaking feature mark'd the mind,
Her soft Vandyke, while graceful portraits please,
Shall reign the model of unrivall'd ease.
Painting shall tell, with many a grateful thought,
From Flanders first the secret pow'r she caught,
To grace and guard the offspring of her toil,
With all the virtues of enduring oil;
Tho' charm'd by Italy's alluring views,
(Where sumptuous Leo courted every Muse,
And lovely Science grew the public care)
She fix'd the glories of her empire there;
There in her zenith soon she ceas'd to shine,
And dated, passing her meridan line,
From the Caracci's death her period of decline.
Yet in her gloomy and disgraceful hour
Of faded beauty, and enfeebled power,

With talents flowing in free Nature's course,
With just exertion of unborrow'd force,
Untrodden paths of art Salvator tried,
And daring Fancy was his favourite guide.
O'er his wild rocks, at her command, he throws
A savage grandeur, and sublime repose;
Or gives th' historic scene a charm as strong
As the terrific gloom of Dante's song.
His bold ideas, unrefin'd by taste,
Express'd with vigour, tho' conceiv'd in haste,
Before slow judgment their defects can find,
With awful pleasure fill the passive mind.
Nor could one art, with various beauty fraught,
Engross the ardor of his active thought:
His pencil pausing, with satiric fire
He struck the chords of the congenial lyre;
By generous verse attempting to reclaim
The meaner artist from each abject aim.
But vain his satire! his example vain!
Degraded Painting sinks with many a stain:
Her clouded beams, from Italy withdrawn,
On colder France with transient lustre dawn.

There, in the arms of Roman science nurs'd,
In every work of ancient genius vers'd,
The sage Poussin, with purest fancy fraught,
Portray'd the classic scene, as Learning taught:
But Nature, jealous of her sacred right,
And piqu'd that his idolatry should slight
Her glowing graces, and her living air,
To worship marble with a fonder care,
Denied his pencil, in its mimic strife,
The bloom of beauty, and the warmth of life.

Then rose Le Brun, his scholar, and his friend,
More justly skill'd the vivid tints to blend;
Tho' with exalted spirit he present
The generous victor in the suppliant tent,
Too oft the genius of his gaudy clime
Misled his pencil from the pure sublime.

Thy dawn, Le Sueur, announc'd a happier taste,
With fancy glowing, and with judgment chaste:
But Art, who gloried in thy rising bloom,
Shed fruitless tears upon thy early tomb.

These lights withdrawn, Confusion and Misrule
Seize the vain pencil of the Gallic school:
Tho' Fresnoy teaches, in Horatian song,
The laws and limits that to Art belong;
In vain he strives, with Attic judgment chaste,
To crush the monsters of corrupted taste:
With ineffectual fire the poet sings,
Prolific still the wounded Hydra springs:
Gods roll'd on gods encumber every hall,
And saints, convulsive, o'er the chapel sprawl.
Bombast is Grandeur, Affectation Grace,
Beauty's soft smile is turn'd to pert grimace;
Loaded with dress, supremely fine advance
Old Homer's heroes, with the airs of France.
Indignant Art disclaim'd the motley crew,
Resign'd their empire, and to Britain flew.

END OF THE FIRST EPISTLE.

Unde prius nulli velarunt Tempora Musæ. Lucretius, Lib. iv. Ver. 5.

EPISTLE THE SECOND.

ARGUMENT OF THE SECOND EPISTLE.

The rise of Painting in England, and the reasons for its happening so late.—The rapidity of its improvement. —A slight sketch of the most eminent living Artists in England.—The author's wish to see his friend among the first of that number—His reasons for hoping it. —The reputation of a Painter in some degree owing to a happy choice of subjects—A few recommended from national events—and from Milton and Shakespeare. —Conclusion.—Author's wishes for his friend's success.

Ingenuous Romney, whom thy merits raise
To the pure summits of unclouded praise;
Whom Art has chosen, with successful hand,
To spread her empire o'er this honour'd land;
Thy Progress Friendship with delight surveys,
And this pure Homage to thy Goddess pays.
Hail! heavenly Visitant! whose cheering powers
E'en to the happy give still happier hours!
O! next to Freedom, and the Muse, design'd
To raise, ennoble, and adorn mankind!
At length we view thee in this favor'd Isle,
That greets thy presence, and deserves thy smile:
This favor'd Isle, in native Freedom bold,
And rich in Spirit as thy Greeks of old.

Tho' foreign Theorists, with System blind,
Prescribe false limits to the British mind,
And, warp'd by Vanity, presume to hold
Our northern Genius dark, confin'd, and cold:
Painting, sweet Nymph, unconscious of their chain,
In this fair Island forms her new Domain,
And freely gives to Britain's eager view
Those charms which once her fav'rite Athens knew.

'Tis true, when Painting, on Italia's shore,
Display'd those Graces which all Realms adore,
No kindred forms of English growth appear;
Age after age the hapless Pencil here
Dropt unsuccessful from the Native's hand,
And fail'd to decorate this darker Land.
But freely let impartial History say,
Why Art on Britain shone with later ray.

When on this Isle, the Gothic clouds withdrawn,
The distant light of Painting seem'd to dawn,
Fierce Harry reign'd, who, soon with pleasure cloy'd,
Now lov'd, now scorn'd, now worshipp'd, now destroy'd.

Thee as his Wives, enchanting Art! he priz'd,
Now sought to crown thee, now thy death devis'd:
Now strove to fix, with liberal support,
Thy darling Raphael in his sumptuous Court;
Now o'er the hallow'd shrines thy hand had grac'd,
“Cried havock, and let slip the Dogs of Waste.”
When timid Art saw ruin his delight,
She fled in terror from the Tyrant's sight.

The Virgin Queen, whom dazzled eyes admire,
The subtle Child of this imperious Sire,
Untaught the moral force of Art to feel,
Proscrib'd it as the slave of bigot Zeal;
Or doom'd it, throwing nobler works aside,
To drudge in flatt'ring her fantastic Pride:
And hence the Epic pencil in the shade
Of blank neglect and cold obstruction laid,
E'en while the Fairy-sprite, and Muse of fire,
Hung high in Glory's hall the English lyre.

James, both for Empire and for Arts unfit,
(His sense a quibble, and a pun his wit)
Whatever works he patroniz'd debas'd,
But haply left the Pencil undisgrac'd.

With fairer mind arose his nobler Son,
Seduc'd by Parasites, by Priests undone:
Unhappy Charles! oh! had thy feeling heart
But honour'd Freedom as it valued Art!
To merit just, thy bounty flow'd alike
On bolder Rubens, and the soft Vandyke:
To this ennobled realm thy judgment brought
The sacred miracles that Raphael wrought.
But regal Pride, with vain Ambition blind,
Cut off the promise of thy cultur'd mind.
By wounded Liberty's convulsive hand
Unbound, fierce Anarchy usurps the Land;
While trembling Art to foreign regions flies,
To seek a refuge in serener skies.

These storms subsiding, see her once again
Returning in the second Charles's train!
She comes to copy, in licentious sport,
The Minions of a loose luxurious Court;
From whence the modest Graces turn their eyes,
Where Genius sees, and o'er the prospect sighs,
Lely's soft tints, and Dryden's nobler Lyre,
Made the mean Slaves of dissolute Desire.

Once more, alarm'd by War's terrific roar,
The sweet Enchantress quits the troubled shore;

While sacred Freedom, darting in disdain
Her vengeful Thunder on th' apostate Train,
And, pleas'd the gloomy Tyrant to disown,
Gives to Nassau the abdicated Throne.

The peaceful Prince may rising Art defend,
And Art shall crown her Patron and her Friend.
In tumults, from the cradle to the grave,
'Tis thine, O William! sinking realms to save.
To thee no leisure mightier cares allow,
To bind the laurel on the Artist's brow:
'Tis thine to fix, with tutelary hand,
The Base of Freedom, on which Art must stand.
Yet to thy Palace Kneller's skill supplied
Its richest ornament in Beauty's pride.
Unhappy Kneller! covetous though vain;
Thee Glory yielded to seducing Gain:
While partial Taste from modest Riley turn'd,
By diffidence depriv'd of praise well earn'd.

Tho' in succeeding years the Muses taught,
“How Ann commanded, and how Marlbro' fought;”

And Thornhill's blaze of Allegory gilt
The piles, that Wren's superior genius built;
Contending Factions, in her closing reign,
Like winds imprison'd, shook fair Freedom's Fane.
Painting, soft timid Nymph, still chose to roam,
And fear'd to settle in this shaking Dome.

At length, the fury of each storm o'erblown,
That threaten'd Brunswick's race on Britain's throne,
Rebellion vanquish'd on her native shore,
Her clans extinguish'd, and her chiefs no more:
The youthful Noble, on a princely Plan,
Encourag'd infant Art, and first began
Before the studious eye of Youth to place
The ancient Models of ideal Grace.

When Britain triumph'd, thro' her wide domain,
O'er France, supported by imperious Spain,
And, sated with her Laurels' large increase,
Began to cultivate the plants of Peace;
Fixt by kind Majesty's protecting hand,
Painting, no more an alien in our land,
First smil'd to see, on this propitious ground,
Her temples open'd, and her altars crown'd:

And Grace, the first attendant of her train,
She whom Apelles wooed, nor wooed in vain,
To Reynolds gives her undulating line,
And Judgment doats upon his chaste design.
Tho' Envy whispers in the ear of Spleen,
What thoughts are borrow'd in his perfect scene,
With glee she marks them on her canker'd scroll,
Malicious Fiend! 'twas thus that Virgil stole,
To the bright Image gave a brighter Gloss,
Or turn'd to purest Gold the foreign Dross.
Excelling Artist! long delight the eye!
Teach but thy transient tints no more to fly,
Britain shall then her own Apelles see,
And all the Grecian shall revive in thee.
Thy manly spirit glories to impart
The leading Principles of lib'ral Art;
To youthful Genius points what course to run,
What Lights to follow, and what Rocks to shun:
So Orpheus taught, by Learning's heavenly sway,
To daring Argonauts their doubtful way,
And mark'd, to guide them in their bold Career,
Th' unerring Glories of the starry Sphere.

Thy Hand enforces what thy Precept taught,
And gives new lessons of exalted thought;
Thy nervous Pencil on the canvass throws
The tragic story of sublimest woes:
The wretched Sons, whom Grief and Famine tear,
The Parent petrified with blank Despair,
Thy Ugolino gives the heart to thrill
With Pity's tender throbs, and Horror's icy chill.

The offspring now of many a rival hand,
Sublimity and Grace adorn the Land;
Tho' but some few years past, this barren coast
Scarce one fair grain of native Art could boast.
Of various form, where'er we turn our eyes,
With strong and rapid growth new wonders rise;
Like seeds that Mariners, with generous toil,
Have wisely carried to some kindred soil,
Which, shooting quick and vig'rous in their birth,
Speak the fond bounty of the virgin Earth:
The land o'erjoy'd a fairer fruit to see,
Adopts, with glad surprize, the alien Tree.

Now Art exults, with annual Triumphs gay,
And Britain glories in her rich display;

Merit, who unassisted, and unknown,
Late o'er his unseen labours sigh'd alone,
Sees honour now his happier toils attend,
And in the generous Public finds a friend.

O lovely Painting, to whose charms I bow,
“And breathe my willing verse with suppliant vow,”
Forgive me, if by undiscerning Praise,
Or groundless Censure, which false Judgment sways,
My failing line with faint resemblance wrong
Thy Sons, the subject of no envious song!

Supremely skill'd the varied group to place,
And range the crowded scene with easy grace;
To finish parts, yet not impair the whole,
But on th' impassion'd action fix the soul;
Thro' wandering throngs the patriot Chief to guide,
The shame of Carthage, as of Rome the pride;
Or, while the bleeding Victor yields his breath,
Give the bright lesson of heroic Death.
Such are thy Merits, West: by Virtue's hand
Built on the human heart thy praise shall stand,
While dear to Glory, in her guardian Fane,
The names of Regulus and Wolfe remain.

With kindred power a rival hand succeeds,
For whose just fame expiring Chatham pleads;

Like Chatham's language, luminous and bold,
Thy colours, Copley, the dread scene unfold,
Where that prime Spirit, by whose guidance hurl'd,
Britain's avenging thunder aw'd the world,
In patriot cares employ'd his parting breath,
Struck in his field of Civic fame by Death;
And Freedom, happy in the tribute paid
By Art and Genius to so dear a Shade,
Shall own, the measure of thy praise to fill,
The awful subject equall'd by thy skill.

To Dance's pencil, in Precision strong,
Transcendant Force, and Truth of Line belong,
Not Garrick's self, to Shakespeare's spirit true,
Display'd that spirit clearer to our view,
Than Dance expresses, in its fiercest flame,
The Poet's Genius in the Actor's Frame.
From Garrick's features, with distraction fraught,
He copies every trace of troubled thought;
And paints, while back the waves of Battle roll,
The Storm of sanguinary Richard's soul.

The rapid Mortimer, of Spirit wild,
Imagination's dear and daring Child,
Marks the fierce Ruffian, in the Dungeon's gloom,
Stung with remorse, and shudd'ring at his doom.

Yet still to nobler heights his Genius springs,
And paints a lesson to tyrannic Kings:
In his bright colours see the field appear
To Freedom sacred, and to Glory dear,
Where John, proud Monarch, baffled on his throne,
Hears the brave Chief his lawless pow'r disown,
And, for an injur'd Nation, nobly claim
The glorious Charter of immortal Fame!

But see far off the modest Wright retire!
Alone he rules his Element of Fire:
Like Meteors darting through the gloom of Night,
His sparkles flash upon the dazzled sight;
Our eyes with momentary anguish smart,
And Nature trembles at the power of Art.
May thy bold colours, claiming endless praise,
For ages shine with undiminish'd blaze,
And when the fierce Vesuvio burns no more,
May his red deluge down thy canvass pour!

Art with no common gifts her Gainsb'rough grac'd,
Two different Pencils in his hand she plac'd;
This shall command, she said, with certain aim,
A perfect Semblance of the human Frame;
This, lightly sporting on the village-green,
Paint the wild beauties of the rural Scene.

In storms sublime the daring Wilson soars,
And on the blasted Oak his mimic Lightning pours:
Apollo triumphs in his flaming skies,
And classic Beauties in his scenes arise.

Thy Graces, Humphreys, and thy Colours clear,
From Miniature's small circle disappear:
May their distinguish'd merit still prevail,
And shine with lustre on the larger Scale.

Let candid Justice our attention lead
To the soft Crayon of the graceful Read:
Nor, Gard'ner, shall the Muse, in haste, forget
Thy Taste and Ease; tho' with a fond regret
She pays, while here the Crayon's pow'r she notes,
A sigh of homage to the Shade of Coates.
Nor, if her favour'd hand may hope to shed
The flowers of glory o'er the skilful dead,
Thy Talents, Hogarth! will she leave unsung;
Charm of all eyes, and Theme of every tongue!
A separate province 'twas thy praise to rule;
Self-form'd thy Pencil! yet thy works a School;
Where strongly painted, in gradations nice,
The Pomp of Folly, and the Shame of Vice,

Reach'd thro' the laughing Eye the mended Mind,
And moral Humour sportive Art refin'd.
While fleeting Manners, as minutely shewn
As the clear prospect on the mirror thrown;
While Truth of Character, exactly hit,
And drest in all the dyes of comic wit;
While these, in Fielding's page, delight supply,
So long thy Pencil with his Pen shall vie.
Science with grief beheld thy drooping age
Fall the sad victim of a Poet's rage:
But Wit's vindictive spleen, that mocks controul,
Nature's high tax on luxury of soul!
This, both in Bards and Painters, Fame forgives;
Their Frailty's buried, but their Genius lives.

Still many a Painter, not of humble Name,
Appears the tribute of applause to claim;
Some alien Artists, more of English Race,
With fair Angelica, our foreign Grace,
Who paints, with Energy and Softness join'd,
The fond Emotions of the female Mind;
And Cipriani, whom the Loves surround,
And sportive Nymphs in Beauty's Cestus bound:
For him those Nymphs their every Charm display,
For him coy Venus throws her veil away;

And Zaffani, whose faithful colours give
The transient glories of the Stage to live;
On his bright canvass each dramatic Muse
A perfect copy of her scene reviews;
Each, while those scenes her lost delight restore,
Almost forgets her Garrick is no more.—
O'er these I pass reluctant, lest too long
The Muse diffusely spin a tedious Song.

Yet one short pause, ye Pow'rs of Verse, allow
To cull a Myrtle Leaf for Meyers's Brow!
Tho' small its Field, thy Pencil may presume
To ask a Wreath where Flowers immortal bloom.
As Nature's self, in all her pictures fair,
Colours her Infect works with nicest care,
Nor better forms, to please the curious eye,
The spotted Leopard than the gilded Fly;
So thy fine Pencil, in its narrow space,
Pours the full portion of uninjur'd Grace,
And Portraits, true to Nature's larger line,
Boast not an air more exquisite than thine.
Soft Beauty's charms thy happiest works express,
Beauty thy model and thy Patroness.
For her thy care has to perfection brought
Th' uncertain toil, with anxious trouble fraught;

Thy colour'd Crystal, at her fond desire,
Draws deathless Lustre from the dang'rous Fire,
And, pleas'd to gaze on its immortal charm,
She binds thy Bracelet on her snowy arm.

While Admiration views, with raptur'd eye,
These Lights of Art that gild the British sky;
Oh! may my Friend arise, with lustre clear,
And add new Glory to this radiant Sphere.
This wish, my Romney, from the purest source,
Has Reason's Warrant, join'd to Friendship's Force.
For Genius breath'd into thy infant Frame
The vital Spirit of his sacred Flame,
Which frequent mists of Diffidence o'ercloud,
Proving the vigor of the Sun they shroud.
Nature in thee her every gift combin'd,
Which forms the Artist of the noblest kind;
That fond Ambition, which bestows on Art
Each talent of the Mind, and passion of the Heart;
That dauntless Patience, which all toil defies,
Nor feels the labour while it views the prize.
Enlight'ning Study, with maturing pow'r,
From these fair seeds has call'd the op'ning flow'r;
Thy just, thy graceful Portraits charm the view,
With every tender tint that Titian knew.

Round Fancy's circle when thy Pencil flies,
With what terrific pomp thy Spectres rise!
What lust of mischief marks thy Witch's form,
While on the Lapland Rock she swells the storm!
Tho' led by Fancy thro' her boundless reign,
Well dost thou know to quit her wild domain,
When History bids thee paint, severely chaste,
Her simpler scene, with uncorrupted taste.
While in these fields thy judging eyes explore,
What spot untried may yield its secret ore,
Thy happy Genius springs a virgin Mine
Of copious, pure, original Design;
Truth gives it value, and, distinctly bold,
The stamp of Character compleats thy Gold.
Thy Figures rise in Beauty's noblest scale,
Sublimely telling their heroic Tale.
Still may thy Powers in full exertion blaze,
And Time revere them with unrivall'd praise!
May Art, in honour of a Son like thee,
So justly daring, with a soul so free,
Each separate Province to thy care commend,
And all her Glories in thy Pencil blend!
May tender Titian's mellow softness join,
With mighty Angelo's sublimer Line;

Corregio's Grace with Raphael's Taste unite,
And in thy perfect Works inchant the ravish'd Sight!

How oft we find that when, with noblest aim,
The glowing Artist gains the heights of Fame,
To the well-chosen Theme he chiefly owes
That praise which Judgment with delight bestows!
The Lyre and Pencil both this Truth confess,
The happy Subject forms their full success.

Hard is the Painter's fate, when, wisely taught
To trace with ease the deepest lines of thought,
By hapless Fortune he is doom'd to rove
Thro' all the frolicks of licentious Jove,
That some dark Philip, phlegmatic and cold,
(Whose needy Titian calls for ill-paid gold)
May with voluptuous Images enflame
The fated Passions of his languid frame.

Abuse like this awakens generous Pain,
And just Derision mingles with Disdain,
When such a Pencil, in a Roman hand,
While the rich Abbess issues her command,
Makes wild St. Francis on the canvass sprawl,
That some warm Nun in mimic trance may fall,

Or, fondly gazing on the pious whim,
Feel faintly Love o'erload each lazy limb,
Mistaking, in the Cloister's dull embrace,
The Cry of Nature for the Call of Grace.

But see th' historic Muse before thee stand,
Her nobler subjects court thy happier Hand!
Her Forms of reverend Age, of graceful Youth,
Of public Virtue, and of private Truth:
The sacred power of injur'd Beauty's charms,
And Freedom, fierce in adamantine Arms:
Whence Sympathy, thro' thy assisting art,
With floods of Joy may fill the human heart.

But while the bounds of Hist'ry you explore,
And bring new Treasures from her farthest shore,
Thro' all her various fields, tho' large and wide,
Still make Simplicity thy constant guide:
And most, my Friend, a Syren's wiles beware,
Ah! shun insidious Allegory's snare!
Her Flattery offers an alluring wreath,
Fair to the eye, but poisons lurk beneath,
By which, too lightly tempted from his guard,
Full many a Painter dies, and many a Bard.
How sweet her voice, how dangerous her spell,
Let Spenser's Knights, and Rubens' Tritons tell;

Judgment at colour'd riddles shakes his head,
And fairy Songs are prais'd, but little read;
Where, in the Maze of her unbounded Sphere,
Unbridled Fancy runs her wild Career.

In Realms where Superstition's tyrant sway
“Takes half the vigour of the soul away,”
Let Art for subjects the dark Legend search,
Where Saints unnumber'd people every Church;
Let Painters run the wilds of Ovid o'er,
To hunt for monsters which we heed no more.
But here, my Romney, where, on Freedom's wings,
The towering Spirit to Perfection springs;
Where Genius, proud to act as Heav'n inspires,
On Taste's pure Altars lights his facred fires;
Oh! here let Painting, as of old in Greece,
With patriot passions warm the finish'd piece;
Let Britain, happy in a gen'rous race,
Of manly Spirit, and of female Grace;
Let this frank Parent with fond eyes explore
Some just memorials of the line she bore,
In tints immortal to her view recall
Her dearest Offspring on the storied Wall.

But some there are, who, with pedantic scorn,
Despise the Hero, if in Britain born:

For them Perfection has herself no charms,
Without a Roman robe, or Grecian arms:
Our slighted Country, for whose fame they feel
No generous interest, no manly zeal,
Sees public Judgment their false Taste arraign,
And treat their cold contempt with due disdain;
To the fair Annals of our Isle we trust,
To prove this patriot indignation just,
And, nobly partial to our native earth,
Bid English Pencils honour English Worth.

Shall Bayard, glorious in his dying hour,
Of Gallic Chivalry the fairest Flow'r,
Shall his pure Blood in British colours flow,
And Britain, on her canvass, fail to shew
Her wounded Sidney, Bayard's perfect peer,
Sidney, her Knight, without Reproach or Fear,
O'er whose pale corse heroic Worth should bend,
And mild Humanity embalm her Friend!
Oh! Romney, in his hour of Death we find
A Subject worthy of thy feeling Mind;
Methinks I see thy rapid Hand display
The field of Zutphen, on that fatal day,

When arm'd for Freedom, 'gainst the guilt of Spain,
The Hero bled upon the Belgic plain!
In that great moment thou hast caught the Chief,
When pitying Friends supply the wish'd relief;
While Sickness, Pain, and Thirst his pow'r subdue,
I see the draught he pants for in his view:
Near him the Soldier, that expiring lies,
This precious Water views with ghastly eyes,
With eyes that from their sockets seem to burst,
With eager, frantic, agonizing Thirst:
I see the Hero give, oh! generous Care!
The Cup untasted to this silent Pray'r:
I hear him say, with Tenderness divine,
“Thy strong Necessity surpasses mine.”

Shall Roman Charity for ever share
Thro' every various School each Painter's Care?
And Britain still her bright examples hide
Of female Glory, and of filial Pride?
Instruct our eyes, my Romney, to adore
Th' heroic Daughter of the virtuous More,
Resolv'd to save, or in th' attempt expire,
The precious relicks of her martyr'd Sire:

Before the cruel Council let her stand,
Press the dear ghastly Head with pitying Hand,
And plead, while Bigotry itself grows mild,
The sacred duties of a grateful Child.

Forgive the Muse, if haply she commend
A Theme ill-chosen to her skilful Friend;
She, tho' its pow'r commands her willing heart,
Knows not the limits of thy lovely Art,
Yet boldly owns an eager wish to see
Her darling Images adorn'd by thee.
Nor shall her social Love in silence hide
The just emotions of her grateful Pride,
When thy quick Pencil pours upon her sight
Her own Creation in a fairer light;
When her Serena learns from thee to live,
And please by every charm that life can give.
Thou hast imparted to th' ideal Fair
Yet more than Beauty's bloom, and Youth's attractive air;
For in thy studious Nymph th' enamour'd Eye
May, thro' her breast, her gentle Heart descry;
See the fond thoughts, that o'er her Fancy roll,
And Sympathy's soft swell, that fills her soul.

But happier Bards, who boast a higher claim,
Ask from thy Genius an increase of Fame.

Oh! let the Sisters, who, with friendly aid,
The Grecian Lyre, and Grecian Pencil sway'd,
Who join'd their rival Powers with fond delight,
To grace each other with reflected Light,
Let them in Britain thus united reign,
And double lustre from that union gain!
Not that my Verse, adventurous, would pretend
To point each varied subject to my Friend;
Far nobler guides their better aid supply:
When mighty Shakespeare to thy judging eye
Presents that magic Glass, whose ample Round
Reflects each Figure in Creation's bound,
And pours, in floods of supernatural light,
Fancy's bright Beings on the charmed sight.
This chief Inchanter of the willing breast,
Will teach thee all the magic he possest.
Plac'd in his Circle, mark in colours true
Each brilliant Being that he calls to view.
Wrapt in the gloomy storm, or rob'd in light,
His weïrd Sister or his fairy Sprite,
Boldly o'erleaping, in the great design,
The bounds of Nature, with a Guide divine.

Let Milton's self, conductor of thy way,
Lead thy congenial spirit to portray
In Colours, like his Verse, sublimely strong,
The scenes that blaze in his immortal song.

See Michael drawn, by many a skilful Hand,
As suits the Leader of the Seraph-Band!
But oh! how poor the prostrate Satan lies,
With bestial form debas'd and goatish eyes!
How chang'd from him who leads the dire debate,
Fearless tho' fallen, and in Ruin great!
Let thy bold Pencil, more sublimely true,
Present his Arch Apostate to our view
In worthier Semblance of infernal Pow'r,
And proudly standing like a stately tow'r,
While his infernal mandate bids awake
His Legions, slumbering on the burning Lake.

Or paint him falling from the Realms of Bliss,
Hurl'd in Combustion to the deep Abyss!
In light terrific let the Flash display
His Pride, still proof against almighty Sway:
Tho' vanquish'd, yet immortal, let his Eye
The Lightning's flame, the Thunder's bolt defy,

And still, with Looks of Execration, dare
To face the Horrors of the last Despair.

To these great Lords of Fancy's wide domain,
That o'er the human Soul unquestion'd reign,
To their superior Guidance be consign'd
Thy rival Pencil and congenial Mind.
Yet O! let Friendship, ere the Verse she close,
Which in just Tribute to thy Merit flows,
The sanguine wishes of her heart express,
With fond presages of thy full Success.

May Health and Joy, in happiest union join'd,
Breathe their warm Spirit o'er thy fruitful Mind!
To noblest Efforts raise thy glowing Heart,
And string thy sinews to the toils of Art!
May Independance, bursting Fashion's chain,
To eager Genius give the flowing rein,
And o'er thy epic Canvass smile to see
Thy Judgment active, and thy Fancy free!
May thy just Country, while thy bold design
Recalls the Heroes of her ancient Line,
Gaze on the martial Group with dear delight!
May Youth and Valour, kindling at the sight,
O'er the bright Tints with Admiration lean,
And catch new Virtue from the moral Scene!

May Time himself a fond Reluctance feel,
Nor from thy aged hand the Pencil steal,
But grant it still to gain increasing Praise,
In the late Period of thy lengthen'd days,
While fairest Fortune thy long Life endears,
With Raphael's Glory join'd to Titian's Years!

END OF THE SECOND EPISTLE.

107

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,

ON THE DEATH OF JOHN THORNTON, Esq.

CUJUS EGO INTERITU TOTA DE MENTE FUGAVI
HÆC STUDIA, ATQUE OMNES DELICIAS ANIMI. [OMITTED]
NOTESCATQUE MAGIS MORTUUS ATQUE MAGIS.
Catullus.

109

In vain, dear Monitor, thy kind desire
To wake the embers of poetic fire!
To clear the mind, where Grief's dark shadows lower,
And Fancy dies by Sorrow's freezing power!
In vain would Friendship's chearing voice suggest
Her flattering visions to the Poet's breast;
That public favor calls, with just demand,
Th' expected volume from his lingering hand:
Lost are those anxious hopes, that eager pride;
With thee, my Thornton, they declin'd, they died.

110

Friend of my opening soul! whose love began
To hail thy Poet, ere he rank'd as man!
Whose praise, like dew-drops which the early morn
Sheds with mild virtue on the vernal thorn,
Taught his young mind each swell of thought to show,
And gave the germs of fancy strength to blow!
Dear, firm associate of his studious hour,
Who led his idler step to Learning's bower!
Tho' young, imparting to his giddier youth
Thy thirst of science, and thy zeal for truth!

Ye towers of Granta, where our friendship grew,
And that pure mind expanded to my view,
Our love fraternal let your walls attest,
Where Attic joys our letter'd evening blest;
Where midnight, from the chains of sleep reliev'd,
Stole on our social studies unperceiv'd!

But not, my Thornton! in that calm alone
Was thy mild genius, thy warm virtue known:
When manhood mark'd the hour for busy strife,
And led us to the crowded maze of life,
Where honours dearly bought, and golden spoil,
Tempt not the careless Bard who shrinks from toil,
And whence to sweet retirement's soothing shade,
Love and the Muse thy willing friend convey'd;

111

Thy foul, more firm to join the struggling crowd,
To nobler Themis toilsome homage vow'd,
With zeal, devoting to her facred throne
A heart as uncorrupted as her own.
Still as thy mind, with manly powers endued,
The opening path of active life pursued,
And round the ripening field of business rang'd,
Thy heart, unwarp'd, unharden'd, unestrang'd,
To early friendship still retain'd its truth,
With all the warm integrity of youth.

Whene'er affliction's force thy friend opprest,
Thou wert the rock on which his cares might rest;
From thy kind words his rising hopes would own
The charm of reason in affection's tone.
Where is the soothing voice of equal power,
To take its anguish from the present hour?
Beneath the pressure of a grief so just,
The lenient aid of books in vain I trust:
They, that could once the war of thought controul,
And banish discord from the jarring soul,
Now irritate the mind they us'd to heal,
They speak too loudly of the loss I feel.

Thou faithful censor of the Poet's strain,
No more shalt thou his sinking hope sustain,

112

No more, with ardent zeal's enlivening fire,
Call from inglorious shades his silent lyre:
No more, as in our days of pleasure past,
The eye of judgment o'er his labours cast;
Keen to discern the blemishes, that lurk
In the loose texture of his growing work;
Eager to praise, yet resolute to blame,
Kind to his verse, but kinder to his fame.

How may the Muse, who prosper'd by thy care,
Now meet the public eye without despair?
Now, if harsh censures on her failings pour,
Her warmest advocate can speak no more:
Cold are those lips, which breath'd the kind defence,
If spleen's proud cavil strain'd her tortur'd sense;
Which bade her song to public praise aspire,
And call'd attention to her trembling lyre.
Ah! could she now, thus petrified with grief,
Find in some lighter lay a vain relief,
Still must she deem such verse, if such could be,
A wound to friendship, and a crime to thee;
Profanely utter'd at this sacred time,
When thy pale corse demands her plaintive rhime,
And Virtue, weeping whom she could not save,
Calls the just mourner to thy recent grave.

113

Hail, hallow'd vault! whose darksome caverns hold
A frame, though mortal, of no common mould;
A heart scarce sullied with a human flaw,
Which shun'd no duty, and transgress'd no law;
In joy still guarded, in distress serene,
Thro' life a model of the golden mean,
Which Friendship only led him to transgress,
Whose heavenly spirit sanctifies excess.

Pure mind! whose meekness, in thy mortal days,
Pursuing virtue, still retir'd from praise;
Nor wish'd that Friendship should on marble give
That perfect image of thy worth to live,
Which 'twas thy aim alone to leave imprest
On the close tablet of her faithful breast.
If now her verse against thy wish rebel,
And strive to blazon, what she lov'd so well,
Forgive the tender thought, the moral song,
Which would thy virtues to the world prolong;
That, rescued from the grave's oblivious shade,
Their useful lustre may be still survey'd,
Dear to the pensive eye of fond regret,
As light still beaming from a sun that's set.

114

Oft to our giddy Muse thy voice has taught
The just ambition of poetic thought;
Bid her bold view to latest time extend,
And strive to make futurity her friend.
If any verse, her little art can frame,
May win the partial voice of distant fame,
Be it the verse, whose fond ambition tries
To paint thy mind in truth's unfading dyes,
Tho' firm, yet tender, ardent, yet refin'd;
With Roman strength and Attic grace combin'd.

What tho' undeck'd with titles, power, and wealth,
Great were thy generous deeds, and done by stealth;
For thy pure bounty from observance stole,
Nor wish'd applause, but from thy conscious soul.
Tho' thy plain tomb no sculptur'd form may shew,
No boastful witness of suspected woe;
Yet heavenly shapes, that shun the glare of day,
To that dear spot shall nightly visits pay:
Pale Science there shall o'er her votary strew
Her flow'rs, yet moist with sorrow's recent dew:
There Charity, Compassion's lovely child,
In rustic notes pathetically wild,

115

With grateful blessings bid thy name endure,
And mourn the patron of her village-poor.
E'en from the midnight shew with music gay,
The soul of Beauty to thy tomb shall stray,
In sweet distraction steal from present mirth,
To sigh unnotic'd o'er the hallow'd earth,
Which hides those lips, that glow'd with tender fire,
And sung her praises to no common lyre:
But Friendship, wrapt in sorrow's deepest gloom,
Shall keep the longest vigils at thy tomb;
Her wounded breast, disdainful of relief,
There claims a fond præeminence in grief:
She, as the seasons of the year return,
Shall place thy fav'rite plants around thy urn,
Which, in the luxury of tender thought,
Her care shall raise, with plaintive emblems wrought,
Recalling ever, with remembrance sweet,
Thy kind attachment to her calm retreat.

Short was thy life, but ah! its thread how fine!
How pure the texture of the finish'd line!
What tho' thy opening manhood could not gain
Those late rewards, maturer toils attain;

116

Hope's firmest promises 'twas thine to raise,
That merit's brightest meed would grace thy lengthen'd days;
For thine were Judgment's patient powers, to draw
Entangled justice from the nets of law;
Thine firm Integrity, whose language clear
Ne'er swell'd with arrogance, or shook with fear.
Reason's mild power, unvex'd by mental strife,
Sway'd the calm current of thy useful life;
Whose even course was in no season lost,
Nor rough with storms, nor stagnated by frost.
In scenes of public toil, or social ease,
'Twas thine by firm sincerity to please;
Sweet as the breath of spring thy converse flow'd,
As summer's noon-tide warmth thy friendship glow'd.
O'er thy mild manners, by no art constrain'd,
A pensive, pleasing melancholy reign'd,
Which won regard, and charm'd th' attentive eye,
Like the soft lustre of an evening sky:
Yet if perchance excited to defend
The injur'd merit of an absent friend,

117

That gentle spirit, rous'd to virtuous ire,
Indignant flash'd resentment's noble fire.

Tho' just observance in thy life may trace
A lovely model of each moral grace,
Thy last of days the noblest lesson taught:
Severe instruction! and too dearly bought!
Whose force from memory never can depart,
But while it mends, must agonize the heart.
Tho' thy shrunk nerves were destin'd to sustain
Th' increasing horrors of slow-wasting pain;
Those spirit-quenching pangs, whose base controul
Clouds the clear temper, and exhausts the soul;
Yet in that hour, when Death asserts his claim,
And his strong summons shakes the conscious frame;
When weaker minds; by frantic fear o'erthrown,
Shrink in wild horror from the dread Unknown,
Thy firmer soul, with Christian strength renew'd,
Nor lost in languor, nor by pain subdued,
(While thy cold grasp the hand of Friendship prest,
And her vain aid in fault'ring accents blest)
With awe, but not as Superstition's slave,
Survey'd the gathering shadows of the grave;

118

And to thy God, in death, devoutly paid
That calm obedience which thy life display'd.

Thou friend! yet left me of the choicer few,
Whom grief's fond eyes with growing love review;
O thou! whom mutal sorrow will incline
To mix thy sympathetic sighs with mine;
Still be it ours to pay, with just regret,
At Friendship's facred shrine our common debt!
Tho' doom'd (so Heaven ordains) to see no more
The gentle Being, whom we both deplore;
Painting shall still, sweet soothing art! supply
A form so precious in Affection's eye.
Ah! little thought we, in that happier hour,
When our gay Muse rehears'd the Pencil's power;
To mourn that form in cold obstruction laid,
And see him only by the pencil's aid!
Blest be that pencil, every art be blest,
That stamps his image deeper on our breast!

Oft let us loiter on his favourite hill,
Whose shades the sadly-pleasing thought instil;
Recount his kindness, as we fondly rove,
And meet his spirit in the lonely grove.

119

At evening's pensive hour, or opening day,
He yet shall seem the partner of our way.
Blest Spirit! still thro' Fancy's ear impart
The calm of virtue to the troubled heart!
Correct each sordid view, each vain desire,
And touch the mortal, with celestial fire!
So may we still, in this dark scene of earth,
Hold sweet communion with thy living worth;
And, while our purer thoughts thy merit scan,
Revere the Angel, as we lov'd the Man.

121

ODE, INSCRIBED TO JOHN HOWARD, Esq. F.R.S.

AUTHOR OF “The State of English and Foreign Prisons.”

Πολεσιν ευσεβης πονος.
Euripides.

123

Fav'rite of Heaven, and friend of Earth!
Philanthropy, benignant Power!
Whose sons display no doubtful worth,
The pageant of the passing hour!
Teach me to paint, in deathless song,
Some darling from thy filial throng,
Whose deeds no party-rage inspire,
But fill th' agreeing world with one desire,
To echo his renown, responsive to my lyre!

Ah! whither lead'st thou?—whence that sigh?
What sound of woe my bosom jars?
Why pass, where Misery's hollow eye
Glares wildly thro' those gloomy bars?

124

Is Virtue sunk in these abodes,
Where keen Remorse the heart corrodes:
Where Guilt's base blood with frenzy boils,
And Blasphemy the mournful scene embroils?—
From this infernal gloom my shudd'ring soul recoils.

But whence those sudden sacred beams?
Oppression drops his iron rod!
And all the bright'ning dungeon seems
To speak the presence of a God.
Philanthropy's descending ray
Diffuses unexpected day!
Loveliest of angels!—at her side
Her favourite votary stands;—her English pride,
Thro' Horror's mansions led by this celestial guide.

Hail! generous Howard! tho' thou bear
A name which Glory's hand sublime
Has blazon'd oft, with guardian care,
In characters that fear not Time;
For thee she fondly spreads her wings;
For thee from Paradise she brings,
More verdant than her laurel bough,
Such wreaths of sacred Palm, as ne'er till now
The smiling Seraph twin'd around a mortal brow.

125

That Hero's praise shall ever bloom,
Who shielded our insulted coast;
And launch'd his lightning to consume
The proud Invader's routed host.
Brave perils rais'd his noble name:
But thou deriv'st thy matchless fame
From scenes, where deadlier danger dwells;
Where fierce Contagion, with affright, repels
Valor's adventr'ous step from her malignant cells.

Where in the dungeon's loathsome shade,
The speechless Captive clanks his chain,
With heartless hope to raise that aid
His feeble cries have call'd in vain:
Thine eye his dumb complaint explores;
Thy voice his parting breath restores;
Thy cares his ghastly visage clear
From Death's chill dew, with many a clotted tear,
And to his thankful soul returning life endear.

What precious Drug, or stronger Charm,
Thy constant fortitude inspires
In scenes, whence, muttering her alarm,
Med'cine , with selfish dread, retires?

126

Nor Charm, nor Drug, dispel thy fears:
Temperance, thy better guard, appears:
For thee I see her fondly fill
Her crystal cup from Nature's purest rill;
Chief nourisher of life! best antidote of ill.

I see the hallow'd shade of Hales ,
Who felt, like thee, for human woe,
And taught the health-diffusing gales
Thro' Horror's murky cells to blow,
As thy protecting angel wait;
To save thee from the snares of Fate,

127

Commission'd from the Eternal Throne:
I hear him praise, in wonder's warmest tone,
The virtues of thy heart, more active than his own.

Thy foul supplies new funds of health,
That fail not, in the trying hour,
Above Arabia's spicy wealth
And Pharmacy's reviving power.
The transports of the generous mind,
Feeling its bounty to mankind,
Inspirit every mortal part;
And, far more potent than precarious art,
Give radiance to the eye, and vigor to the heart.

Blest Howard! who like thee can feel
This vital spring in all its force?
New star of philanthropic zeal;
Enlight'ning nations in thy course!
And shedding Comfort's heavenly dew
On meagre Want's deserted crew!
Friend to the wretch, whom friends disclaim,
Who feels stern Justice, in his famish'd frame,
A persecuting fiend beneath an angel's name.

128

Authority! unfeeling power,
Whose iron heart can coldly doom
The Debtor, dragg'd from Pleasure's bower,
To sicken in the dungeon's gloom!
O might thy terror-striking call
Profusion's sons alone enthrall!
But thou canst Want with Guilt confound;
Thy bonds the Man of virtuous toil surround,
Driven by malicious Fate within thy dreary bound.

How savage are thy stern decrees!
Thy cruel minister I see
A weak, laborious victim seize,
By worth entitled to be free!
Behold, in the afflicting strife,
The faithful partner of his life,
In vain thy ruthless servant court,
To spare her little children's sole support,
Whom this terrific form has frighten'd from their sport.

Nor weeps she only from the thought,
Those infants must no longer share
His aid, whose daily labour bought
The pittance of their scanty fare.

129

The horrors of the loathsome jail
Her inly-bleeding heart assail:
E'en now her fears, from fondness bred,
See the lost partner of her faithful bed
Drop, in that murd'rous scene, his pale, expiring head.

Take comfort yet in these keen pains,
Fond mourner! check thy gushing tears!
The dungeon now no more contains
Those perils which thy fancy fears:
No more Contagion's baleful breath
Speaks it the hideous cave of Death:
Howard has planted safety there;
Pure minister of light! his heavenly care
Has purg'd the damp of Death from that polluted air.

Nature! on thy maternal breast
For ever be his worth engrav'd!
Thy bosom only can attest
How many a life his toil has sav'd:

130

Nor in thy rescued Sons alone,
Great Parent! this thy guardian own!
His arm defends a dearer slave;
Woman, thy darling! 'tis his pride to save
From evils, that surpass the horrors of the grave.

Ye sprightly nymphs, by Fortune nurst,
Who sport in Joy's unclouded air,
Nor see the distant storms, that burst
In ruin on the humble Fair;
Ye know not to what bitter smart
A kindred form, a kindred heart,
Is often doom'd, in life's low vale,
Where frantic fears the simple mind assail,
And fierce afflictions press, and friends and fortune fail.

131

See yon' sweet rustic, drown'd in tears!
It is not Guilt—'tis Misery's flood,
While dire Suspicion's charge she hears
Of shedding infant, filial blood:
Nature's fond dupe! but not her foe!
That form, that face, the falshood show:—
Yet Law exacts her stern demand;
She bids the dungeon's grating doors expand,
And the young captive faints beneath the gaoler's hand.

Ah, ruffian! cease thy savage aim!
She cannot 'scape thy harsh controul:
Shall iron load that tender frame,
And enter that too-yielding soul?—
Unfeeling wretch! of basest mind!
To misery deaf, to beauty blind!
I see thy victim vainly plead;
For the worst fiend of hell's malignant breed,
Extortion, grins applause, and prompts thy ruthless deed.

132

With brutal force, and ribald jest,
Thy manacles I see thee shake;
Mocking the merciful request,
That Modesty and Justice make;
E'en Nature's shriek, with anguish strong,
Fails to suspend the impious wrong;
Till Howard's hand, with brave disdain,
Throws far away this execrable chain:
O Nature, spread his fame thro' all thy ample reign!

His care exulting Britain found,
Here first display'd, not here confin'd!
No single tract of earth could bound
The active virtues of his mind.
To all the lands, where'er the tear,
That mourn'd the Prisoner's wrongs severe,
Sad Pity's glist'ning cheek impearl'd,
Eager he steer'd, with every sail unfurl'd,
A friend to every clime! a Patriot of the World!

133

Ye nations thro' whose fair domain
Our flying sons of joy have past,
By Pleasure driven with loosen'd rein,
Astonish'd that they flew so fast!
How did the heart-improving sight
Awake your wonder and delight,
When, in her unexampled chace,
Philanthropy outstript keen Pleasure's pace,
When with a warmer soul she ran a nobler race!

Where e'er her generous Briton went,
Princes his supplicants became:
He seem'd the enquiring angel, sent
To scrutinize their secret shame
Captivity, where he appear'd,
Her languid head with transport rear'd;
And gazing on her godlike guest,
Like those of old, whom Heaven's pure servant blest,
E'en by his shadow seem'd of demons dispossest.

134

Amaz'd her foreign children cry,
Seeing their patron pass along:
“O! who is he, whose daring eye
Can search into our hidden wrong?
What monarch's Heaven-directed mind,
With royal bounty unconfin'd,
Has tempted Freedom's son to share
These perils; searching with an angel's care
Each cell of dire Disease, each cavern of Despair?”

No monarch's word, nor lucre's lust,
Nor vain ambition's restless fire,
Nor ample power, that sacred trust!
His life-diffusing toils inspire:
Rous'd by no voice, save that whose cries
Internal bid the soul arise
From joys, that only seem to bless,
From low pursuits, which little minds possess,
To Nature's noblest aim, the Succour of Distress!

135

Taught by that God, in Mercy's robe,
Who his celestial throne resign'd,
To free the prison of the globe
From vice, th' oppressor of the mind!
For thee, of misery's rights bereft,
For thee, Captivity! he left
Inviting Ease, who, in her bower,
Bade him with smiles enjoy the golden hour,
While Fortune deck'd his board with Pleasure's festive flower.

While to thy virtue's utmost scope
I boldly strive my aim to raise,
As high as mortal hand may hope
To shoot the glittering shaft of Praise;
Say! Howard, say! what may the Muse,
Whose melting eye thy merit views,

136

What guerdon may her love design?
What may she ask for thee, from Power Divine,
Above the rich rewards which are already thine?

Sweet is the joy when Science flings
Her light on philosophic thought;
When Genius, with keen ardour, springs
To clasp the lovely truth he sought:
Sweet is the joy, when Rapture's fire
Flows from the spirit of the lyre;
When Liberty and Virtue roll
Spring-tides of fancy o'er the poet's soul,
That waft his flying bark thro' seas above the pole.

Sweet the delight, when the gall'd heart
Feels Consolation's lenient hand
Bind up the wound from Fortune's dart
With Friendship's life-supporting band!
And sweeter still, and far above
These fainter joys, when purest Love
The soul his willing captive keeps!
When he in bliss the melting spirit steeps,
Who drops delicious tears, and wonders that he weeps!

137

But not the brightest joy, which Arts,
In floods of mental light, bestow;
Nor what firm Friendship's zeal imparts,
Blest antidote of bitterest woe!
Nor those that Love's sweet hours dispense,
Can equal the ecstatic sense,
When, swelling to a fond excess,
The grateful praises of reliev'd distress,
Re-echoed thro' the heart, the soul of Bounty bless.

These transports, in no common state,
Supremely pure, sublimely strong,
Above the reach of envious fate,
Blest Howard! these to thee belong:
While years encreasing o'er thee roll,
Long may this sunshine of the soul
New vigour to thy frame convey!
Its radiance thro' thy noon of life display,
And with serenest light adorn thy closing day!

138

And when the Power, who joys to save,
Proclaims the guilt of earth forgiven;
And calls the prisoners of the grave
To all the liberty of Heaven:
In that bright day, whose wonders blind
The eye of the astonish'd mind;
When life's glad angel shall resume
His ancient sway, announce to Death his doom,
And from existence drive that tyrant of the tomb:

In that blest hour, when Seraphs sing
The triumphs gain'd in human strife;
And to their new associates bring
The wreaths of everlasting life:
May'st thou, in Glory's hallow'd blaze,
Approach th' Eternal Fount of Praise,
With those who lead th' angelic van,
Those pure adherents to their Saviour's plan,
Who liv'd but to relieve the miseries of man!

Charles Howard, Earl of Nottingham.

Mussabat tacito Medecina timore. Lucretius.

Stephen Hales, minister of Teddington: he died at the age of 84, 1761; and has been justly called “An “ ornament to his profession, as a clergyman, and to his country, as “a philosopher.” I had the happiness of knowing this excellent man, when I was very young; and well remember the warm glow of benevolence which used to animate his countenance, in relating the success of his various projects for the benefit of mankind. I have frequently heard him dwell with great pleasure on the fortunate incident which led him to the discovery of his Ventilator, to which I have alluded.—He had ordered a new floor for one of his rooms; his carpenter not having prepared the work so soon as he expected, he thought the season improper for laying down new boards, when they were brought to his house, and gave orders for their being deposited in his barn;—from their accidental position in that place, he caught his first idea of this useful invention.

Mr. Howard has been the happy instrument of preserving female prisoners from an infamous and indecent outrage.—It was formerly a custom in our gaols to load their legs and thighs with irons, for the detestable purpose of extorting money from these injured sufferers.—This circumstance, unknown to me when the Ode was written, has tempted me to introduce the few additional stanzas, as it is my ardent wish to render this tribute to an exalted character as little unworthy as I can of the very extensive and sublime merit which it aspires to celebrate.

I am credibly informed that several Princes, or at least persons in authority, requested Mr. Howard not to publish a minute account of some prisons, which reflected disgrace on their government.

------ανδρα δ' εγω κεινον
Αινησαι μενοινων, ελπομαι
Μη χαλκοπαραον ακονθ' ωσει τ' αγω-
νος βαλειν εξω παλαμα δονεων.

PINDAR.

139

ODE TO Mr. WRIGHT of DERBY.

141

1783.

Away! ye sweet, but trivial Forms,
That from the placid pencil rise,
When playful art the landscape warms
With Italy's unclouded skies!
Stay, Vanity! nor yet demand
Thy portrait from the painter's hand!
Nor ask thou, Indolence, to aid thy dream,
The soft illusion of the mimic stream,
That twinkles to thy sight with Cynthia's trembling beam!

142

Be thine, my friend, a nobler task!
Beside thy vacant easel see
Guests, who, with claims superior, ask
New miracles of art from thee:
Valour, who mocks unequal strife,
And Clemency, whose smile is life!
“Wright! let thy skill (this radiant pair exclaim)
“Give to our view our favorite scene of Fame,
“Where Britain's Genius blaz'd in glory's brightest “flame.”

Celestial ministers! ye speak
To no dull agent sloth opprest,
Who coldly hears, in spirit weak,
Heroic Virtue's high behest:
Behold! tho' envy strives to foil
The Artist bent on public toil,
Behold! his flames terrific lustre shed;
His naval blaze mounts from its billowy bed;
And Calpe proudly rears her war-illumin'd head.

143

In gorgeous pomp for ever shine,
Bright monument of Britain's force!
Tho' doom'd to feel her fame decline
In ill-starr'd war's o'erwhelming course,
Tho' Europe's envious realms unite
To crush her, in unequal fight,
Her Genius, deeply stung with generous shame,
On this exulting rock array'd in flame
Equals her ancient feats, and vindicates her name.

How fiercely British valour pours
The deluge of destroying fire,
Which o'er that watery Babel roars,
Bidding the baffled host retire,
And leave their fall'n, to yield their breath
In different pangs of double death!
Ye shall not perish: no! ye hapless brave,
Reckless of peril, thro' the fiery wave
See! British mercy steers, each prostrate foe to save.

144

Ye gallant Chiefs, whose deeds proclaim
The genuine hero's feeling soul,
Elliot, and Curtis, with whose name
Honour enrich'd his radiant roll,
Blest is your fate; nor blest alone,
That rescued foes your virtues own,
That Britain triumphs in your filial worth:
Blest in the period of your glory's birth,
When art can bid it live to decorate the earth!

Alas! what deeds, where virtue reign'd,
Have in oblivious darkness died,
When Painting, by the Goths enchain'd,
No life-securing tints supplied!—
Of all thy powers, enchanting art!
Thou deemest this the dearest part,
To guard the rights of valour, and afford
Surviving lustre to the hero's sword:
For this, heroic Greece thy martial charms ador'd.

145

Rival of Greece, in arms, in arts,
Tho' deem'd in her declining days,
Britain yet boasts unnumber'd hearts,
Who keenly pant for public praise:
Her battles yet are firmly fought
By Chiefs with Spartan courage fraught:
Her Painters with Athenian zeal unite
To trace the glories of the prosp'rous fight,
And gild th' embattled scene with art's immortal light.

Tho' many a hand may well portray
The rushing war's infuriate shock,
Proud Calpe bids thee, Wright! display
The terrors of her blazing rock;
The burning bulks of baffled Spain,
From thee she claims, nor claims in vain,
Thou mighty master of the mimic flame,
Whose matchless pencil, with peculiar aim,
Has form'd of lasting fire the basis of thy fame.

146

Just in thy praise, thy country's voice
Loudly asserts thy signal power:
In this reward may'st thou rejoice,
In modest labour's silent hour,
Far from those seats, where envious leagues,
And dark cabals, and base intrigues
Exclude meek Merit from his proper home;
Where Art, whom Royalty forbade to roam,
Against thy talents clos'd her self-dishonor'd dome!

When partial pride, and mean neglect,
The nerves of injur'd Genius gall,
What kindly spells of keen effect
His energy of heart recall?
Perchance there is no spell so strong
As Friendship's sympathetic song:
By fancy link'd in a fraternal band,
Artist and Bard in sweet alliance stand;
They suffer equal wounds, and mutual aid demand.

147

Go, then, to slighted worth devote
Thy willing verse, my fearless Muse!
Haply thy free and friendly note
Some joyous ardor may infuse
In fibres, that severely smart
From potent Envy's poison'd dart:
Thro' Wright's warm breast bid tides of vigor roll,
Guard him from meek Depression's chill controul,
And rouse him to exert each sinew of his soul!

149

ODE TO THE COUNTESS DE GENLIS.

1784.

151

I

No more let English pride arraign
The Gallic Muse, as light and vain,
Whose trifling fingers can but weave
The flimsy novel, to deceive
Inaction's languid hour;
Where sentiment, from nothing spun,
Shines like a garden-cobweb in the sun,
Thrown in autumnal nights o'er many a wither'd flower.

152

II

Too often, in the giddy fit
Of wanton or satiric wit,
The rash and frolic sons of France
Have sketch'd the frivolous romance;
While reason stood aloof;
While modesty the work disclaim'd;
And griev'd religion, with disdain inflam'd,
On the licentious page pronounc'd her just reproof.

III

The Genius of the generous land
Survey'd the vain fantastic band,
And kindling with indignant pride,
Athirst for genuine glory, cried:
“Too long have ye disgrac'd
“The Gallic name!—ye sophists, hence!
“A female hand shall expiate your offence,
“The wrongs that ye have done to virtue, truth, and “taste.

153

IV

“Rise, my Genlis! those ills correct,
“That spring from this pernicious sect:
“To infancy's important years,
“That season of parental fears,
“Devote thy varied page!
“Mould and defend the youthful heart
“Against the subtle, soul-debasing art
“Of the sarcastic wit, and self-intitled sage!”

V

Illumin'd with angelic zeal,
And wishing Nature's general weal,
The lovely moralist arose:
The flame that from religion flows
Play'd round her pensive head:
The tender virtues smiling strove
T' enrich the variegated web she wove,
Where wisdom's temperate hand the flowers of fancy spread.

154

VI

The sisters of theatric power,
Whose intermingled sun and shower
Give to the stage, in friendly strife,
Each touching charm of chequer'd life,
Inspir'd the friend of youth:
Arts yet unknown to her they taught,
To fix and charm quick childhood's rambling thought
With unexampled scenes of tenderness and truth.

VII

Her pathos is not proudly built
On splendid or impassion'd guilt;
The little incidents, that rise
As sportive youth's light season flies,
Her simple drama fill;
Yet he, the sweet Socratic sage ,
Who steep'd in tears the wide Athenian stage,
Fram'd not his moral scene with more pathetic skill.

155

VIII

In the rich novel's ampler field
Her genius rears a radiant shield,
With fancy's blazonry imprest;
Potent to save the youthful breast
From passion's poison'd dart:
Like that which Homer's gods produce,
Its high-wrought beauties shine with double use,
To charm the curious mind, and guard th' unwary heart.

IX

Ye Fairies! 'twas your boast to bind
In sweet amaze the infant mind:
But scorning fiction's faded flower,
Behold Genlis in magic power
Your sorcery excells!
She, first of childhood's pleasing friends!
Arm'd with the force that liberal science lends,
From art and nature frames her more attractive spells .

156

X

Lovely magician! in return
For the sweet tears of fond concern,
With moral pleasure's tender thrill
Awak'd by thy enchanting skill,
Accept this votive rhyme!
Spurn not a wreath of foreign hue,
Tho' rudely twin'd of humble flowers, that grew
In a sequester'd vale of Albion's wayward clime!

XI

Think, if from Britain's churlish sky
This verse to foreign genius fly,
Think not our letter'd females raise
No titles to melodious praise:—
Keen science cannot find
One clime within the earth's wide zone,
Whose daughters, Britain! have surpass'd thy own
In the career of art, the triumphs of the mind.

157

XII

This honest boast of English pride,
Which meaner merit might deride,
Will ne'er the just Genlis beguile
Of one disdainful, envious smile;
For envy ne'er conceal'd
From her clear sight a rival's claim;
Her voice has swell'd my fair compatriots fame,
Pleas'd with their glorious march o'er learning's varied field!

XIII

Doubly, Genlis! may'st thou rejoice,
Whene'er impartial glory's voice
Ranks with the happiest toils of men
The graceful works of woman's pen,
Tho' not of Gallic frame:
For O! beneath whatever skies
Records of female genius may arise,
Those records must enfold thy fair and fav'rite name.

158

XIV

In every clime where arts have smil'd,
Where'er the mother loves her child,
And pants, with anxious zeal possest,
To fortify the tender breast,
And the young mind enlarge,
From thy chaste page she'll learn the art,
Fondly to play the sage preceptor's part,
And draw her dearest joys from that important charge:

XV

Wherever youth, with curious view,
Instructive pleasure shall pursue,
The little lively student there,
With rapt attention's keenest air,
Shall o'er thy volumes bend:
And while his tears their charm confess,
His grateful voice shall in their author bless
The spirit-kindling guide, the heart-enchanting friend.

Euripides.

Alluding to the Tale intitled, “La Féerie de l' Art & de la Nature.”

159

SONNETS, SONGS, AND OCCASIONAL VERSES.

161

SONNET TO THE EARL OF HARDWICKE

[_]

With the Second Edition of the Epistles to Romney.

1779.

Hardwicke! whose bright applause a poet crown'd
Unknown to thee and to the Muse's quire;
Permit his hand with joyous pride to sound
A note of gratitude on freedom's lyre!
And fear not flattery's song from one plac'd higher
Than she has power to raise her menial crew;
From one who, proud of independent fire,
Scorns the base Noble, but reveres the true.
The liberal spirit feels thy generous praise
Fall from pure honour's sphere, like genial dew;
Blest if its vital influence shall raise
A future flower more worthy of thy view!
Blest if in these re-polish'd lays thou find
Some light reflected from thy letter'd mind!

162

SONNET TO EDWARD GIBBON, Esq.

[_]

On the Publication of his Second and Third Volumes.

1781.

With proud delight th' imperial founder gaz'd
On the new beauty of his second Rome,
When on his eager eye rich temples blaz'd,
And his fair city rose in youthful bloom:
A pride more noble may thy heart assume,
O Gibbon! gazing on thy growing work;
In which, constructed for a happier doom,
No hasty marks of vain ambition lurk:
Thou may'st deride both time's destructive sway,
And baser envy's beauty-mangling dirk;
Thy gorgeous fabrick, plann'd with wise delay,
Shall baffle foes more savage than the Turk:
As ages multiply its fame shall rise,
And earth must perish ere its splendor dies.

163

SONNET TO THE SAME.

[_]

Written in Madame de Lambert's Essays on Friendship and Old Age; in the Name of the Lady who translated them.

How may I, Gibbon, to thy taste confide
This artless copy of a Gallic gem?
Wilt thou not cast th' unpolish'd work aside,
And with just scorn my failing line condemn?
No! thou wilt never, with pedantic phlegm,
Spurn the first produce of a female mind;
Young flowers! that, trembling on a tender stem,
Court thy protection from each ruder wind.
Tho' I may injure, by a coarser style,
The work that Lambert's graceful hand design'd,
I still, if favour'd by thy partial smile,
Shall boast like her of friendship's joys refin'd;
Nor fear from age her list of female woes,
If, as my years increase, thy friendship grows.

164

SONNET TO EDMUND ANTROBUS, Esq.

[_]

With the same Essays.

Kind Host! who bordering on the vale of years,
Keep'st in thy generous heart a youthful glow,
Whose liberal elegance of soul endears
The joy thy bounty glories to bestow;
Accept a volume, in whose pages flow
The mild effusions of a female mind!
First of the letter'd fair that France can show,
Of sprightly wit with moral truth combin'd!
In the faint copy may thy candour see
Some slight resemblance of her style refin'd:
Whate'er the merits of the book, in thee
May all the blessings of its theme be join'd!
Thine be that joy which friendship's bosom fills;
And thine the peace of age, without its ills!

165

SONNET TO Dr. HARINGTON

[_]

On his adding Music to a Song of the Author's.

Harmonious friend! to whom my honour'd Muse
Is eager to declare how much she owes,
Accept, and with indulgent eye peruse
Her hasty verse, impatient to disclose
How from your aid her new attraction flows.
Cold as the figure of unfinish'd clay,
Which by Prometheus' plastic hand arose,
My lifeless song in half existence lay:
I could not add the spark of heav'nly flame:
To harmony's high sphere I dar'd not stray
To steal from thence—but in this languid frame
You pour, without a theft, the vital ray:
Your generous art the quick'ning spirit gives,
And by your tuneful fire the Ballad lives.

166

SONNET TO WILLIAM MELMOTH, Esq.

Melmoth! in talents and in virtues blest!
Pleas'd I contemplate thy attractive page,
Where thy mild Pliny, and Rome's guardian Sage,
Of purer eloquence, thy powers attest,
And rare felicity:—near half an age
Our polish'd tongue has rank'd thee with the best
Of England's classics; yet detraction's rage
Has fail'd to point her arrows at thy breast:
Rich in those palms that taste and truth bestow,
Who praise in learning's field thy long career,
By what nice skill, that worth can seldom show,
Hast thou eluded slander's envious sneer?
Blest who excel! but tenfold bliss they know,
Who in excelling live without a foe.

167

SONNET TO Mrs. HAYLEY

[_]

On her Voyage to America. 1784.

Thou vext Atlantic, who hast lately seen
Britain's vain thunder on her offspring hurl'd,
And the blind parent, in her frantic spleen,
Pouring weak vengeance on a filial world!
Thou, whose rough billows, in loud fury curl'd,
Have roar'd indignant under many a keel;
And, while contention all her sails unfurl'd,
Have groan'd the weight of ill-starr'd war to feel;
Now let thy placid waters gaily bear
A freight far differing from blood-thirsty steel;
See Hayley now to cross thy flood prepare,
A female merchant, fraught with friendly zeal!
Give her kind gales, ye spirits of the air,
Kind as her heart, and as her purpose fair!

168

SONNET TO JOHN SARGENT, Esq.

[_]

On his Doubts of publishing his Drama, intitled, ‘The Mine.’ 1784.

Away with diffidence and modest fear,
Thou happy fav'rite of Castalia's quire!
Withhold no longer from the public ear
The rich delight thy varied lays inspire!
Nor from the Press with trembling awe retire!
That dread essay is dangerous alone,
When mimic dross adulterates the lyre:
Thine is of purest gold—its perfect tone
The fancy and the heart alike obey:
Invention's self has made her Mine thy own;
Give its new gems to blaze in open day,
And seat that bounteous queen on glory's throne,
A brother Bard, if he may boast the name,
Sounds with proud joy this prelude to thy fame.

169

SONNET ON ROMNEY's Picture of Cassandra.

Ye fond idolaters of antient art,
Who near Parthenope, with curious toil,
Forcing the rude sulphureous rocks to part,
Draw from the greedy earth her buried spoil
Of antique tablature; and from the soil
Of time, restoring some fair form, acquire
A fancied jewel, know, 'tis but a foil
To this superior gem, of richer fire!
In Romney's tints behold the Trojan maid!
See beauty blazing in prophetic ire!
From palaces engulph'd could earth retire,
And shew thy works, Apelles, undecay'd,
E'en thy Campaspe would not dare to vie
With the wild splendor of Cassandra's eye.

170

SONNET TO Mrs. SMITH

[_]

Occasioned by the First of her Sonnets.

Thou whose chaste song simplicity inspires,
Attractive poetess of plaintive strain!
Speak not unjustly of poetic fires,
Nor the pure bounty of thy Muse arraign:
No, not the source, the soother she of pain.
If thy soft breast the thorns of anguish knew,
Ah! think what myriads with thy truth complain
Of fortune's thorny paths! and think how few
Of all those myriads know thy magic art,
The fiercer pangs of sorrow to subdue,
By those melodious tears that ease thy heart,
And bid the breath of fame thy life renew;
Sure to excite, till nature's self decays,
Her lasting sympathy, her endless praise!

171

SONNET TO Mr. WILLIAM LONG

[_]

On his Recovery from a dangerous Illness. 1785.

Blest be the day which bids my grief subside,
Rais'd by the sickness of my distant friend!
Blest the dear lines, so long to hope deny'd,
By languor's aching fingers kindly penn'd!
How keen the fear to feel his letters end,
Whose wit was my delight, whose truth my guide!
But how did joy that painful fear transcend,
When I again his well-known hand descried!
Such was the dread of new-created man,
When first he miss'd the setting orb of day;
Such the delight that thro' his bosom ran,
When he perceiv'd the re-ascending ray.
Ah no! his thoughts endur'd less anxious strife;
Thou, Friendship! art the sun of mental life.

172

EPITAPH ON WILLIAM BRYANT,

Aged 91, Parish Clerk of Eartham.

1779,

By sportive youth and busy manhood blest,
Here, thou meek father of our village, rest!
If length of days, in toilsome duties spent,
With chearful honesty, and mild content;
If age, endur'd with firm and patient mind;
If life with willing piety resign'd;
If these are certain proofs of human worth,
Which, dear to Heaven, demand the praise of earth;
E'en Pride shall venerate this humble sod,
That holds a Christian worthy of his God,

173

ON FRANCES KENT,

Aged 19; buried in Eartham Church-Yard.

1777.

Here youthful innocence, of humble birth,
Is sunk untimely into silent earth:
This quiet hamlet knew no gentler mind,
“In sickness patient, and in death resign'd.”
Thou peaceful villager, whoe'er thou art,
Now bending o'er her grave with feeling heart,
Learn from her blameless life, tho' short the date,
Each modest virtue that becomes thy state!

174

ON MARY HAYLEY.

1775.

Spirit of Truth, thy warmest language give!
Let all the Mother on this marble live!
The stone may boast, that in her frame combin'd
Woman's soft heart and man's undaunted mind:
But O, fond Parent! no sepulchral lay
Can speak thy kindness, or thy care repay:
Death bore thee to the Power, whose love alone,
Whose love parental could exceed thy own.
Still, thou blest being! still my soul inspire!
Breathe from thy tomb religion's holy fire!
And teach me, ere this fleeting breath shall cease,
To tread that aweful path in mental peace,
That path, which thou without a pang hast trod,
To meet thee at the throne of mercy's God:
The God, whose worship from thy lips I caught,
Shall fix thy image in my faithful thought:
So thou my spirit to his presence raise,
Who as thy Maker most commands my praise!

175

ODE TO DEATH.

Hail to thee, gloomy spectre, Death!
So seldom hail'd by human breath
With vital vigour warm!
Approach!—let me thy features know,
For my undaunted eye would grow
Familiar with thy form!

I see thee well, and all thy train,
The horrid armament of pain,
Who execute thy will:
I know their force: with rapid aim,
Early they fasten'd on my frame,
And only fail'd to kill.

176

O Death! I know thy utmost sway;
This flesh is thy devoted prey:
My soul derides thy power;
Derides each wound, which thou canst give,
Safe from thy stroke, and form'd to live
Beyond thy final hour.

I own thee not as Terror's king,
Tho' shrieking slaves thy title ring,
Around the trembling globe:
The hand of Faith thy mantle tore,
And Fear can dress thy form no more
In Horror's ghastly robe.

I see thee, stript of all thy pride,
A simple herald, doom'd to guide
The Spirit's destin'd march:
Thy trumpet, with no dreadful blast,
Proclaims the victor soul has past
The tomb's triumphal arch.—

177

Ah! why should age, with weak delay,
In vain contention wish to stay,
When robb'd of vigour's shield?
What labourer, call'd to take his hire,
Persists his worn-out limbs to tire
Around the stubble field?

This motley scene of jest and strife,
This tragi-comedy of life,
On observation palls:
Its fancied joys too slightly touch;
Its fancied woes afflict too much,
Before the curtain falls.

Eager I pant, with fond presage,
To gaze on a sublimer stage
Above yon starry pole:
That stage, by kindred angels trod,
Illumin'd by the throne of God,
Must fill the raptur'd soul.

178

O Death! I hear thy stern reply:—
“Dar'st thou presume, Mortality!
“So abject, so infirm!
“Fearless that Presence to abide,
“Before whose blaze celestial pride
“Has shrunk into a worm?”

Of follies sick, not sunk by crimes,
With filial hope my spirit climbs,
Nor fears a Father's rod.
I go with awe, but not dismay:
My soul is on the wing:—away!
And lead me to my God!

179

SONG.

[Ye cliffs! I to your airy steep]

I

Ye cliffs! I to your airy steep
Ascend with trembling hope and fear,
To gaze on this extensive deep,
And watch if William's sails appear.

II

Long months elapse, while here I breathe
Vain expectation's frequent prayer;
Till bending o'er the waves beneath,
I drop the tear of dumb despair.

III

But see a glistening sail in view!
Tumultuous hopes arise:
'Tis he!—I feel the vision true,
I trust my conscious eyes.

IV

His promis'd signals from the mast
My timid doubts destroy:
What was your pain, ye terrors past,
To this ecstatic joy!

180

SONG.

[From glaring shew, and giddy noise]

I

From glaring shew, and giddy noise,
The pleasures of the vain,
Take me, ye soft, ye silent joys,
To your retreats again.

II

Be mine, ye cool, ye peaceful groves,
Whose shades to love belong;
Where echo, as she fondly roves,
Repeats my Stella's song.

III

Ah, Stella! why-should I depart
From solitude and thee,
When in that solitude thou art
A perfect world to me!

181

SONG.

['Tis Memory's aid my vows implore]

I

'Tis Memory's aid my vows implore,
For she will smile when fortune's coy;
And to the eye of love restore
The spirit of departed joy.

II

O plunge me still, with magic art,
In soothing fancy's soft abyss;
And fill my fond, my faithful heart
With visions of thy purer bliss!

182

SONG.

[Stay! O stay, thou lovely shade]

I

Stay! O stay, thou lovely shade
Brought by sleep to sorrow's aid:
Ah! the sweet illusion ends!
Light and Reason, cruel friends!
Bid me not, with frantic care,
Vainly worship fleeting air!

II

Night, return on rapid wing!
Round my head thy poppies fling!
Hateful day! thy reign be brief!
Darkness is the friend of grief.
Could'st thou, sleep! my dream restore,
I should wish to wake no more.

183

SONG.

[Enjoy, my child, the balmy sleep]

I

Enjoy, my child, the balmy sleep,
Which o'er thy form new beauty throws;
And long thy tranquil spirit keep
A stranger to thy mother's woes!
Tho' in distress,
I feel it less,
While gazing on thy sweet repose.

II

Condemn'd to pangs like inward fire,
That thro' my injur'd bosom roll,
How would my heart in death desire
Relief from fortune's hard coutroul,
Did not thy arms
And infant charms
To earth enchain my anxious soul!

184

III

Flow fast, my tears!—by you reliev'd,
I vent my anguish thus unknown;
But cease, ere ye can be perceiv'd
By this dear child, to pity prone,
Whose tender heart
Would seize a part
In grief, that should be all my own.

IV

Our cup of woe, which angels fill,
Perchance it is my lot to drain;
While that of joy, unmix'd with ill,
May thus, my child, for thee remain;
If thou art free,
(So Heaven decree!)
I bless my doom of double pain.

185

ODE TO RICHARD VERNON SADLEIR, Esq.

1777.

I

Business, be gone! Thou vulture, Care,
No more the quivering sinews tear
Of Sadleir's mortal frame!
Full well his firm and active mind
Has paid the duties that mankind
From sense and virtue claim.

II

Alas! too well—for mental toil
Our fine machinery will spoil,
As Nature has decreed:
She form'd the powers that raise the foul
Like wheels, that kindle as they roll,
And perish by their speed.

186

III

Let health and vigour on the stage
Support the scene, while milder age
Resigns the bustling part:
If flowers the busy path adorn,
Ingratitude there plants her thorn,
Which pierces to the heart.

IV

Oft hast thou seen her poison'd shoot,
Where Hope expected fairest fruit;
Yet still thy bounty flows
Like constant dew that falls on earth,
Although it wakens into birth
The nightshade with the rose.

V

Thy warmth of heart O still retain!
Nor of ingratitude complain,
Howe'er her wounds may burn!
Bliss from benevolence must flow;
Angels are blest while they bestow,
Unconscious of return.

187

VI

And happiness we only find
In those exertions of the mind
That form the ardent friend:
In these it dwells, with these it flies,
As all the comet's splendor dies
Whene'er its motions end.

VII

O let the lustre of thy soul
No more eccentrically roll
Thro' Labour's long career!
O haste, its dangerous course confine,
And let it permanently shine
In Pleasure's milder sphere!

VIII

In Friendship's name thy voice invites
Our willing hearts to social rites,
Where Laughter is thy guest:
But, O! these eyes with anguish burn,
And fear their weaken'd orbs to turn
From Nature's verdant vest.

188

IX

Thy invitation then forbear,
Tho' at thy board, in union rare,
Kind Plenty reigns with Wit:
Thy roof is joyous, but I doubt
That we should find the brilliant rout
For burning eyes unfit.

X

Thy noisy town and dusty street
Do thou exchange for this retreat,
Whose charms thy songs commend:
On Learning's page forbid to look,
We yet can read that dearer book—
The visage of a friend.

189

A CARD of INVITATION TO Mr. GIBBON,

at Brighthelmstone.

1781.

An English Sparrow, pert and free,
Who chirps beneath his native tree,
Hearing the Roman Eagle's near,
And feeling more respect than fear,
Thus, with united love and awe,
Invites him to his shed of straw.
Tho' he is but a twittering Sparrow,
The field he hops in rather narrow,
When nobler plumes attract his view
He ever pays them homage due,
And looks with reverential wonder
On him whose talons bear the thunder;
Nor could the Jack-daws e'er inveigle
His voice to vilify the Eagle,
Tho', issuing from those holy tow'rs
In which they build their warmest bow'rs,

190

Their Sovereign's haunt they slily search,
In hopes to find him on his perch
(For Pindar says, beside his God
The thunder-bearing Bird will nod)
Then, peeping round his still retreat,
They pick from underneath his feet
Some moulted feather he lets fall,
And swear he cannot fly at all.—
Lord of the sky! whose pounce can tear
These croakers, that infest the air,
Trust him, the Sparrow loves to sing
The praise of thy imperial wing!
He thinks thou'lt deem him, on his word,
An honest, tho' familiar Bird;
And hopes thou soon wilt condescend
To look upon thy little friend;
That he may boast around his grove
A visit from the Bird of Jove.

191

TO Mr. MASON,

On his sending the Author his Translation of DuFresnoy, with Notes by Sir Joshua Reynolds.

1783.

I

Dear Brother of the tuneful art,
To whom I justly bend,
I prize, with a fraternal heart,
The pleasing gift you send.

II

With pride, by envy undebas'd,
My English spirit views
How far your elegance of taste
Improves a Gallic Muse.

III

I thought that Muse but meanly drest
When her stiff gown was Latin;
But you have turn'd her grogram vest
Into fine folds of sattin.

192

IV

Mild Reynolds looks with liberal favour
On your adopted girl;
And to the graceful robe you gave her,
Adds rich festoons of pearl.

193

IMPROMPTU TO Mr. MEYER.

On his sending the Author, from the Continent, two Prints, representing The Coronation of Voltaire, and Rousseau's Arrival in Elysium.

1784.

I

The Song that shakes the festive roof,
When mirth and music's liveliest notes ascend,
Is not more pleasing than the proof
Of kind remembrance from an absent friend.

II

Then guess the pleasure that we share,
And thus, dear Meyer, accept the thanks we owe,
While we behold the crown'd Voltaire,
And see Elysium hail our lov'd Rousseau!

194

III

May all the honour, all the joy,
Known by each genius in thy gift portray'd,
Be thine, without the dull alloy
That ting'd their golden days with dusky shade!

IV

As lively as the gay Voltaire,
With his keen pen may thy fine pencil strive!
May'st thou as long delight the fair,
And triumph, like the Bard, at eighty-five!

V

As tender as the warm Rousseau,
Like him thy happier thoughts on nature fix!
But 'midst thy prospering children know
A true Elysium—on this side the Styx!

195

IMPROMPTU, TO EYLES IRWIN, Esq.

at Eartham.

1786.

How fiercely gold is tried by fire,
The tropes of the poetic quire
Have forcibly exprest:
Yet, Indus, oft thy golden tide
To British virtue has supplied
A still severer test.

Britain has sent thee many a name
(Of martial and of civic fame)
In honour sound and whole;
Return'd by thee in different mould,
Encrusted o'er with scales of gold,
A leper in the soul.

196

Far other thoughts of proud delight,
Dear Irwin, may the wish'd-for sight
Of thy return afford!
To welcome thee our hearts expand;
Fondly we clasp the purest hand
That Indus e'er restor'd.

The tender lips of Beauty greet
This happy hand with homage sweet,
And bless the nuptial chain:
While Friendship sings, in joyous ode,
Thro' this the trying millions flow'd,
Nor left a single stain.

197

A RECEIPT TO MAKE A TRAGEDY.

Take a Virgin from Asia, from Afric, or Greece,
At least a king's daughter, or emperor's niece:
Take an elderly Miss for her kind confidant,
Still ready with pity or terror to pant,
While she faints and revives like the sensitive plant:
Take a Hero thought buried some ten years or more,
But with life enough left him to rattle and roar:
Take a horrid old Brute who deserves to be rack'd,
And call him a tyrant ten times in each act:
Take a Priest of cold blood, and a Warrior of hot,
And let them alternately bluster and plot:
Then throw in of Soldiers and Slaves quantum suff.
Let them march, and stand still, fight, and halloo enough.
Now stir all together these separate parts,
And season them well with Ohs! faintings, and starts:

198

Squeeze in, while they're stirring, a potent infusion
Of Rage and of Horror, of Love and Illusion;
With madness and murder complete the conclusion.
Let your Princess, tho' dead by the murderous dagger,
In a wanton bold epilogue ogle and swagger:
Prove her past scenes of virtue are vapour and smoke,
And the stage's morality merely a joke:
Let her tell with what follies our country is curst,
And wisely conclude that play-writing's the worst.
Now serve to the public this olio complete,
And puff in the papers your delicate treat.

199

TO Miss SEWARD,

On her being at Eartham, in the variable Weather,

August, 1782.

I

“Whence are these storms?”—an angry poet cry'd,
Who saw his shady summer haunts defac'd;
Saw o'er his shatter'd grove black whirlwinds ride,
And loud lamented this untimely waste.

II

He spoke, and Æolus uprear'd his head:
Half his huge form, round which dark clouds were driv'n,
Rising from ocean's broad and billowy bed,
Fill'd up the vast expanse from earth to heav'n.

III

As his fierce eye survey'd the rough profound,
From the stern god the voice of anger broke;
Air, earth, and sea, reverberate the found,
And shrinking nature shudder'd as he spoke:

200

IV

“Know, thou vain Bard, within thy mansion dwells
“The wond'rous source of all this wild uproar;
“Thence round my cave the din of discord swells,
“And I my rebel offspring rule no more.

V

“To own my laws my mad'ning sons refuse,
“All, all are deaf to my paternal pow'r;
“Struggling alike to kiss that vagrant Muse,
“Who deigns to visit thy sequester'd bow'r.

VI

“Rough Boreas, us'd in these still months to sleep,
“Starts from his cell, in passion's wild alarms;
“While dripping Auster rushes from the deep,
“To snatch the Fair-one from his brother's arms.

VII

“Each other's fond ambition to destroy,
“Alike they struggle, merciless as death;
“See my young Zephyr, Nature's tender joy,
“Encounters Eurus with contentious breath.

201

VIII

“Cease, my rash sons, this cruel war to wage,
“Tho' tempting beauty gave your conflict birth,
“Lest Famine, waken'd by your frantic rage,
“Stalk in fell triumph o'er the blasted earth.

IX

“See shiv'ring mortals mourn th' inverted year,
“While Ceres weeps her golden pride deprest:
“If ye no longer Nature's law revere,
“Yet mildly listen to your sire's request:—

X

“Let each in order taste the tempting bliss,
“For which these mutual wounds ye vainly bear;
“Each unmolested take one precious kiss,
“And freely clasp this phrenzy-kindling Fair.”

XI

He paus'd;—black Boreas, eldest of his race,
Whose stormy passion the chill Maiden shocks,
Binds her reluctant in his strong embrace,
And sports licentious in her auburn locks.

202

XII

Eurus succeeds, of less disgusting mien,
Yet mad the trembling Fair-one to assail;
Beneath his pressure, more intensely keen,
The wounded ruby of her lip grows pale.

XIII

Next, with mild charms, and less tumultuous love,
By melting Auster see the nymph carest;
He, with the softness of the murm'ring dove,
Waves his moist pinions o'er her softer breast.

XIV

Now, lively Zephyr, the sweet Muse is thine,
O long embrace her in our laughing skies!
And round her bid this joyous landscape shine,
Rich as her verse, and radiant as her eyes!

203

CONTENT.

[_]

Written at the request of a Lady, for the Vase at Batheaston,

1781.

“How idle are mortals!” (said Wisdom to Youth)
“They slight the clear dictates of Reason and Truth;
“They worship Ambition, to Pleasure they bend,
“Yet blindly o'erlook a more excellent friend:
“And hence their vain hopes are eternally crost,
“Their life in a tempest of wishes is lost;
“Still destin'd to toil, and of toil to repent,
“For neglect of just vows to the Goddess Content;
“That Goddess from whom all felicity flows,
“Who unites every good in the gift she bestows;
“So free of her bounty to all who confess it,
“To solicit her smile is almost to possess it.”
When I heard this fine speech, my fond passion was rais'd,
And I set forth in quest of the Being so prais'd;

204

At the mansion of Grandeur my search I begin,
And ask if the Goddess Content is within:
But Pride, who as centinel guarded the door,
Said bluntly he ne'er heard her title before;
He told me I wanted a poor rustic slut,
And bade me go look in some little thatch'd hut.
I march'd to the Villager's lowly abode,
'Twas a snug pretty cottage, and stood near the road:
And here a good woman, possessing, tho' humble,
A face that could frown, and a tongue that would grumble,
Said—the person I ask'd for had lodg'd in her cot,
But, alas! such good luck was no longer her lot;
For she quitted her roof, where she oft had repos'd,
When yon great house was built, and the common inclos'd.

I conceiv'd, as I now bade the village farewell,
With the mild sons of Science this Goddess must dwell;
But those, where I sought some obliging instructor,
Were squabbling about an electric conductor.
Some cry'd-up the point; some commended the ball;
The soft breath of Science was turn'd to a squall:

205

The Sages no mental conductor could find
To draw off the flame that now flash'd on their mind.

In haste I exclaim'd, to the Learned adieu!
For e'en Science offends, when she talks like a shrew.

Having wander'd so wide of the object I sought,
I was now led to think, and rejoic'd at the thought,
This Goddess (herself for her charms so renown'd)
With the daughters of Beauty must surely be found:
With this hope I approach'd (unperceiv'd by them all)
Three lovely young girls just array'd for the ball;
In each, whose bright eyes on a mirror were bent,
I thought I discover'd a spark of Content;
But watching them more, in their beautiful faces,
Of the Goddess I sought I no more saw the traces;
For as they survey'd, with a critical glance,
The elegant Montagu move in the dance,
In her exquisite figure such graces were shown,
That viewing her charms they distrusted their own.
Thou gentlest of nymphs! while thy triumphs increase,
Unconscious of beauty, so fatal to peace!
Tho' the sparks of Content in one sex thou may'st smother,
Bright Ecstasy's flame thou wilt raise in the other.

206

If in bosom parental Content could reside,
The heart of thy parent this treasure must hide;
But, alas! 'tis a truth which all parents lament,
Their tender anxiety stifles Content.

O tell me, while vainly to find thee I pant,
Dear latent Divinity! where is thy haunt?
“Away to Batheaston,” Good-nature replies,
“Behold she there weaves the poetical prize.”
With thy Myrtle, kind Miller! O let me be crown'd,
Then my search is repaid, and the Goddess is found:
Nay, if to another your wreath you assign,
And give it to verse far superior to mine,
My search's dear object I still must attain;
And the proof of this wonder 's exceedingly plain,
It rests on this maxim, by Horace invented,
The Bard who writes worst is the Bard most contented.
My claim to this blessing thus made very clear,
If I've nothing to hope, I have nothing to fear;
For Miller can please while the mind she amuses,
Both when she bestows, and e'en when she refuses;
In truth I suspect, from her singular aim,
The Goddess I seek is conceal'd by her name:

207

She herself is Content, and her house is the fane,
Where Spleen and Ill-nature no favours obtain:
Some mortals in vain for admission must pray,
But all who once enter go smiling away.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.