Poems and Plays :: :: University of Virginia Library

THE MAGDALEN Charity was established in the year 1758. A commodious habitation was engaged, in PRESCOT STREET, by the promoters of this benevolent institution, and the house was opened on the tenth of August, when eight unhappy objects were admitted.

In the year 1772, the charity was removed to a more spacious building in ST. GEORGE'S FIELDS.

See to you fane the suppliant Nymphs repair,
At Virtue's shrine to breathe Contrition's sigh:
Their youthful cheek is pal'd with early care,
And sorrow dwells in their dejected eye.

Hark! they awake a solemn plaintive lay,
Where Grief with Harmony delights to meet:
Not Philomela from her lonely spray,
Trills her clear note more querulously sweet.

Are these the fair (late Pleasure's Festive quire)
Who wont the dome of Luxury to tread?
Who deck'd in varying fashion's new attire,
Still vied in splendor with the high-born Maid?

For sober weeds they change their flowing train,
Of the pearl bracelet strip the graceful arm,
Conceal the breast that glow'd in ev'ry vein,
And madden'd into joy at Love's alarm.

Ah now no more the diamond's dazzling ray
Darts from the artful mazes of the hair;
No more those tresses garishly display
The idle plumes that sportive mock'd the air.

Yet Beauty lingers on their mournful brow,
As loth to leave the cheek suffus'd with tears,
Which scarcely blushing with a languid glow,
Like Morn's faint beam thro' gath'ring mist appears.

No more compare them to the gaudy flow'r,
Whose painted foliage wantons in the gale:
They look the lily drooping from the show'r,
Or the pale violet sick'ning in the vale.

If fond of empire and of conquest vain,
They frequent vot'ries to their altars drew,
Yet blaz'd those dazz'ling altars to their bane,
The idol they, and they the victim too!

Once destitute of counsel, aid, or food,
Some helpless orphans in this dome reside,
Who (like the wand'ring children in the wood)
Trod the rude paths of life without a guide.

Some who encircled by the great and rich
Were won by wiles and deep-designing art,
By splendid bribes, and soft persuasive speech,
Of pow'r to cheat the young unguarded heart.

Some on whom Beauty breath'd her radiant bloom,
While adverse stars all other gifts remov'd;
Who hurried from the dungeon's living tomb,
To scenes their inborn virtue disapprov'd.

What tho' their youth imbib'd an early stain,
A second innocence is now their claim;
While in the precincts of this blesss'd domain,
They bask beneath the rays of rising Fame.

So the young myrtles in Misfortune's day,
Nipt by the blast that swept their vernal bed,
In shelt'ring walls their tender leaves display,
And wak'ning into life new fragrance shed.

Tho' white-wing'd Peace protect this calm abode,
Tho' each tumultuous passion be suppress'd,
Still Recollection wears a sting to goad,
Still Conscience wakes to rob their soul of rest.

See one the tort'ring hour of mem'ry prove,
Who wrapt in pensive secrecy forlorn,
Sits musing on the pledges of her love,
Who fell the victims of paternal scorn:

Forgot, deserted in th' extremest need,
By him who shou'd have rear'd their tender age:
‘Was this, Seducer, this the promis'd meed?’
She cries—then sinks beneath Affliction's rage:

Her busy mind recalls the fatal plain,
Which with slow lab'ring steps she journey'd o'er,
Half-yielding to the fierce impetuous rain,
While in her arms two helpless babes she bore:

Her mind recalls how at that awful hour
The dismal Owlet scream'd her shiv'ring note,
How shriek'd the Spirit from the haunted tow'r,
While other sounds of woe were heard remote:

How to the covert of a tott'ring shed,
As Night advanc'd, she fearfully retir'd;
And as around the dark'ning horror spread,
Her famish'd infants on her breast expir'd:

How keenest Anguish bade her bosom bleed,
As there she brooded o'er her hapless state:
‘Was this, Seducer, this the promis'd meed?’
She cries—then sinks beneath Affliction's weight.

Another mourns her fall with grief sincere.
Whom tranquil Reason tells she's shun'd, disdain'd
Repuls'd as vile, by those who held her dear,
Who call'd her once Companion, Sister, Friend.

That recollects the day when lost to shame,
She fondly sacrific'd her vestal charms,
Resign'd the virgin's for an harlot's name,
And left a parent's for a spoiler's arms.

Imagination pictures to her mind
The father's rage, the mother's softer woe:
Unhappy pair! to that distress consign'd,
A child can give, a parent only know.

At this deep scene, by Fancy drawn, impress'd,
The filial passions in her heart revive:
Reproach vindictive, rushes on her breast,
To Nature's pangs too feelingly alive.

If this, or similar tormenting thought,
Cling to their soul, when pensively alone,
For youth's offence, for Love's alluring fault,
Say, do they not sufficiently atone?

Nor deem me one of Melancholy's train,
If anxious for the sorrow-wedded Fair,
Tho' little skilful of that heav'nly strain,
Whose melting numbers to the heart repair:

I steal impatient from the idle throng,
The roving gay companions of my age,
To temper with their praise my artless song,
And soft-ey'd Pity in their cause engage.

'Tis Virtue's task to soothe Affliction's smart,
To join in sadness with the Fair distrest:
Wake to another's pain the tender heart,
And urge to clemency the rigid breast.

This poem was first published in 1763.

YARICO TO INKLE.

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

INKLE is preparing to set out for England, after having sold YARICO to a merchant at Barbadoes, ‘not withstanding that the poor Girl, (says the Spectator) to incline him to commiserate her condition, told him that she was with child by him: but he only made use of that information, to rise in his demands upon the purchaser.’

With falsehood lurking in thy sordid breast,
And perj'ry's seal upon thy heart imprest,
Dar'st thou, Oh Christian! brave the sounding waves,
The treach'rous whirlwinds, and untrophied graves?
Regardless of my woes, securely go,
No curse-fraught accents from these lips shall flow:
My fondest wish shall catch thy flying sail,
Attend thy course, and urge the fav'ring gale:
May ev'ry bliss thy God confers be thine,
And all thy share of woe compris'd in mine.

One humble boon is all I now implore,
Allow these feet to print their kindred shore:
Give me, Oh Albion's son! again to roam,
For thee deserted, my delightful home:
To view the groves that deck my native scene,
The limpid stream, that graceful glides between:
Retrieve the fame I spurn'd at Love's decree,
Ascend the throne which I forsook for thee:
Approach the bow'r—(why starts th' unbidden tear?)
Where once thy Yarico to thee was dear.

The scenes the hand of Time has thrown behind,
Return impetuous to my busy mind:
‘What hostile vessel quits the roaring tide
‘To harbour here its tempest-beaten side?
‘Behold the beach receives the shipwreck'd crew:
‘Oh mark their strange attire and pallid hue!
‘Are these the Christians, restless sons of pride,
‘By avarice nurtur'd, to deceit allied?

‘Who tread with cunning step the maze of art,
‘And mask with placid looks a canker'd heart?
‘Yet note, superior to the num'rous throng,
‘(E'en as the citron humbler plants among)
‘That Youth!—Lo! beauty on his graceful brow,
‘With nameless charms bids ev'ry feature glow:
‘Ah! leave, fair stranger, this unsocial ground,
‘Where danger broods, and fury stalks around:
‘Behold thy foes advance—my steps pursue
‘To where I'll screen thee from their fatal view:
‘He comes! he comes! th' ambrosial feast prepare,
‘The fig, the palm-juice, nor th' anâna spare:
‘In spacious canisters nor fail to bring
‘The scented foliage of the blushing spring:
‘Ye graceful handmaids, dress the roseat bow'r,
‘And hail with music this auspicious hour—
‘Ah no! forbear—be ev'ry lyre unstrung,
‘More pleasing music warbles from his tongue;
‘Yet utter not to me the lover's vow,
‘All, all is thine that Friendship can bestow:

‘Our laws, my station, check the guilty flame—
‘Why was I born, ye powers, a Nubian dame?
‘Yet see around, at Love's enchanting call,
‘Stern laws submit, and vain distinctions fall:
‘And mortals then enjoy life's transient day,
‘When smit with passion they indulge the sway:
‘Yes! crown'd with bliss, we'll roam the conscious grove,
‘And drink long draughts of unexhausted love:
‘Nor joys alone, thy dangers too I'll share,
‘With thee the menace of the waves I'll dare:
‘In vain—for smiles his brow deep frowns involve,
‘The sacred ties of Gratitude dissolve,
‘See Faith distracted rends her comely hair,
‘His fading vows while tainted zephyrs bear!’

Oh thou, before whose seraph-guarded throne
The Christians bow, and other Gods disown,
If, wrapt in darkness, thou deny'st thy ray,
And shroud'st from Nubia thy celestial day!

Indulge this fervent pray'r, to thee address'd,
Indulge, tho' utter'd from a sable breast:
May gath'ring storms eclipse the chearful skies,
And mad'ning furies from thy hell arise:
With glaring torches meet his impious brow,
And drag him howling to the gulf below!—
Ah no! May Heav'n's bright messengers descend,
Obey his call, his ev'ry wish attend!
Still o'er his form their hov'ring wings display!
If he be blest, these pangs admit allay:
Me still her mark let angry Fortune deem,
So thou may'st walk beneath her cloudless beam.
Yet oft to my rapt ear didst thou repeat,
That I suffic'd to frame thy bliss compleat.
Deluded sex! the dupes of man decreed,
We, splendid victims, at his altar bleed.
The grateful accents of thy praiseful tongue,
Where artful flatt'ry too persuasive hung,
Like flow'rs adorn'd the path to my disgrace,
And bade Destruction wear a smiling face.

Yet form'd by Nature in her choicest mould,
While on thy cheek her blushing charms unfold,
Who could oppose to thee stern Virtue's shield?
What tender virgin would not wish to yield?
But pleasure on the wings of Time was born,
And I expos'd a prey to tyrant scorn.
Of low-born traders—mark the hand of fate!—
Is Yarico reduc'd to grace the state,
Whose impious parents, an advent'rous band,
Imbru'd with guiltless blood my native land:
E'en snatch'd my father from his regal seat,
And stretch'd him breathless at their hostile feet!
Ill-fated prince! The Christians sought thy shore,
Unsheath'd the sword, and mercy was no more.

But thou, fair stranger, cam'st with gentler mind
To shun the perils of the wrecking wind.
Amidst thy foes thy safety still I plan'd,
And reach'd for galling chains the myrtle band:

Nor then unconscious of the secret fire,
Each heart voluptuous throb'd with warm desire:
Ah pleasing youth, kind object of my care,
Companion, Friend, and ev'ry name that's dear!
Say, from thy mind canst thou so soon remove
The records graven by the hand of Love?
How as we wanton'd on the flow'ry ground,
The loose-rob'd pleasures danc'd unblam'd around:
Till to the sight the growing burden prov'd
How thou o'ercam'st—and how, alas! I lov'd!
Too fatal proof! since thou with av'rice fraught,
Didst basely urge (ah! shun the wounding thought!)
That tender circumstance—reveal it not,
Lest torn with rage I curse my fated lot:
Lest startled Reason abdicate her reign,
And Madness revel in this heated brain:
That tender circumstance—inhuman part—
I will not weep, tho' serpents gnaw this heart:
Frail, frail resolve! while gushing from mine eye
The pearly drops these boastful words belie.

Alas! can Sorrow in this bosom sleep,
Where strikes Ingratitude her talons deep?
When he whom still I love, to Nature dead,
Stabs Pleasure as she mounts the nuptial bed?
What time his guardian pow'r I most requir'd,
Against my fame and happiness conspir'd!
And (do I live to breathe the barb'rous tale?)
His faithful Yarico expos'd to sale!
Yes, basely urg'd, (regardless of my pray'rs,
E'en while I bath'd his venal hand with tears)
The tend'rest circumstance—I can no more—
My future child—to swell his impious store:—
All, all mankind for this will rise thy foe,
But I, alas! alone endure the woe:
Endure what healing balms can ne'er controul,
The heart-lodg'd stings and agony of soul.—
Was it for this I left my native plain,
And dar'd the tempest brooding on the main?
For this unlock'd (seduc'd by Christian art)
The chaste affections of my virgin heart?

Within this bosom fan'd the constant flame,
And fondly languish'd for a Mother's name?
Lo! ev'ry hope is poison'd in its bloom,
And horrors watch around this guilty womb.

With blood illustrious circling thro' these veins,
Which ne'er was chequer'd with plebeian stains,
Thro' ancestry's long line ennobled springs,
From fame-crown'd warriors and exalted kings,
Must I the shafts of Infamy sustain?
To Slav'ry's purposes my Infant train?
To catch the glances of his haughty lord?
Attend obedient at the festive board?
From hands unscepter'd take the scornful blow?
Uproot the thoughts of glory as they grow?
Let this pervade at length thy heart of steel;
Yet, yet return, nor blush, oh man! to feel:
Ah! guide thy steps from yon expecting fleet,
Thine injur'd Yarico relenting meet:

Bid her recline, woe-stricken, on thy breast,
And hush her raging sorrows into rest!

If Pity's voice can't wake thy torpid soul,
Let Terror her impending thunder roll:—
'Twas night—my solitary couch I press'd,
Till sorrow-worn I wearied into rest:
Methought—nor was it childish Fancy's flight—
My country's Genius stood confess'd to sight:
‘Let Europe's sons (he said) enrich their shore
‘With stones of lustre, and barbaric ore:
‘Adorn their country with their splendid stealth,
‘Unnative foppery, and gorgeous wealth;
‘Embellish still her form with foreign spoils,
‘Till like a gaudy prostitute she smiles:
‘The day, th' avenging day at length shall rise,
‘And tears shall trickle from that harlot's eyes:
‘Her own Gods shall prepare the fatal doom
‘Lodg'd in Time's pregnant and destructive womb:

‘The mischief-bearing womb, these hands shall rend,
‘And straight shall issue forth Confusion's fiend.’

Say, Albion youth, flow all my words in vain,
Like seeds that strew the rude ungrateful plain?
Say, shall I ne'er regain thy wonted grace?
Ne'er stretch these arms to catch the wish'd embrace?
Enough—with new-awak'd resentment fraught
Assist me, Heav'n! to tear him from my thought:
No longer vainly suppliant will I bow,
And give to love, what I to hatred owe;
Forgetful of the race from whence I came,
With woe acquainted, but unknown to shame.
Hence, vile Dejection, with thy plaintive pray'r,
Thy bended knee, and still descending tear:
Rejoin, rejoin the pale-complexion'd train—
The conflict's past—and I'm myself again.

Thou parent Sun! if e'er with pious lay
I usher'd in thy world-reviving ray!

Or as thy fainter beams illum'd the west,
With grateful voice I hymn'd thee to thy rest!
Beheld, with wond'ring eye, thy radiant seat,
Or sought thy sacred dome with unclad feet!
If near to thy bright altars as I drew,
My votive lamb thy holy Flamen slew!
Forgive! that I, irrev'rent of thy name,
Dar'd for thy foe indulge th' unhallow'd flame:
E'en on a Christian lavish'd my esteem,
And scorn'd the sable children of thy beam.
This poniard, by my daring hand imprest,
Shall drink the ruddy drops that warm my breast:
Nor I alone, by this immortal deed
From Slav'ry's laws my infant shall be freed.
And thou, whose ear is deaf to Pity's call,
Behold at length thy destin'd victim fall;
Behold thy once-lov'd Nubian stain'd with gore,
Unwept, extended on the crimson floor:
These temples clouded with the shades of death,
These lips unconscious of the ling'ring breath:

These eyes uprais'd (ere clos'd by Fate's decree)
To catch expiring one faint glimpse of thee.
Ah! then thy Yarico forbear to dread,
My fault'ring voice no longer will upbraid,
Demand due vengeance of the pow'rs above,
Or, more offensive still, implore thy love.

The NUN;

or, ADALEIDA to her FRIEND.

With each perfection dawning on her mind,
All Beauty's treasure op'ning on her cheek:
Each flatt'ring hope subdu'd, each wish resign'd,
Does gay Ophelia this lone mansion seek?

Say, gentle maid, what prompts thee to forsake
The paths thy birth and fortune strew with flow'rs?
Thro' Nature's kind endearing ties to break,
And waste in cloister'd walls thy pensive hours?

Let sober thought restrain thine erring zeal,
That guides thy footsteps to the vestal gate;
Lest thy soft heart (this friendship bids reveal)
Like mine unblest, should mourn like mine too late.

Does some angelic lonely-whisp'ring voice,
Some sacred impulse, or some dream divine,
Applaud the dictates of thy early choice?—
Approach with confidence the awful shrine.

There kneeling at yon altar's marble base,
(While tears of rapture from thine eye-lid steal,
And smiling Heav'n illumes thy soul with grace)
Pronounce the vow thou never can'st repeal.

But if misled by false-entitled friends,
Who say—‘that Peace with all her comely train,
‘From starry regions to this clime descends,
‘Smooths ev'ry frown, and softens ev'ry pain:

‘That vestals tread Contentment's flow'ry lawn,
‘Approv'd of Innocence, by Health carest:
‘That rob'd in colours of the vernal dawn,
‘Celestial Hope sits smiling at their breast.’

Suspect their syren song and artful style,
Their pleasing sounds some treach'rous thought conceal;
Full oft does pride with sainted voice beguile,
And sordid int'rest wear the mask of zeal.

A tyrant abbess here perchance may reign,
Who, fond of pow'r, affects th' imperial nod;
Looks down disdainful on her female train,
And rules the cloister with an iron rod.

Reflection sickens at the life-long tie,
Back-glancing Mem'ry acts her busy part;
Its charm the world unfolds to Fancy's eye,
And sheds allurement on the youthful heart.

Lo! Discord enters at the sacred porch,
Rage in her frown, and terror on her crest:
E'en at the hallow'd lamps she lights her torch,
And holds it flaming to each virgin breast.

But since the legends of monastic bliss,
By fraud are fabled, and by youth believ'd;
Unbought experience learn from my distress,
Oh! mark my lot, and be no more deceiv'd.

Three lustres scarce with hasty wing were fled,
When I was torn from ev'ry weeping friend;
A trembling victim to the temple led,
And (blush ye parents!) by a father's hand.

Yet then what solemn scenes deceiv'd my choice!
The pealing organ's animating sound
The choral virgins' captivating voice,
The blazing altar, and the priests around:

The train of youth array'd in purest white,
Who scatter'd myrtles as I pass'd along:
The thousand lamps that pour'd a flood of light,
The kiss of Peace from all the vestal throng;

The golden censers toss'd with graceful hand,
Whose fragrant breath Arabian odor shed;
Of meek-ey'd novices the circling band,
With blooming chaplets wreath'd around their head.

My willing soul was caught in rapture's flame,
While sacred ardor glow'd in ev'ry vein;
Methought applauding angels sung my name,
And Heav'n's unsullied glories gilt the fane.

Methought in sun-beams rob'd the heav'nly spouse
Indulg'd the longings of my holy love:
Not undelighted heard my virgin vows—
While o'er the altar wav'd the mystic dove.

This temporary transport soon expir'd,
My drooping heart confess'd a dreadful void:
Now helpless, heav'n-abandon'd, uninspir'd,
I tread this dome, to Misery allied.

No wak'ning joy informs my sullen breast,
Thro' op'ning skies no radiant seraph smiles;
No saint descends to soothe my soul to rest;
No dream of bliss the dreary night beguiles.

Here haggard Discontent still haunts my view,
The umber'd genius reigns in ev'ry place;
Arrays each virtue in the darkest hue,
Chills ev'ry pray'r and cancels ev'ry grace.

I meet her ever in the chearless cell,
The gloomy grotto and the awful wood;
I hear her ever in the midnight bell,
The chiding gale, and hoarse-resounding flood.

This caus'd a mother's tender tears to flow,
(The sad remembrance time shall ne'er erase)
When having seal'd th' irrevocable vow,
I hasten'd to receive her last embrace.

Yet ne'er did her maternal voice unfold
This cloister'd scene in all its horror drest;
Nor did she then my trembling steps with-hold,
When here I enter'd a reluctant guest.

Ah! could she view her only child betray'd
And let submission o'er her love prevail?
Th' unfeeling priest why did she not upbraid,
Forbid the vow, and rend the hov'ring veil?

Alas! she might not—her relentless lord
Had seal'd her lips, and chid the rising tear;
So Anguish in her breast conceal'd its hoard,
And all the Mother sunk in dumb despair.

But thou who own'st a Father's sacred name,
What act impell'd thee to this ruthless deed?
What crime had forfeited my filial claim?
And giv'n (Oh! blasting thought) thy heart to bleed?

If then thine injur'd child deserve thy care,
Oh! haste and bear her from this lonesome gloom:
In vain—no words can soothe his rigid ear;
And iron laws have riveted my doom.

Yet let me to my fate submissive bow;
From fatal symptoms, if I right conceive,
This stream, Ophelia, has not long to flow,
This voice to murmur, and this breast to heave.

Ah! when extended on th' untimely bier,
To yonder vault this form shall be convey'd;
Thou'lt not refuse to shed one grateful tear,
And breathe the requiem to my fleeting shade.

With pious footsteps join the sable train,
As thro' the lengthening isle they take their way:
A glimmering taper let thy hand sustain,
Thy soothing voice attune the funeral lay.

Behold the minister who lately gave
The sacred veil, in garb of mournful hue,
(More friendly office), bending o'er my grave,
And sprinkling my remains with hallow'd dew:

As o'er the corse he strews the humbling dust,
The sternest heart will raise Compassion's sigh;
E'en then, no longer to his child unjust,
The tears may trickle from a Father's eye.

THE NUNNERY.

Now pants the night-breeze thro' the darken'd air,
And Silence sooths the vestal world to rest,
Save where some pale-ey'd novice (rapt in pray'r)
Heaves a deep moan, and smites her guiltless breast.

Within those ancient walls with moss o'erspread,
Where Grief and Innocence their vigils keep,
Each in her humble cell till midnight laid,
The gentle daughters of Devotion sleep.

Of Wantonness the pleasure-breathing lay,
Or Laughter beck'ning from his rosy seat,
Or Vanity attir'd in colours gay,
Shall ne'er allure them from their sober state.

Domestic comforts they shall never know,
Nor voice of kindred reach their distant ear:
Ne'er with a mother's transport shall they glow,
While playful children charm the ling'ring year.

The various flow'rs in many a wreath they twine,
To crown the altar on some festive day;
How fervent do they kiss each holy shrine!
How thro' the columns streams the choral lay!

Let not Ambition mock with jest profane,
The life that woos Retreat's obscurest shade,
Nor worldly Beauty with a sneer disdain,
The humble duties of the cloister'd Maid.

The glist'ning eye, the half-seen breast of snow,
The coral lip, the blush of Nature's bloom,
Awaits alike th' inexorable foe,
The paths of Pleasure lead but to the tomb.

Perhaps in this drear mansion are confin'd
Some bosom form'd to love, unspoil'd by art;
Charms that might soften the severest mind,
And wake to extacy the coldest heart.

Full many a riv'let wand'ring to the main,
Sequester'd pours its solitary stream:
Full many a lamp devoted to the fane,
Sheds unregarded its nocturnal beam.

Some uncrown'd Margaret, loit'ring in her cell,
By Nature form'd bright Glory's course to run;
Here some inglorious Mountagu may dwell,
Some Editha , unconscious of a son.

From Flatt'ry's lip to drink the sweets of praise,
In conscious charms with rivals still to vie:
In circles to attract the partial gaze,
And view their beauty in th' admirer's eye,

Their lot forbids: nor does alone remove
The thirst of praise, but e'en their crimes restrain:
Forbids thro' Folly's labyrinth to rove,
And yield to Vanity the flowing rein.

To rear 'mid Hymen's joys domestic strife,
Or seek that converse which they ought to shun;
To loose the sacred ties of nuptial life,
And give to many what they vow'd to one.

What tho' they're sprinkled with etherial dew!
With blooming wreaths by hands of Seraphs crown'd!
Tho' Heav'n's unfading splendors burst to view,
And harps celestial to their ear resound!

Still Recollection prompts the frequent sigh,
The chearful scenes of younger days arise;
Still to their native home their wishes fly,
Affection's stream still gushes from their eyes:

For who entranc'd in visions from above,
The thought of kindred razes from the mind?
Feels in the soul no warm returning love,
For some endear'd companion left behind?

Their joy-encircled hearth as they forsook,
From some fond breast reluctant they withdrew;
As from the deck they sent a farewell look,
Fair Albion sunk for ever from their view.

For thee who mindful of th' encloister'd train,
Dost in these lines their mournful tale relate,
If by Compassion guided to this fane,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate:

Haply some matron-vestal may reply,
“Oft have we heard him, when Light's ling'ring ray
“Scarce mark'd its passage thro' the dark'ning sky,
“At yonder altar join the vesper-lay.

“Where hapless Adaleida sought repose,
“Oft at yon grave wou'd he her fate condole!
“And in his breast as scenes of grief arose,
“He saw ascending slow her spotless soul:

Peace to my Edward's heart, the vision said,
Ah! not unseen thou shed'st that grateful tear:
I wait at night to catch thy wonted tread,
And thank thy faithful love that sorrows here.

“One eve I miss'd him at the hour divine;
“Along that isle, and in the sacristy:
“Another came, not yet beside the shrine,
“Not at the font, nor in the church was he:

“The next we heard the bell of Death intone,
“And to his grave we mov'd, a mournful band;
“Approach and read, on this sepulchral stone,
“These lines, engrav'd by Friendship's holy hand:”

EPITAPH.

Pause o'er the Youth—nor grudge the short delay
Full soon his little history is told—
He gave to Solitude the pensive day,
And Pity fram'd his bosom of her mould.

This Poem, which was placed at the end of the volume in the former edition, comes with greater propriety immediately after the Nun: for as there Adaleida foretels her fate, so is her death mentioned in the Nunnery, and marked with some peculiar circumstances, which render the present Poem a supplement to the preceding one.

Mr. Pope's Mother.

THE DESERTER.

By others blest with genius' rays
Let noble acts be told,
While I, content with humbler praise,
A simple tale unfold:

The Spaniard left the hostile plain,
To seek his native land,
Beneath the sails that swept the main,
Cabeysa join'd the band:

Who, as he met his country's foes
Within the field of Fame,
Above his rank obscure arose,
And grac'd his humble name:

Yet not the early wreath of Fame
With haughtiness was twin'd:
Nor pride nor fickleness could claim
The empire of his mind:

The lowly hut, beneath whose roof
He sigh'd a sad adieu,
Receiv'd him (time and distance-proof)
To Love and Laura true:

This hamlet-fair, by Fortune scorn'd,
Seem'd Nature's fav'rite child,
With hand profuse by her adorn'd
—The flowret of the wild!

Her neat but homely garments press'd
The pure, the feeling heart,
Oft sought in vain behind the vest
Of decorated art:

“If sharing all thy cares (she said)
“Has paled my beauty's rose,
“Ah! know, for thee the heart that bled,
“With all its passion glows:

“Blest moment, to my wish that gives
“The long long absent youth!
“He lives—th' endear'd Cabeysa lives,
“And Love confirms the truth.

“When thy brave comrades fell around,
“What Pow'r's benignant care
“Secur'd thee from the fatal wound,
“And Laura from despair?

“Oft in the troubling dream of night
“I saw the rushing spear;
“Nor did the Morn's awak'ning light
“Dispel the ling'ring fear.”

“Thy tender fears (the youth replied)
“Ah give them to the air!
“To happiness we're now allied,
“And pleasure be our care:

“Let us pursue the joy begun,
“Nor lose by dull delay:
“Say, Laura, shall to-morrow's sun
“Illume our nuptial day?”

With look declin'd she blush'd consent—
Reserve that takes alarm,
And Love and Joy their influence lent
To raise meek Beauty's charm.

The guests, to hail the wedded pair,
Beneath their roof repair'd;
With them the little feast to share
Their scanty purse prepar'd:

Tho' no delicious wines were pour'd,
Mirth took his destin'd place,
The handmaid Neatness spread the board,
And sage Content said grace.

Scarce thro' one hasty week had Love
His grateful blessings shed,
When bliss (as flies the frighted dove)
Their humble mansion fled:

'Twas at Bellona's voice it flew,
That call'd to War's alarms:
Bad the youth rise, to valor true,
And break from Laura's arms:

But she still strain'd him to her heart,
To lengthen the adieu:
“Ah what, (she said) should'st thou depart,
“Shall I and Sorrow do?

“Say, valiant youth, when thou'rt away
“Who'll raise my drooping head?
“How shall I chase the fears that say
“Thy lov'd Cabeysa's dead?

“With thine my fate I now involve,
“Intent thy course to steer;
“No words shall shake my firm resolve,
“Not e'en that trickling tear.”

“Fram'd for each scene of soft delight,
“(He said) thy gentle form,
“As shrinks the lily at the blight,
“Will droop beneath the storm.”

“Blest in thy presence! ev'ry pain
“(She added) brings its charm,
“And Love, tho' falls the beating rain,
“Will keep this bosom warm.”

E'en as the wall-flow'r rears its head,
'Mid ruins, wrecks, and tombs,
So 'mid the woes around that spread,
True Love unconquer'd blooms.

Her zeal (the supplement of strength)
Upheld her many a day,
But Nature's pow'rs subdued at length,
On Sickness' couch she lay:

Three painful days unseen she lay
Of him she held so dear:
“Ah! does he thus my love repay?”
She said—and dropt a tear:

“Cabeysa, at a league's remove,
“Dwells on the tent-spread hill:
“Ah! wherefore did he vow true love,
“And not that vow fulfil?”

Yet not deficiency of truth
Forbad to yield relief,
Stern pow'r with-held the tender youth,
And duty to his chief:

Who, wisely counsel'd, drew a line
To check the hand of Stealth,
That ravag'd wide th' encircling vine,
The humble peasant's wealth:

To pass the line, it was ordain'd,
Whoever should presume,
Should a Deserter be arraign'd,
And meet the coward's doom.

This law, by Equity approv'd,
And to the peasant dear,
Soon to the brave Cabeysa prov'd
Destructively severe:

Now Laura's image haunts his soul,
In Woe's dark tints array'd:
While to his breast Compassion stole,
And all her claims display'd:

“For me her native home, (he said)
“For me each weeping friend,
“For me a Father's arms she fled—
“And shall not Love attend?

“Say for a chosen lover's sake,
“What more cou'd woman do?
“And now that Health and Peace forsake,
“Shall I forsake her too?

“Now stretch'd upon the naked ground,
“Oppress'd with pain and fear,
“She casts a languid eye around,
“Nor sees Cabeysa near:

“Now, now she weeps at my delay,
“And shall neglect be mine?
“Submit, ye fears, to Pity's sway:”
He spoke—and cross'd the line.

Soon at his sight the fair resum'd
Each captivating grace:
On her pale cheek the rose re-bloom'd,
And smiles illum'd her face.

Yet to that cheek return'd in vain
Bright Health's vermilion dye,
For bitter tears that cheek shall stain,
And dim her brilliant eye:

The youth returning thro' the gloom,
At Midnight's secret hour,
Was seiz'd—and to Dishonour's tomb
Doom'd by the martial pow'r.

To meet his fate at wake of day
(Love's victim) he was led:
No weakness did his cheek betray,
While to the chief he said,

“If in the battle death I've dar'd,
“In all its horror drest,
“Think not this scene, by thee prepar'd,
“Sheds terror on my breast:

“Yet then at Laura's hapless fate,
“My fortitude impairs,
“Unmann'd I sink beneath the weight
“Of her oppressive cares:

“Ah! when her grief-torn heart shall bleed,
“Some little solace grant,
“Oh! guard her in the hour of need
“From the rude hand of Want!”

Now, kneeling on the fatal spot,
He twin'd the dark'ning band:
The twelve, who drew th' unwelcome lot,
Reluctant took their stand:

And now the murm'ring throng grew dumb,
'Twas silence all—save where,
At intervals, the sullen drum
Struck horror on the ear:

Now, with their death-fraught tubes up-rear'd,
The destin'd twelve were seen—
And now th' explosion dire was heard
That clos'd Cabeysa's scene.

Another scene remain'd behind
For Laura to supply—
She comes! mark how her tortur'd mind
Speaks thro' th' expressive eye:

“Forbear—will ye in blood (she said)
“Your cruel hands imbrue?
“On me, on me your vengeance shed,
“To me alone 'tis due:

“Relent—and to these arms again
“The valiant youth restore.
“I rave—already on the plain
“He welters in his gore.”

Advancing now, she pierc'd the crowd,
And reach'd the fatal place,
Where, listing from the corse the shroud,
No semblance could she trace.

“Is this—oh blasting view! (she cried)
“The youth who lov'd too well?
“His love for me the law defied,
“And for that love he fell!

“When will the grave this form receive?—
“Prepare the mutual tomb;
“There, only there, I'll cease to grieve,
“There cease to curse my doom.”

Now, conquer'd by Affection's force,
Which broke her heart in twain,
She sunk upon the bleeding corse,
And never rose again.

IL LATTE.

Incipe, parue puer, risu cognoscere matrem.

Ye Fair, for whom the hands of Hymen weave
The nuptial wreath to deck your virgin brow,
While pleasing pains the conscious bosom heave,
And on the kindling cheek the blushes glow:

Whose spotless soul contains the better dow'r,
Whose life unstain'd full many virtues vouch,
For whom now Venus frames the fragrant bow'r,
And scatters roses o'er the destin'd couch:

To you I sing.—Ah! ere the raptur'd youth
With trembling hand removes the jealous veil,
Where, long regardless of the vows of truth,
Unsocial coyness stamp'd th' ungrateful seal:

Allow the poet round your flowing hair,
Cull'd from an humble vale, a wreath to twine,
To Beauty's altar with the Loves repair,
And wake the lute beside that living shrine:

That sacred shrine! where female virtue glows,
To which retreat the warm affections fly;
Where Love is born, where strong attachment grows,
Where frames pure Constancy the faithful tye.

That shrine! where Nature with presaging aim,
What time her friendly aid Lucina brings,
The snowy nectar pours, delightful stream!
Where flutt'ring Cupids dip their purple wings:

For you who bear a Mother's sacred name,
Whose cradled offspring, in lamenting strain,
With artless eloquence asserts his claim,
The boon of Nature, but asserts in vain:

Say why, illustrious daughters of the Great,
Lives not the nursling at your tender breast?
By you protected in his frail estate?
By you attended, and by you caress'd?

To venal hands, alas! can you resign
The Parent's task, the Mother's pleasing care?
To venal hands the smiling babe consign?
While Hymen starts, and Nature drops a tear.

When 'mid the polish'd circle ye rejoice,
Or roving join fantastic Pleasure's train,
Unheard perchance the nursling lifts his voice,
His tears unnotic'd, and unsooth'd his pain.

Ah! what avails the coral crown'd with gold?
In heedless infancy the title vain?
The colours gay the purfled scarfs unfold?
The splendid nurs'ry, and th' attendant train?

Far better hadst thou first beheld the light
Beneath the rafter of some roof obscure;
There in a Mother's eye to read delight,
And in her cradling arm repose secure.—

Nor wonder, should Hygeia, blissful Queen!
Her wonted salutary gifts recall,
While haggard Pain applies his dagger keen,
And o'er the cradle Death unfolds his pall.

The flow'ret ravish'd from its native air,
And bid to flourish in a foreign vale,
Does it not oft elude the planter's care,
And breathe its dying odors on the gale?

For you, ye plighted fair, when Hymen crowns
With tender offspring your unshaken love,
Behold them not with Rigor's chilling frowns,
Nor from your sight unfeelingly remove.

Unsway'd by Fashion's dull unseemly jest,
Still to the bosom let your infant cling,
There banquet oft, an ever-welcome guest,
Unblam'd inebriate at that healthful spring.

With fond solicitude each pain assuage,
Explain the look, awake the ready smile;
Unfeign'd attachment so shall you engage,
To crown with gratitude maternal toil:

So shall your daughters, in Affliction's day,
When o'er your form the gloom of age shall spread,
With lenient converse chase the hours away,
And smooth with Duty's hand the widow'd bed:

Approach, compassionate, the voice of Grief,
And whisper patience to the closing ear;
From Comfort's chalice minister relief,
And in the potion drop a filial tear.

So shall your sons, when beauty's charms are fled,
When fades the languid lustre in your eye;
When Flattery shuns her Hybla-drops to shed,
The want of beauty, and of praise, supply:

E'en from the wreath that decks the warrior's brow,
Some chosen leaves your peaceful walks shall strew:
And e'en the flow'rs on classic ground that blow,
Shall all unfold their choicest sweets for you.

When to th' embattled host the trumpet blows,
While at the call fair Albion's gallant train
Dare to the field their triple-number'd foes,
And chase them speeding o'er the martial plain:

The mother kindles at the glorious thought,
And to her son's renown adjoins her name;
For at the nurt'ring breast the Hero caught
The love of Virtue, and the love of Fame.

Or in the senate, when Britannia's cause
With gen'rous themes inspires the glowing mind,
While list'ning Freedom grateful looks applause,
Pale Slav'ry drops her chain, and sculks behind:

With conscious joy the tender parent fraught,
Still to her son's renown adjoins her name;
For at the nurt'ring breast the Patriot caught
The love of Virtue, and the love of Fame:

Yet then, ascending still with bolder view,
Should the blest youth to heav'nly gifts aspire,
While with keen eye he pierces nature through,
And his proud bosom owns a Muse of fire:

The Mother yields to Glory's soaring thought,
And darts of thrilling transport touch her frame;
For at the nurt'ring breast the Poet caught
The love of Virtue, and the love of Fame.

MATILDA.

Où sont les entrailles, les cris, les emotions puissantes de la Nature?—C'est dans l'ame brulante et passionnée des Meres. Essai sur les Femmes.

Outrageous did the loud wind blow
Across the sounding main:
The vessel tossing to and fro,
Could scarce the storm sustain.

Matilda to her fearful breast
Held close her infant dear;
His presence all her fears increas'd,
And wak'd the tender tear.

Now nearer to the grateful shore
The shatter'd vessel drew:
The daring waves now ceas'd to roar,
Now shout th' exulting crew.

Matilda, with a Mother's joy,
Gave thanks to Heaven's pow'r:
How fervent she embrac'd her boy!
How blest the saving hour!

Oh! much deceiv'd and hapless fair,
Tho' ceas'd the waves to roar,
Thou, from that fatal moment, ne'er
Didst taste of pleasure more:

For, stepping forth from off the deck,
To reach the welcome ground,
The Babe, unclasping from her neck,
Plung'd in the gulph profound.

Amazement-chain'd! her haggard eye
Gave not a tear to flow,
Her bosom heav'd no conscious sigh,
She stood a sculptur'd woe.

To snatch the child from instant death,
Some brav'd the threat'ning main,
And to recall his fleeting breath
Try'd ev'ry art in vain.

But when the corse first met her view,
Stretch'd on the pebbly strand,
Rous'd from her ecstacy she flew,
And pierc'd th' opposing band.

With tresses discompos'd and rude,
Fell prostrate on the ground,
To th' infant's lips her lips she glew'd,
And Sorrow burst its bound.

Now throwing round a troubled glance,
With Madness' ray inflam'd,
And, breaking from her silent trance,
She wildly thus exclaim'd:

“Heard ye the helpless infant scream?
“Saw ye the mother bold?
“How, as she flung him in the stream,
“The billows o'er him roll'd?

“But soft, awhile—see! there he lies,
“Embalm'd in infant sleep:
“Why fall the dew-drops from your eyes?
“What cause is here to weep?

“Yes, yes—his little life is fled,
“His heaveless breast is cold:
“What tears will not thy Mother shed,
“When thy sad tale is told!

“Ah me! that cheek of livid hue—
“That brow—that auburn hair—
“Those lips where late the roses blew,
“All, all my Son declare.

“Strange thrilling horrors chill each vein—
“A voice in accents wild
“Thunders to this distracted brain,
“Matilda slew her child!”

She added not—but sunk oppress'd—
Death on her eye-lids stole
While from her grief-distracted breast
She sigh'd her tortur'd soul.

THE SWEDISH CURATE,

A POEM.

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

CHRISTIERN the Second, king of Denmark, offered to appear in person at Stockholm, to frame a treaty of peace, provided GUSTAVUS VASA remained a hostage on board the Danish fleet. The king having by the stratagem secured the illustrious Swede, forcibly carried him away to Denmark, where he was imprisoned for a considerable time. GUSTAVUS at length found means of escaping from his confinement; and travelling through Sweden in diguise, was received by SUVERDSIO, a poor country curate, who, at the hazard of his life, concealed him in the parish church, and informed him of every thing that had happened in Sweden during his absence, particularly of the massacre of the senate at Stockholm, in which the father of GUSTAVUS was included.

Beneath the friendly veil that midnight spread,
Gustavus to the patriot Priest was led,
An humble, plain, disinterested man,
Who rear'd his useful life on Virtue's plan:
Pleas'd to behold, entrusted to his care,
The hopes of Sweden, and fair Freedom's heir;
Lest hostile steps should their abode invade,
He to Religion's dome the Chief convey'd:
There unrestrain'd he gladly own'd his guest,
And yielded to the zeal that fir'd his breast.

“Beneath yon hallow'd lamp's resplendent light,
“Which glows a brilliant on the breast of Night.

“Let me thy long-lost image now survey,
“And grateful homage to Gustavus pay:
“Oppress'd, o'erthrown at Christiern's dire decree,
“Unhappy Sweden still looks up to thee.”

“Dost thou with honest and indignant zeal,
The Hero answer'd, “speak of Sweden's weal?
“Lament the ills the Danish hands achieve?
“Or dost thou flatter only to deceive?
“Then be it so—call forth thy murd'ring train,
“And summon to my bier the cruel Dane;
“Thus to Preferment's summit shalt thou rise,
“And catch the hov'ring mitre for thy prize.”

“Misjudging Youth!” the sacred Seer replied,
“Suppress th' injurious doubt, and still confide:
“Tho' indigent I stand! yet far above
“The hov'ring mitre is my country's love:
“Let others to the gilded cross aspire,
“And from the crozier catch Ambition's fire,

“And as they bask in Leo's fost'ring ray,
“Their wealth, their pride, their pageantry display:
“Let me, by grandeur undisturb'd, unseen,
“Content inspher'd in Duty's humbler scene,
“Sequester'd lead my unaspiring days,
“And quench at Virtue's fount the thirst of praise;
“Be mine to dwell amidst the village swains,
“Survey their pleasures, and partake their pains,
“Still to their wants unfold my little store,
“And place Contentment at the cottage-door.
“Ah! deem me then no longer Falshood's son,
“(By some dishonest meed's allurement won)
“Prompt to surprise thee with ignoble art,
“And thro' thy bosom pierce my country's heart.
“Avert it, Heav'n!—Shall on this hallow'd ground,
“Where all Religion's terrors breathe around,
“Say, shall Venality, with artful mien,
“Dare to profane this venerable scene?
“—Yon distant altar, dress'd in simple guise,
“Which seems from out th' encircling tombs to rise,

“From whose dread base at each returning day,
“While o'er the world ten lustres roll'd away,
“I've sent to Heav'n, upon the wings of pray'r,
“The hamlet's homage and the hamlet's care,
“Shall ne'er behold me tott'ring o'er my grave,
“False to my country, treach'rous to the brave.”

The Chief, convinc'd, replies—“Oh! virtuous Seer,
“Thy firm intrepid zeal I now revere:
“That honour-breathing voice, those silver hairs,
“That candid brow, engrav'd with Wisdom's cares,
“All strike my soul with Truth's unclouded ray,
“Before whose warmth Suspicion melts away.”

“Thrice happy hour!” th' exulting Pastor said,
“Let injur'd Sweden raise her drooping head,
“For lo! her godlike Hero comes to save
“Her laws, her rights, her freedom from the grave.
“—Urg'd in thy absence by intruding fears,
“We thought thee dead, and bath'd that thought in tears.”

“My death,” the Chief return'd, “the Dane decreed,
“But fear, the tyrant's curse, forbade the deed:
“Yet then the monarch spread his treach'rous sails,
“And by the favor of conspiring gales,
“Convey'd me on his rapid bark away,
“To his intrusted faith an helpless prey:
“Canst thou conceive the pangs that stung my breast,
“I who to Fame my ardent vows address'd,
“When for th' unblemish'd lustre of renown,
“That plays encircling on young Valour's crown,
“Condemn'd by Fortune's inauspicious doom,
“These eyes were blasted with a prison's gloom?
“In ev'ry plan, in all my wishes cross'd,
“These arms, my zeal, my youth to Sweden lost.
“But Heav'n, that watches with paternal care
“The blameless suff'rer, rais'd me from despair,
“Gave to my longing hopes the welcome hour,
“Decreed to snatch me from the Danish pow'r:
“Yet then new Sorrows did my path pursue,
“In scenes presented to my mournful view:

“Still as I wander'd o'er my native land,
“I mark'd the ravage of a tyrant's hand:
“Rich Industry had fled the naked plains,
“To Slav'ry's banners march'd th' unwilling swains:
“Each lofty seat that crown'd the mountain's brow,
“And frown'd defiance on th' invading foe,
“Spoil'd of its honours, desolate, disgrac'd,
“Its turrets fall'n, its battlements defac'd!
“Seem'd to the pensive traveller to say,
“Behold the dire effect of lawless sway!
“The dreary scene unequal to sustain,
“I sigh'd—and languish'd for my chains again:
“Yet other ills, perchance, I've still to know,
“Perchance Gustavus feels but half his woe.
“Averse to walk beneath the eye of day,
“Oft thro' the night I urg'd my lonely way;
“Where'er I went my name I still suppress'd,
“And lock'd each bold enquiry in my breast.”

The Priest renew'd, “Heart-wounded I unveil,
“Replete with Sweden's woes, the cover'd tale:
“The barb'rous scene now rip'ning into fate,
“The Danish King unbarr'd Destruction's gate :
“Stern Tyranny thro' trembling Stockholm bore
“Her tort'ring wheel, and axes stain'd with gore:
“While at her side a captive train appear'd—
“Illustrious train! by Liberty rever'd:
“Still as they pass'd, they heard around them rise
“The people's loud laments and piercing cries:
“These eyes beheld (and do I live to tell?)
“How firm to Truth these patriot martyrs fell.
“First on the scaffold, proud to lead the way
“To honour'd death from ignominious day,
“Appear'd—Ah! let me not that scene disclose,
“And pour upon thy soul a flood of woes:
“Here will I pause—yet wherefore thus conceal
“What babbling Fame will soon to thee reveal?

“Oh! summon all thy fortitude of heart,
“For I must wound it in the tend'rest part:
“He on the tragic scene who first appear'd,
“To meet the bloody axe that Christiern rear'd,
“Unblam'd through life, a venerable Seer,
“For whom now gushes this unbidden tear,
“Who Virtue's steep ascent unrivall'd won,
“Rever'd, regretted, call'd Gustavus son!”

Th' astonish'd Hero, at his words oppress'd,
Like Sorrow's image stands with voice suppress'd:
The Priest, unequal to dispense relief,
Stood at his side, enwrapp'd in silent grief.
—Now breaking from the chains Affliction fram'd,
And bursting into voice, the Youth exclaim'd:
“Oh injur'd spirit of my Father, hear!
“By yon dread altar, and these shrines, I swear,
“The base inhuman Dane the day shall rue
“He dar'd the scaffold with thy blood imbrue:

“A monitor within, to which I yield,
“Stirs and impels me to th' avenging field.”
He said—a deeper darkness seem'd to reign,
A hollow wind ran murm'ring thro' the fane,
When lo! ascending from the realms of Night,
An awe-commanding spectre rush'd to sight:
Around his temples seem'd the civic wreath,
And thus prophetic spoke the Son of Death:
“Arise to vindicate the sacred laws,
“Revenge thy father's and thy country's cause:
“Arise! to Mora's distant field repair,
“Where Freedom's banners catch the playful air;
“Beneath whose shade for thee impatient stand,
“Prepar'd to combat, an intrepid band:
“But whether in the bold ensanguin'd strife
“Thou shalt or forfeit or prolong thy life—
“Thy foes shall fall—This to thy knowledge giv'n,
“The rest lies buried in the breast of Heav'n:
“Still let my wrongs support thee in the fight”—
He ceas'd—and instant vanish'd into night.

The Pastor spoke—“Go forth, illustrious Chief,
“At Heav'n's commandment, to the realm's relief:
“Yet then indulge me in this bold request,
“Say, is each meaner thought subdu'd to rest?
“Say, in this solemn and important hour,
“Glows not thy bosom with the lust of pow'r?”

“Not all the radiant sun-beams of renown,
“Nor yet the dazzling lustre of a crown,
“Shall e'er,” the Youth replies, “this heart control:
“—My country's love possesses all my soul.
“E'en as the bird that from its ashes springs,
“And soars aloft upon exulting wings,
“So does my country's love its birth assume,
“And mount triumphant from the passions' tomb.
“But should I view, unnumber'd with the slain,
“'Tis all I ask, fair Freedom's future reign,
“Then from my gratitude thy voice shall claim
“All that thy want or fondest wish can frame.”

“No splendid gifts,” the virtuous man rejoin'd,
“Have pow'r to move the duty-center'd mind:
“Yet would thy gratitude my love secure,
“Then be, Oh Chief! a father to the poor:—
“Illustrious offspring of an honour'd race,
“Allow my warm attachment this embrace.”
He spoke—and, with a love devoid of art,
He press'd Gustavus to his feeling heart.
Now, breaking from the Youth's encircling arms,
Resign'd him to his fate and War's alarms:
Then to the sacred altar he repair'd,
And thus aloud his ardent vows preferr'd:
“Oh Thou that liv'st enshrin'd from mortal eye,
“Look down indulgent from thy sacred sky,
“See the bold Youth to valor's impulse yield,
“See, see him hast'ning to th' embattled field!
“—On Freedom's brow be his the wreath to twine!
“To see that happy glorious day be mine!”
He added not—Heav'n granted half his pray'r,
The rest was scatter'd to th' abortive air.

Scarce had the Chief commenc'd his bold career,
When slept the Curate on the peaceful bier:
There heav'd the village swain the sigh profound,
There stood the grateful poor lamenting round.
Thus mourn'd, thus honour'd, fell the hallow'd sage,
A bright example to each future age!
The hamlet, jealous of her Pastor's fame,
Adorn'd her simple annals with his name.

Alluding to the massacre of the senate at Stockholm.

THE FUNERAL OF ARABERT, MONK OF LA TRAPPE,

A POEM.

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

ARABERT, a young ecclesiastic, retired to the convent of LA TRAPPE, in obedience to a vow he had taken during a fit of illness: LEONORA, with whom he had lived in the strictest intimacy, followed her lover, and by the means of a disguise, obtained admission into the monastery, where a few day after she assisted at her lover's Funeral.

Fair Leonora, by Affliction led,
Sought the dread dome where sleep the hallow'd dead:
The solemn edifice was wrapt around
In midnight darkness, and in peace profound:
A solitary lamp, with languid light,
Serv'd not to chase, but to disclose the night;
Serv'd to disclose (the source of all her pains)
The tomb that gap'd for Arabert's remains:
To this, she sent the deep, the frequent sigh,
And spoke—the warm tear rushing from her eye.

‘Doom'd to receive all that my soul holds dear,
‘Give him that rest his heart refus'd him here:

‘Oh! screen him from the pain the tender know,
‘The train of sorrows that from passion flow!
‘And to his happier envied state adjoin,
‘(Or all is vain) an ignorance of mine.’

As thus she mourn'd, an aged priest drew near,
(Whose pure life glided as the riv'let clear)
The virtuous Anselm.—Tho' in cloisters bred,
Still bright-ey'd Wisdom to his cell he led:
From paths of sophistry he lov'd to stray,
To tread the walk where Nature led the way.
The Prior's rank he long had held approv'd,
Esteem'd, rever'd, and as a parent lov'd:
Unskilful in the jargon of the schools,
He knew Humanity's diviner rules;
To others gentle, to himself severe,
On Sorrow's wound he dropt the healing tear.
In all the negligence of grief, he found
The fair extended on the naked ground.

Touch'd at her woe, the sacred Father said,
‘Well may'st thou droop if Happiness be fled:
‘Sure, if at holy Arabert's decease,
‘Impetuous sorrows rush upon thy peace,
‘Some much-lov'd friend in him you must deplore,
‘Or, dearer still, a brother is no more:
‘Yet, as thro' life our weary steps we bend,
‘Let us not sink when beating storms descend:
‘Still let Religion hold unrival'd sway,
‘And Patience walk companion of our way.
‘Ah, lose not sight of that delightful shore,
‘Whose blissful bow'rs shall friends to friends restore!
‘Tho' here Misfortune comes to blast our will,
‘The Heav'ns are just, and God a Father still.’

‘Blest be the voice,’ the rising mourner said,
‘That bids Affliction raise her drooping head:
‘That bids me hope (beyond e'en Death's domain)
‘These eyes shall banquet on my love again.

‘Ah, start not, Anselm—for, to truth allied,
‘Impiety now throws her mask aside:
‘No holy Monk, by Contemplation led
‘To these sequester'd mansions of the dead;
‘No Youth devoted to Religion's pow'r,
‘Implores thy pity at this awful hour.—
‘The guilty secret I'll at length unfold—
‘In me—(forgive!) a woman you behold.
‘—Ah, fly me not! let Mercy now prevail,
‘And deign to mark my sad disast'rous tale.

‘Known to Misfortune from my tender years,
‘My parents' ashes drank my early tears:
‘A barb'rous uncle, to each vice allied,
‘The office of a parent ill supplied:
‘Of my entire inheritance possess'd,
‘By lucre prompted, and by fortune blest,
‘He pass'd the ocean never to return,
‘And left me weeping o'er my parents' urn:

‘Then Arabert, the gen'rous stranger, came,
‘To soothe my sorrows, and relieve my shame:
‘Beneath his tender care my woes decreas'd,
‘More than Religion's, he was Pity's priest:
‘To reach his bounty my affection strove,
‘Till gratitude was heighten'd into love:
‘Nor he at length refus'd the lover's part,
‘The pity that adorn'd, betray'd his heart.
‘How ardently he wish'd the nuptial rite
‘In holy wedlock might our hands unite!
‘But stern Religion at our vows exclaim'd,
‘And tore the bands that Love and Nature fram'd:
‘For then devoted to her hallow'd shrine,
‘His country's laws forbade him to be mine.
‘Tho' from my mind each flatt'ring thought retir'd,
‘And in my bosom Hope and Peace expir'd;
‘Yet on their ruins Love triumphant rose:
‘Enough—shame o'er the rest a mantle throws:
‘At length Remorse effac'd the guilty scene,
‘And to his breast apply'd her dagger keen;

‘Restrain'd in full career the erring youth,
‘And led him back to Innocence and Truth:
‘'Twas then he fled (divorc'd from Pleasure's chain)
‘To woo Religion in this gloomy fane:
‘Yet ere he fled, my bliss he fondly plann'd,
‘And scatter'd riches with a lavish hand:
‘Ah, what to me avail'd the golden store?
‘The giver gone, the gift could charm no more.

‘While in the gloom his tedious absence cast,
‘My former life in fancy I repass'd,
‘Repentance gain'd admission to my breast,
‘Nor did it enter an unwelcome guest:
‘For ne'er to Pleasure I dismiss'd the rein
‘Free and unconscious of Reflection's pain;
‘If hapless Leonora lov'd too well,
‘Content, fair Virtue's friend, with Virtue fell:
‘But not my stubborn soul could pray'r subdue,
‘E'en grafted on remorse my passion grew;

‘Too fatal passion—by its impulse led,
‘In man's attire to this retreat I fled:
‘Yet then, e'en then to bashful Fear allied,
‘Still o'er my Love did Modesty preside.
‘In those calm moments that precede the night,
‘When peaceful Nature wears a soften'd light,
‘I met the Youth within the solemn grove,
‘(His frequent walk) absorb'd in heav'nly love:
‘By warm occasion eagerly impell'd,
‘A sudden fear my ready steps withheld:
‘While God and he employ the trembling scene,
‘'Twere sacrilege, I cried, to rush between:
‘Still from that hour my wishes I restrain'd,
‘And in my breast th' unwilling secret chain'd;
‘Unknown to him, yet half-content I grew,
‘So that his form might daily charm my view.
‘But new Affliction, with relentless hand,
‘O'erthrew the project that my heart had plann'd;
‘Amid the horrors of the lonesome night,
‘A ghastly spectre rush'd upon my sight,

‘And pour'd these accents on my trembling ear,
‘Think not Impiety shall triumph here:
‘Thy hopes are blasted—Death's tremendous bell
‘Shall sound, ere many hours, thy lover's knell:
‘I started from my couch, with fright impress'd,
‘Flew to the fane to calm my anxious breast,
‘By love then prompted—yet by love dismay'd,
‘The peopled choir I tremblingly survey'd;
‘Sill 'mid th' innumerous monastic train,
‘These eyes solicited his form in vain:
‘Nor in the field or pensive grove retir'd
‘Could I discover whom my heart requir'd:
‘Then sure (I cried) at this unhappy hour
‘Does Anguish o'er his cell diffuse its pow'r:
‘Shall Leonora not relieve his pain,
‘And with these arms his drooping head sustain?
‘Say, near the couch, when Death is stalking round,
‘Shall not the spouse of his fond heart be found?
‘Ah no—th' affection that subdues me still,
‘At that dread moment check'd my ardent will,

‘Lest rushing on his sight I should controul
‘The holy thoughts that hover'd o'er his soul.

‘This low'ring morn disclos'd the fatal truth:
‘Oh early lost—oh lov'd—oh hapless youth—
‘Fix'd to the column of the hallow'd porch—
‘'Twas scarcely light—some Fury lent her torch—
‘I read—

The pious Arabert's no more,
The peace the dead require, for him implore:
‘Let peace, let joy, (I said) his spirit join,
‘Nor joy nor peace must e'er encircle mine.
‘Lamented Youth! too tenderly allied,
‘In vain you fled me, and in vain you died;
‘Still to your image, which this breast inurns,
‘My constant heart a lamp perpetual burns.

‘But thou, to whom as friend he did impart
‘Each latent wish and foible of the heart;

‘For well I know, where Sorrow drops a tear,
‘Or Misery complains, thou still art near;
‘Ah say, by love did my known image drest,
‘Come to his mind thus welcome, thus carest?
‘Or on his soul come rushing undesir'd,
‘The fatal fair, by female arts inspir'd,
‘Who dimm'd the lustre of his radiant name,
‘And from his temples tore the flow'r of fame;
‘Who thro' the winding maze of Pleasure's bow'r
‘Allur'd (for beauty such as mine had pow'r)
‘E'en to the dang'rous steep—and cast him down
‘From high repute to grov'ling disrenown?—
‘Wretch that I am, to my distressful state
‘There wanted not th' addition of his hate:
‘For him I plung'd my artless youth in shame,
‘Unlock'd reserve, and sacrific'd my fame:
‘Still, still I fear (unable to confide,)
‘Before my Arabert, the lover died:
‘This thought (to thee I'll own) suspends my grief,
‘While cold Indifference comes to my relief:

‘Say, virtuous Anselm, if this thought be vain,
‘And give, Oh give me all my grief again!’

To her reply'd the pity-breathing seer,
‘Mark well my words, and lose thy idle fear:
‘When on the couch of Death the victim lay,
‘Not in that moment was his friend away:
‘As at his side I took my mournful stand,
‘With feeble grasp he seiz'd my offer'd hand,
‘And thus began:—“The fatal dart is sped,
“Soon, soon shall Arabert encrease the dead:
“'Tis well—for what can added life bestow,
“But days returning still with added woe?
“Say, have I not secluded from my sight
“The lovely object of my past delight?
“Ah, had I too dethron'd her from my mind,
“When here the holy brotherhood I join'd,
“Remorse would not, encreasing my disease,
“Prey on my soul, and rob it of its ease:

“And yet I strove, unequal to the part,
“Weak to perform the sacrifice of heart:
“And now, e'en now, too feeble to controul,
“I feel her clinging to my parting soul.”
‘He spoke—(my sympathetic bosom bled)
‘And to the realms of Death his spirit fled.’

The fair rejoin'd: ‘Misled by foul distrust,
‘To him, whose heart was mine, am I unjust?
‘Ah, Arabert, th' unwilling fault forgive,
‘Dead to th' alluring world, in thee I live:
‘My thoughts, my deep regret, my sorrows own,
‘No view, no object still but thee alone:
‘At all the vengeance bursting from above,
‘Alarm'd, I weep, I shudder, yet I love.’

As thus she spoke, the death-bell smote her ear,
While to the porch the fun'ral train drew near:
Ah, Leonore, in that tremendous hour,
Didst thou not feel all Heav'n's avenging pow'r,

When moving thro' the isle the choral band,
And vested priests, with torches in their hand,
Gave to thy view, unfortunately dear,
Thy lover sleeping on th' untimely bier?

Collecting now at length her scatter'd force,
With trembling footsteps she approach'd the corse,
And, while she check'd the conflict in her breast,
The wide-encircling throng she thus address'd:
‘Well may ye mark me with astonish'd eyes,
‘Audacious hypocrite in man's disguise;
‘Who, urg'd by passion, dar'd with steps profane
‘Approach the hallow'd dome of Virtue's train:
‘Lead me, ah lead me, to the dungeon's gloom,
‘The rack prepare—I yield me to your doom:
‘Yet still should Pity in your breast abide,
‘And Pity sure to Virtue is allied,
‘To my distress benign attention lend,
‘Your acts of rigor for a while suspend,
‘Till o'er this bier ('tis Nature's kind relief)
‘I've pour'd my plaints, and paid the rites of Grief:

‘Ah! he was dearer to this bleeding heart,
‘Far dearer than expression can impart.

‘Thou who didst place us in this vale of tears,
‘Where Sorrow blasts the plant that Pleasure rears;
‘If, as the tenets of our creed require,
‘Thy waken'd justice breathe immortal ire;
‘If Love, from whence e'en here misfortunes flow,
‘Beyond the grave is curs'd with endless woe:
‘Ah! not on Arabert thy vengeance pour!
‘On me, on me thy storm of anger show'r!
‘For I allur'd him far from Virtue's way,
‘And led his youthful innocence astray:
‘Ah! not in punishment our fate conjoin,
‘He shar'd the rapture, but the guilt was mine.’

With trembling hand she now the veil withdrew,
When lo, the well known features struck her view:

Absorpt in grief she cast a fond survey—
At length her thougths in murmurs broke away:
‘That eye—which shed on mine voluptuous light,
‘Alas! how sunk in everlasting night!
‘See from those lips the living colour fled,
‘Where Love resided, and where Pleasure fed!
‘And where bright Eloquence had pour'd her store
‘Dumb Horror sits—and Wisdom is no more:
‘Yet ere the worm (since this is doom'd its prey)
‘Shall steal the ling'ring likeness quite away,
‘On that cold lip sure Leonore may dwell,
‘And, free from guilt, imprint the long farewel:’
She added not—but bending low her head,
Three times the mourner kiss'd th' unconscious dead.

Now holy Anselm urg'd her to restrain
Her boundless grief, in rev'rence of the fane:
She answer'd, starting from the sable bier,
‘Can I forget that Arabert was dear?

100

‘Can I, cold monitor! at once uproot
‘Th' affections from my inmost soul that shoot?
‘Can I forget, as destitute I lay,
‘To sickness, grief, and penury a prey,
‘How eagerly he flew at Pity's call,
‘Put forth his hand, and rais'd me from my fall?
‘All unsolicited he gave me wealth,
‘He gave me solace, and he gave me health:
‘And, dearer than the bliss those gifts impart,
‘He strain'd me to his breast, and gave his heart:
‘And shall these hallow'd walls and awful fane
‘Reproach the voice that pours the praiseful strain?
‘Say, at the friend's, the guardian's, lover's tomb,
‘Can Sorrow sleep, and Gratitude be dumb?
‘But I submit—and bend thus meekly low,
‘To kiss th' avenging hand that dealt the blow:
‘Resign'd I quit the losing path I trod,
‘Fall'n is my idol—and I worship God.’
She ceas'd—the choir intones the fun'ral song,
Which holy echoes plaintively prolong;

101

And now the solemn organ, tun'd to woe,
Pour'd the clear notes pathetically slow:
These rites perform'd—along th' extending fane
She now attends the slow-proceeding train;
Who o'er the mournful cypress-shaded way,
To the expecting tomb the dead convey.
See now the priests the closing act prepare,
And to the darksome vault commit their care:
At this dread scene, too feelingly distress'd,
She pour'd the last effusions of her breast:
‘Come, guardian Seraph, from thy throne above,
‘And watch the tomb of my departed love!’

She paus'd—then (o'er the yawning tomb reclin'd)
In all the tenderness of grief rejoin'd:
‘Oh Beauty's flow'r—Oh Pleasure ever new—
‘Oh Friendship, Love, and Constancy, adieu!
‘Ye virtues that adorn'd th' unhappy Youth,
‘Affection, Pity, Confidence, and Truth,

102

‘The gen'rous thoughts that with the feeling dwell,
‘And sympathy of heart—farewell, farewell!
‘Not all of Arabert this tomb contains,
‘All is not here while Leonore remains:
‘Methinks a voice e'en animates the clay,
‘And in low accents summons me away:
‘Haste, Leonore—thy other self rejoin,
‘And let thy glowing ashes mix with mine.
‘Ah, trust me, Arabert! to share thy doom,
‘Prepar'd, resolv'd, I'll meet thee in the tomb:
‘Forbear, Oh Heav'n, in pity to these tears,
‘To curse my sorrow with a length of years!

‘When this grief-drooping form shall press the bier,
‘Say, virtuous Anselm, wilt thou not be near,
‘To grace the close of my unhappy doom,
‘And lay these limbs in this lamented tomb?
‘Thus when this tortur'd heart shall cease to rave,
‘Our blended dust shall warm the faithful grave:

103

‘Nor distant far is that releasing hour,
‘For Nature now, oppress'd beyond her pow'r,
‘Resigns at length my troubled soul to rest,
‘And Grief's last anguish rushes thro' my breast.’

Behold her now extended on the ground,
And see the sacred brethren kneeling round:
Them she addresses in a fault'ring tone,
‘Say, cannot Death my daring crime atone?
‘Ah, let Compassion now your hearts inspire,
‘Amid your pray'rs I unalarm'd expire.
‘Thou who art e'en in this dread moment dear,
‘Oh, shade of Arabert, still hover near:
‘I come.’—And now, emerging from her woes,
('Twas Love's last effort) from the earth she rose;
And, strange to tell! with strong affection fraught,
She headlong plung'd into the gloomy vault:
And there, what her impassion'd wish requir'd,
On the lov'd breast of Arabert expir'd.

'Tis usual to bury the monks of La Trappe in their monastic habit, extended on a plank.

104

WRITTEN IN Mr. HUME's History.

Big with the tales of other years,
I view th' historic tome;
Which to the pensive mind appears
A deep capacious tomb:

Where long embalm'd by Clio's hand,
The patriot and the slave,
Who sav'd, and who betray'd the land,
Press one extensive grave:

With those that grasp'd th' imperial helm,
And trod the path of Pow'r:
With those who grac'd fair Learning's realm,
And Beauty's fairer bow'r.

105

If thus th' illustrious close their scene,
Oblivion then may laugh:
What flows from Hume's recording pen
Is but an Epitaph!

106

IMITATED From the FRENCH.

Straying beside yon wood-screen'd river,
Dan Cupid met my wond'ring view;
His feather'd arrows stor'd his quiver,
Each feather glow'd a different hue:

‘For him who frames the daring deed,
‘(The little Godhead said, and laugh'd)
‘To fly with Miss beyond the Tweed,
‘An eagle's plume adorns the shaft.

‘The prattler, vain of his address,
‘The magpye's feathers never fail;
‘And for the youth too fond of dress,
‘I rob the gaudy peacock's tail.

107

‘Whene'er I mean to rouse the care
‘That lurks within the jealous heart,
‘The owl that wings the midnight air
‘Lends his grave plume to load the dart.

‘But rarely when I would assail
‘The constant heart with truth imprest,
‘Then for the trembling shaft I steal
‘A feather from the turtle's breast:

‘Lo! one with that soft plumage crown'd,
‘Which more than all my arms I prize!’
‘—Alas!’ I cried, ‘this gave the wound,
‘When late you shot from Julia's eyes.’

108

FOR THE VASE AT BATH EASTON UPON DREAMS.

NOVEMBER, 1777.

I.

As Echo's voice returns the pleasing lay,
So is a Dream the echo of the day:
The busy thoughts that round some object teem
Oft join in sleep to form the nightly theme;
Then bright-ey'd Fancy lifts her magic wand,
While scenes unreal rise at her command;
Then Comedy, with all her laughing train,
Straight issues from the porch of Comus' fane,

109

And bringing with her all her pleasing wiles,
Her pranks, her gambols, and her winning smiles,
She bids her merry troop approach the bed,
And beat their airy dance round Anstey's head.

II.

Still when some chosen Fair commands the heart,
Gay Fancy acts at night her mimic part:
With skilful hand she decks the living scene,
And ushers to the view the bosom's Queen.
Ye Lovers, answer to the truth I sing;
Say, does not Fancy to your slumber bring,
Dress'd by each grace, in Beauty's best array,
The welcome Fair who charm'd you thro' the day?
Does not her form return to glad the sight,
Like Cynthia bursting thro' the cloud of night?
How pleas'd each well-known feature we descry,
That look of sense—that eloquence of eye!—

110

She speaks—her words, beyond vain Music's art,
Steal on our slumber, and enchant the heart.

III.

Sometimes a dream anticipates the date,
Comes as a prophet to reveal our fate:
And thus, ere Yorick sunk into the tomb,
The Priest of sentiment foresaw his doom:
'Twas night—his solitary couch he press'd,
Till sorrow-worn he wearied into rest;
Eliza then soft gliding on his view,
Thus o'er his slumber breath'd her sad adieu:
‘Oh thou, my guardian, confident, and friend,
‘To what thy handmaid now reveals attend:
‘No longer now the gift of Health implore,
‘The curtain drops, and thy short scene is o'er;
‘Yet ere thy feeling spirit takes its flight
‘To yonder regions of celestial light,

111

‘Some fond endearment to Eliza shew,
‘And thy last blessing on thy Child bestow.’

The Vision ceas'd—yet then the shaul she spread ,
To raise compassionate his drooping head,
And (from her eyes as beads of sorrow fell)
Low on her knees receiv'd his last farewell.

See the Letters to Eliza.

This poetical institution ceased at the death of Lady Millar, 1781; which event has been celebrated by Miss Seward.

112

FOR THE VASE AT BATH EASTON. DISSIPATION.

I.

If Hope, the friend of Man, extend a ray
Along the sky of some far distant day;
Gay Dissipation boasts a friendlier pow'r,
She breaks the gloom that dims the present hour!
E'en painter-like she takes her ready stand,
A radiant pencil decks her skilful hand,
And with the colours of her magic art
She gilds the cloud that settles on the heart.

II.

This Proteus often takes a different frame:
To Heroes she assumes the shape of Fame;

113

To suckling Bards she rolls the river Cam;
To Dowagers she takes the form of Pam.

III.

Could Celia long endure a country life;
The prim false-breeding of th' attorney's wife;
The parson's pun; the husband's duller joke;
The solitary walk; the raven's croak;
Did not the Goddess act the Prophet's part,
And to her mournful votary impart
The wish'd-for blessings that are doom'd to crown
The chearful hours that glide within the town,
And paint young Pleasure's gayly-vested train
With all the conquests of the next campaign?
And e'en in town could she endure the weight
Of the long after-dinner tête-à-tête,
Did not the Goddess to her mind recal
Th' approaching splendors of the evening ball?

114

IV.

Behold, encircled with Affliction's gloom,
Belinda watches at her husband's tomb;
Beneath th' oppressive weight of grief she bends,
Like the pale lily when the rain descends:
But Dissipation, with her soothing aid,
Forbids the beauteous drooping flow'r to fade.
The Fair intends, in proof of her distress,
To wear the mourning of the days of Bess!
But in obedience to the present court,
Kind Dissipation bids her wear the short.
At her command, while tears bedew her cheeks,
Belinda through the veil of mourning peeps;
Her pulse beats quicker as she then surveys
Th' approaching prospect of more happy days:
At length the change of mourning brings relief,
And at the change she loses half her grief.

115

Now on the joys that meet her on the way,
The mourner casts a fearful coy survey:
Now less reserv'd, a bolder view she sends,
And bolder still the Pleasure's bark ascends,
Where laughing Hebe grasps the glitt'ring helm,
To guide the vessel to th' Idalian realm.
Now soft recorders send a soothing sound,
And in the notes affliction's plaints are drown'd;
The sails grow pregnant with the wanton air,
Not unregarded by the conscious Fair,
Who glides obedient to the fav'ring wind,
And leaves the gloom of widowhood behind.

116

THE INDIAN CHIEF.

[_]

An English Officer in the late war being taken prisoner by the French Indians, became the slave of an old Indian Chief, who treated him with humanity. One day the Indian took the Officer up a hill, and addressed him as follows: See the Anecdotes of Literature, vol. 5th.

‘Twelve tedious moons hast thou my captive been,
‘I've taught thee how to build the swift canoe,
‘To chase the boar, prepare the beaver's skin,
‘To speed the shaft, and scalp the shrieking foe.

‘Say, does thy Father sleep within his grave?’—
‘Oh Heav'n forbid!’ the feeling Youth replied—
‘Then do his sorrows all my pity crave,’
The Chief return'd—‘'Twere better he had died.

117

‘I was a Father once—oh valiant son!
‘Thy loss each low'ring morn and eve recal.
‘To shield my years, to Danger's path he run;
‘These eyes beheld the gallant warrior fall:

‘And Glory saw him fall with wounds o'erspread,
‘Bold on his bosom ev'ry wound he bore:
‘I rent the forelock from his murd'rer's head,
‘And left him breathless on the crimson shore.

‘Since that sad day my hours no pleasure share’—
The Indian Chief now paus'd, with sorrow fraught,
Wrapt in the awful silence of despair;
At length in words he cloath'd his mournful thought.

‘Behold that sun! how bright it shines to you!
‘Since that sad day to me it looks a cloud:
‘How gay yon blooming roses meet your view!
‘To me Grief drops o'er Nature's breast a shroud.

118

‘Go, virtuous Stranger! to thy Father go,
‘Wipe from his furrow'd cheek Misfortune's tear:
‘Go, bid the sun to him his splendor shew,
‘And bid the flow'r in all her bloom appear.’

119

INSCRIPTION FOR A REED-HOUSE

Say , if to shun the noisy day,
The summer sun's oppressive ray,
Thou visit'st Contemplation's cell,
Here tarry—she'll repay thee well:
For she can bid each passion cease,
And sooth the troubled heart to peace,
Can to thy sober wishes yield
Contentment's flow'r and Wisdom's shield.

At Cossy, the Seat of Sir William Jerningham.

120

THE VENETIAN MARRIAGE.

The western sun's expiring ray
To Venice gave a milder day;
Till by degrees the ling'ring light
Serenely soften'd into night.
Camilla then, with fearful soul,
To th' Adriatic margin stole,
Where in a bark, at Love's command,
Placentio took his faithful stand:
Possessing now his future bride,
He bade the bark securely glide,
Which far unlike that gally show'd
That down the silver Cydnus row'd,
Beneath whose purple sails were seen
Proud Ostentation's gaudy Queen,

121

Who sure of conquest, vain of mind,
All languishingly lay reclin'd!
Here Beauty undefil'd by art,
Whose bosom own'd a tender heart,
Beneath the sails from home remov'd,
And trusted to the man she lov'd.

A soothing calmness lull'd the deep,
And hush'd each wavy surge to sleep:
The air along the sultry day,
Scorch'd by the summer's fervent ray,
Was freshen'd by a recent show'r,
While silence solemniz'd the hour.

The still solemnity impress'd
With awful thoughts Camilla's breast:
For now by prompting Love impell'd,
Now by Timidity withheld,
The words she to her lips applied
Recoil'd, and unaccented died.

122

Placentio too, alike subdued,
They sail'd along in silent mood,
And stillness reign'd from shore to shore,
Unbroke—but by the dashing oar.

At length the Fair dissolv'd the charm—
‘Ah, wonder not I feel alarm:
‘Confiding in thy love I came,
‘And risk'd for thee my virgin fame:
‘Ah tell me to what place we sail,
‘For in my bosom fears prevail:—
‘Yet answer not this idle fear,
‘Where'er thou art, bright Honour's there.’

‘The plan I form,’ the Youth replied,
‘To Innocence is close allied,
‘And fearful of thy virgin fame
‘As of her babe the tender dame.
‘—These waves, that wander to the sea,
‘Wash in their pilgrimage a tree,

123

‘Which spreads its lowly branches wide,
‘And dips them in the passing tide:
‘There, in a shed compos'd of reeds,
‘An aged hermit tells his beads:
‘He, gen'rous Sage! will join our hands
‘In wedlock's unremitting bands.
‘Then to Valclusa we'll repair,
‘Where Laura's soul informs the air:
‘Where Petrarch's spirit hovers round,
‘The guardian of the sacred ground,
‘Forbidding still the fiend of art,
‘That shrewd perverter of the heart,
‘The snake, Inconstancy, to rove
‘Within the paradise of Love.

‘As when the winter's storms are fled
‘The fearful snow-drop lifts her head,
‘So may that whiter flow'r, thy breast,
‘Wake into life, from fears releas'd,

124

‘Mild as these twilight breezes blow,
‘Still as the waves on which we flow!’

‘Ye walls where first I drew the air!’
Return'd (assur'd) the beauteous Fair;
‘Ye turrets which but dimly seen
‘Encrease the terrour of the scene!
‘Ye stately tow'rs! and rising spires!
‘From you Camilla now retires.
‘Thou tomb whose pious urn contains
‘My sacred Parents' cold remains!
‘Ye partners of my tender years,
‘Whom youthful sympathy endears!
‘Ye joys that crown my native coast!—
‘Well for Placentio all are lost.’

She ceas'd—and on her pensive soul
Again an awful musing stole,
Such as the twilight scene excites,
Such as the feeling heart delights;

125

For as the coy nocturnal flow'r
No more its sweets at eve withholds,
So the meek heart at th' evening hour
Its sensibility unfolds.

The mild enlivener of the night
Now yields her kind directing light!
As from the wood's deep bosom sprung,
Her sober radiance round she flung,
The trees that slept along the shore
With light's soft veil she mantled o'er;
The bending tow'r of old renown
She rounded with a silver crown:
The antique fane now rose to view,
Envelop'd in the purest hue:
Behold the lustre spreading wide
Illuminates the ocean-tide,
While placid beams serenely gay
Like star-drops on her bosom play!

126

This beauteous soul-subduing sight,
Diffusing round a calm delight,
With sympathetic touch imprest
The seat of Love, Placentio's breast:
‘Behold,’ he cried, with Pleasure's voice,
‘Thou Beauty's flow'r, Affection's choice!
‘Behold how Nature decks the night,
‘And cloaths her scenes with vestal light!
‘Methinks kind Heav'n displays its pow'r
‘To decorate thy nuptial hour.’

At length they reach the sacred cell
Where Wisdom, Peace, and Virtue dwell;
There, bent beneath the weight of age,
They find prepar'd th' expecting Sage.
He hail'd them in a friendly tone,
And bade them call his cell their own:
Where rose an altar form'd of moss,
Crown'd with a simple wooden cross!

127

There too a taper, mildly bright,
Supplied a pompous glare of light.
No holy relick rich-enchas'd
This humble low-roof'd temple grac'd:
But flowrets from the neighb'ring wood
The unambitious altar strew'd:
For incense they exhal'd perfume,
For ornament they gave their bloom.

The Hermit spoke—‘Hail, virtuous pair,
‘May sorrow now your bosom spare!
‘Tho' youth be yours, yet well I know
‘You've tasted deep of human woe:
‘Control, and Art, and Baseness join'd
‘To cancel what your hearts design'd:
‘But now Misfortune's reign is o'er,
‘And Pleasure opens all her store.’

See now the youthful Pair unite
To meet the hymeneal rite:

128

Pronouncing, as they lowly bow,
Warm from the heart, the hallow'd vow:
At length the Hermit joins their hands
In willing and unvenal bands,
Unspotted bands! which mutual Love,
And Confidence, and Virtue wove.

The night-smelling Geranium.

129

THE MEXICAN FRIENDS.

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The sublime instance of heroic friendship that forms the subject of this Poem, is recorded by ANTONIO DE SOLIS, is his History of Mexico. This is an episode of a more extensive poem, which is suppressed: This episode is retained, as being the part of that poem which was favourably received. Two fragments, which met with the same distinction, are also preserved.

131

Two valiant Youths (whom Friendship's holy hand
Had join'd with her indissoluble band)
Beheld indignant, smit with patriot grief,
The great achievements of the hostile chief:
And now Janellan thus accosts his Friend:—
‘Firm to no purpose, active to no end,
‘See from our gallant men yon hallow'd tow'r
‘Already ravish'd by the invading pow'r:
‘Must this, committed to our mutual care,
‘The same defeat, the same dishonour share?
‘If so—the victor shall not long survive—
‘A thought that bids my fading hope revive,

132

‘A thought—that like the thunder-flash of night
‘Darts on my darken'd mind a radiant light—
‘But ere my veil'd designment I unfold,
‘Declare, however rash, however bold,
‘Thou'lt not o'ershade with Caution's chill controul,
‘The warm, the splendid purpose of my soul.’

Venzula to his breast his hand applied,
And thus, beyond the pow'r of words, replied.

The Youth resum'd—‘From this aerial height,
‘Bid thy bold vision take its deepest flight,
‘Down to yon rock, far stretching o'er the shore,
‘'Gainst which the raging waves incessant roar,
‘Whose clashing voices into stillness fade,
‘Ere this tremendous distance they pervade:
‘If Fortune bless what my proud counsels urge,
‘Yon waves shall murmur soon the victor's dirge!
‘My secret project I will now unveil:—
‘Should Cortez o'er this valiant band prevail,

133

‘Should thro' controulment, and thro' stubborn force,
‘Pour like a torrent his destructive course,
‘When on this summit first he shall appear,
‘I will advance, with well-dissembled fear,
‘And, suppliant as I kneel to win his grace,
‘I'll dauntless lock him in a stern embrace,
‘Bear him reluctant to yon giddy steep,
‘Where yawns a dreadful opening to the deep,
‘And thence—self-ruin'd for my country's good—
‘Plunge with her foe into the whelming flood!’

Venzula answer'd—‘Yes, I much admire
‘What now thy matchless virtue dares inspire:
‘But wilt thou, with an avarice of fame,
‘The meed of Glory all exclusive claim?
‘Wilt thou to perils close to Death adjoin'd
‘Advance, and leave thy faithful Friend behind?
‘In infancy we shar'd the glitt'ring toys,
‘And in one circle play'd our harmless joys:

134

‘And when we quitted Childhood's lowly vale,
‘Where springing flowrets scent the playful gale,
‘Still hand in hand we climb'd youth's arduous height,
‘Whence greater scenes expanded on the sight,
‘Still our pursuits consenting to one plan,
‘Like wedded streams our lives united ran:
‘And wilt thou now oppose the sacred tide,
‘And bid the friendly waves disparting glide?’

Janellan spoke—‘Endearing Youth! forgive:
‘The conqu'ror of some future Cortez live!
‘Nor mark my fall with Grief's dejected brow,
‘View from my death the bright effects that flow:
‘Behold the tomb that Gratitude shall raise,
‘Illustrious signal of my Country's praise.’

To this the brave Venzula made reply,
And as he spoke, tears started from his eye:
‘What tho' Felicity, thy gift, shall stream
‘Sunlike o'er Mexico with brightest beam,

135

‘Not all the splendour that her rays impart,
‘Will e'er illumine my benighted heart,
‘When destitute of thee, its only ray,
‘Without the hope of kind returning day.

‘Yet then to this great argument adjoin'd
‘Sublimer motives urge my steady mind:
‘Recal, recal that joy-diffusing hour,
‘When gay Prosperity adorn'd my bow'r,
‘As thy fair sister, half-afraid to speak,
‘With downcast look, and blush-embellish'd cheek,
‘At Love's request assented to be mine:
‘Of fleeting bliss vain momentary shine!
‘For she, in flow'r of Youth and Virtue's bloom,
‘Was swept untimely to the rav'nous tomb:
‘As sorrow-wounded o'er her couch I hung,
‘To catch the tones that faded as they sprung,
‘The God, she said, now summons me away,
‘Far from the confines of th' endearing day:

136

‘Thou of the life I lose the dearest part,
‘Thou chosen spouse! thou sun-beam of my heart,
‘Say, by Affection's glowing hand impress'd,
‘Shall I not live in thy recording breast?
‘If sacred be the suff'rer's last desires,
‘Revere what now my parting soul requires:
‘I leave a brother, by bright Honour rear'd,
‘By all approv'd, and much to me endear'd:
‘Be, for the sister's love, the brother's Friend;
‘Nor from his side depart when storms descend:
‘The palm of Glory waving in your sight,
‘In council, peril, enterprise unite.’

‘Shall I, when danger calls, consign to air
‘The last bequeathing wishes of the Fair?
‘Perdition catch the base unmanly thought!
‘By Love's subliming purest dictates taught,
‘Amid the perils that around thee wait,
‘View me resolv'd to share th' impending fate:

137

Now to this spot the foe impels the war,
‘Discordance screams, opposing lances jar:
‘The steep ascent, lo! Cortez now has gain'd,
‘Ah! mark his spear with streaming gore distain'd!

The illustrious Youths now act their dread design:
See at the victor's knee they low incline!
Now clasp with circling force th' incautious foe,
And close adhering to his figure grow:
Their deadly aim his better fate control'd,
With matchless pow'r he bursts their stubborn hold:
The heroes, blasted in their bold intent,
Approach'd (Death hov'ring near) the dire descent:
Then, in each other's circling arms intwin'd,
In energetic harmony combin'd:
'Twas Friendship, burning with meridian flame,
One cause—one thought—one ruin—and one fame:

138

Tremendous moment! See, they fall from light,
And dauntless rush to never-ending night!

Ye self-devoted patriot victims, hail!
Oblivion's gulph shall ne'er entomb your tale:
While History to Time's extremest goal
Her stream majestic shall thro' ages roll,
Like two fair flowrets on one stem that blow,
Ye on her margin shall for ever glow.

139

GUATIMOZINO's SPEECH, AT THE PLACE OF INTERMENT.

[_]

The Mexicans having gained an advantage over the Spaniards, and having buried the troops (that were slain in the action) in a large field, Guatimozino, the emperor of Mexico, thus addresses the place of interment:

“Hail, sepulchre, which ev'ry coward shuns!
“Thou glorious hecatomb of Valour's sons!
“On thee, oh sacred altar of renown,
“Th' Eternal Being looks propitious down!
“They, they are dear to that all-seeing eye,
“Who greatly daring act, or bravely die.
“Let this suggestion sooth the bleeding heart,
“In which Despair has lodg'd his poison'd dart:
“To you I speak, ye fair afflicted train,
“Who weep for brothers, friends, and lovers slain:

140

“To you I speak, ye widows plung'd in care;
“And you whose sons stern fate refus'd to spare.”

As thus he said—deep from some breast unknown
Burst unsubdued Affliction's piercing moan,
Now intermitting, now returning loud—
At length, advancing thro' the wond'ring crowd,
A matron-form th' attentive hero view'd,
Her robe neglected, and her tresses rude;
With hurried step the royal Youth she sought,
Her wild eye speaking th' inexpressive thought:
Close at her side a lovely boy appears—
Now through opposing grief her voice she rears:
“Give, give to me the virtue that repels
“The whelming surge of Sorrow as it swells!
“Two valiant sons, in age my comfort's store,
“My lov'd, my duteous children, are no more:
“This morn, this direful morn, a prey to fears,
“I bath'd our parting with presaging tears:

141

“That they expir'd on Honour's sacred bed,
“That their souls mingle with th' illustrious dead,
“Well do I know—and glory in the thought:
“Bright Virtue's flame, perchance, from me they caught,
“From me th' instructive lesson first they claim'd,
“This bosom nurtur'd, and this voice inflam'd.
“Yet ill with this vain pomp of splendid words
“My drooping, loaded, sinking heart accords:
“Ah! still to Glory's thought despair succeeds,
“And th' agonizing Mother inly bleeds.
“This orphan babe to you I now bequeath,
“With Honour's brightest flow'rs his mind inwreath.”

The child, half-conscious of the mother's grief,
As if attempting to dispense relief,
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and playful smil'd:
In vain the boy her scorpion thoughts beguil'd;
Inclining at his call her anguish'd face,
Death struck she perish'd in the wish'd embrace.

142

THE SPEECH OF THE HIGH-PRIEST, AT THE PILE.

[_]

Guatimozino having opposed the Spaniards with great bravery in various engagements, was at length defeated and taken prisoner. In order to extort from him a discovery of the principal mines, he was laid on burning coals: The second in command was also condemned to the same torture, and amidst his sufferings called upon his royal master, to be released from the vow of secrecy; which drew from Guatimozino these memorable words: Am I on a bed of roses?—When the flames had entirely consumed the unfortunate Hero, the High-Priest of Mexico approached the pile, and lamented the fate of his royal Master.

When first th' inhuman deed appall'd his sight,
E'en as the cedar shrunk in sudden blight
He stood—while, at the dire appearance thrill'd,
Each function of the soul numb Horror chill'd:
At length, relenting into conscious grief,
The Seer exclaim'd—“Oh lov'd, oh hapless Chief!

143

“The ashes still that feed yon ling'ring flame,
“Do they of all thou art th' existence claim?
“Long school'd in pale Adversity's rude porch,
“Where Hope's gay scenes are burnt by Havock's torch,
“For me, with grief adjoin'd to age oppress'd,
“Remain'd but this to cleave my care-worn breast.
“In early youth to me thou wast consign'd,
“I watch'd the dawn of thy celestial mind,
“I saw, by Nature wak'd, thy talents rise,
“And Virtue mark them with her brightest dies.
“Ah! what avail these fruitless tears I shed?
“Tho' thou art gone—yet Vengeance is not dead:
“The pregnant womb of Time”—He added not—
While from his eye a radiant meaning shot.
His bosom heav'd with a prophetic throe,
Till language gave his struggling thoughts to flow.

“Methinks Futurity, celestial Maid,
“Thro' distant Time's dim length'ning isle display'd,
“Pours on my favour'd vision days unborn,
“That pant impatient for the ling'ring morn:

144

“Smooth as the clear expanse of vernal skies,
“A world of water claims my wond'ring eyes;
“See on its wavy breast, in splendid pride,
“Innum'rous brigantines triumphant ride :
“Mark how the gorgeous mass advancing ploughs
“The groaning main with high aspiring prows:
“Secure in all the haughtiness of strength,
“It moves a crescent of tremendous length,
“And big with thunders and destructive force,
“To Britain's coast directs its threat'ning course.
“Oft has Las Casas, in applauding strain,
“To me reveal'd that sea-encircled plain.
“Thou Glory of the West! Enchantment's isle,
“Where beauteous maids on godlike heroes smile:
“By Nature's hand with Nature's chaplet crown'd,
“In arts, in commerce, and in arms renown'd;
“August, magnificent, exalted Dame,
“As with a garment rob'd in Freedom's flame!

145

“Arise, arise—forestall th' intended blow,
“See to thy portal sails th' audacious foe.

“Another scenery is now display'd,
“No more the main assembled vessels shade,
“A beggar'd remnant (of the splendid throng
“That swept in conscious majesty along)
“With prows disfigur'd, and dishonour'd masts,
“While thro' the rent sails mourn the hollow blasts,
“In shatter'd, mean, dismantled, rude array,
“Steal o'er the waves their ignominious way.
“Oh! of thy brilliant and extensive train
“Do these, Armada, these alone remain?
“Who has o'erthrown the honours of thy helm?
“The voice of Fame replies—Eliza's realm!—
“Where lurk thy galleons that surpris'd the deep?
“Loud Fame replies—In Ocean's tomb they sleep!
“And of Hispania once the bright renown,
“Now glows an added gem to Britain's crown.”

146

[_]

The curiosity of an ignorant Mexican, concerning the origin of the Air, is so poetically expressed in the following lines, that the Editor thinks himself justified in re-printing them, though they were omitted by the Author in the last edition of his Poems.

“Whence is that veering spirit of the sky,
“Whose secret form eludes the human eye;
“Who now, unmindful of its matchless pow'r
“Indulgent whispers to the vernal flow'r,
“Plays with her leaves, and hov'ring o'er her bloom
“From her young breast allures the enclos'd perfume:
“And now, envelop'd in a sullen mood,
“Tempestuous rushes on the groaning wood;
“Arm'd with destructive energy, invades,
“Despoils, devasts the consecrated shades?”

The Spanish Armada sailed in 1588, disposed in the form of a crescent, and stretching the distance of seven miles from the extremity of one division to that of the other. Hume

147

THE ANCIENT ENGLISH WAKE;

A POEM.

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The Wake is of very great antiquity in this country. It was held on the day of the Dedication, that is, on the day of the saint to whom the village church was dedicated. Booths were erected in the church-yard and on the adjacent plain, and after divine service the rest of the time was devoted to the occupations of the fair, to merriment and festivity. See BOURNE'S Antiquities of the Common People, with Observations by Mr. BRAND.

The merchants, who frequented the fairs in numerous caravans or companies, employed every art to draw the people together. They were therefore accompanied by jugglers, minstrels, and buffoons. WARTON'S History of English Poetry, vol. ii. p. 367.

149

Hark! how the merry, merry bells resound,
To summon to the Wake the hamlets round:
The villagers, in all their best array,
Go forth to celebrate the festive day.

Now from the moat-encircled castle came
An aged Chief, who grac'd the roll of Fame:
Who knows not Chester's Earl, to worth ally'd,
The boast of chivalry, and valour's pride?

150

From courts and busy camps at length retir'd,
To deeds of Fame no longer he aspir'd:
Pleas'd, far sequester'd from the voice of praise,
To give to peace his last remaining days,
And while life's hour-glass near its period stands,
To watch and pray beside the closing sands.
But, 'mid the stillness of retirement's shade,
Domestic sorrow on his bosom prey'd:
A Daughter, fram'd his favor to engage,
Pride of his house, and soother of his age,
Her native mansion had abruptly fled—
The veil of darkness o'er the rest was spread.
Oft of his child some welcome news to gain
The tortur'd Father sought, but sought in vain.
He strives (this day) his sorrows to beguile,
And hide his anguish with a sickly smile.

The hoary Pastor, near the village-fane,
Receiv'd the honour'd Chief and all his train:

151

This holy, meek, disinterested man
Had form'd his useful life on duty's plan:
Unpractis'd in those arts that teach to rise,
The vacant mitre ne'er allur'd his eyes.
Regardless still of dissipation's call,
He seldom tarried at the festive hall,
Where all around the storied texture hung,
Where psaltries sounded, and where minstrels sung;
But to the humble cot's neglected door
The sacred man the balm of comfort bore:
Still would he listen to the injur'd swain,
For he who listens mitigates the pain:
There was he seen reclining o'er the bed,
Where the pale maiden bow'd her anguish'd head;
Where, rest of hope, the yielding victim lay,
And like a wreath of snow dissolv'd away:
With feeling soul the Pastor oft enquir'd
Where the meek train of silent grief retir'd,
Shame, that declines her sorrows to impart,
The drooping spirit, and the broken heart.

152

He ne'er the friar's gaping wallet fed,
But to the widow sent his loaf of bread:
His fee to Rome reluctantly he paid,
And call'd the Pardoner's a pilf'ring trade.
The sacred Psalter well he knew to gloss,
And on its page illuminate the cross:
The written Missal on the altar seen,
Inclos'd in velvet of the richest green,
Display'd initials by his fancy plann'd,
Whose brilliant colours own'd his skilful hand.
This gaily-letter'd book his art devis'd,
The temple's only ornament compriz'd:
The hallow'd service of this modest fane
(Far from the splendor of a choral train)
Could boast no labour'd chant, no solemn rites,
No clouds of incense, and no pomp of lights;
But at the plain and lowly altar stands
The village-priest with pure uplifted hands,
Invoking from above Heav'n's guardian care,
In all the meek simplicity of pray'r.

153

Fam'd Chester, now returning from the fane,
Surveys the tents gay-spreading o'er the plain:
Beneath whose roof the merchant-band display'd
The cheerful scenery of active trade:
While some, intent on wealth, with sober view,
The graver purport of the fair pursue;
Some, of a free and roving mind, partake
The various callings of the busy Wake;
These urge the prescient seer, deep-vers'd in sate,
Some passage of their story to relate:
There the fond maid, solicitous to know
Some future instance of her joy or woe,
Attends, half unbelieving, half sincere,
To the vague dictates of the artful Seer.
Lo, where the trader all his art employs
To rear the pageantry of holy toys,
And on the simple rustics shed the glare
Of gaudy Superstition's lighter ware:
Here beads hung round in many a splendid row,
In crystal glitter, or in coral glow:

154

Here gayly-painted saints attract the sight,
There ivory crosses of the purest white:
Here brilliant pebbles from the hallow'd well,
In which are lodg'd the wonder-working spell.
Some by the travell'd pilgrim take their stand,
To hear the wonders of a foreign strand;
While others, smitten with the love of song,
Around the minstrel's harp attentive throng.
Of war and daring chiefs the master sung,
While from the chords terrific sounds he flung:
At length, descending from his lofty mood,
The feeling bard a milder theme pursued,
And gently wak'd those soft, complaining tones,
So dear to melody, which Scotland owns .

155

Now, when the thronging audience all withdrew,
A beauteous Maiden still remain'd in view:
She seem'd as one of the dejected kind,
Whose face betrays the secret of the mind;
She look'd as opening day scarce ting'd with light,
Or summer's eve when fading into night:
She spoke—‘Sweet are the songs from Scotland's coast,
‘They, they admire them best who feel them most:
‘Abrupt pathetic airs, devoid of art,
‘That breathe upon the soul and melt the heart:
‘Still, when the bard some mournful tale records,
‘With plaintive harmony they clothe his words;
‘Ah! then they witness to the ear of grief,
‘That food to sorrow is the best relief.
‘Bend, gen'rous minstrel, to a mourner's pray'r,
‘Sooth with thy art the ills I'm doom'd to bear;
‘Still let some Highland airs thy skill employ,
‘And steep my soul in melancholy joy.’
Attentive to the tuneful Maid's request,
With magic touch the weeping harp he press'd,

156

And waken'd into life that pow'rful strain,
Whose sound persuasive charms almost to pain,
That thrilling harmony to nature true,
Whose arrows only wound the sacred few.

See now the throng in clust'ring numbers go
To where the troop display'd the gaudy show :
They first presented to th' expecting view,
Amid encircling clouds of richest hue,
Religion, on a throne exalted high,
While flow'rs fell sprinkling from the mimic sky:
Now stately ent'ring on the splendid scene,
Array'd in white, three female forms were seen:
These female figures to th' admiring crowd
The names of Faith, of Hope, of Love avow'd:
Three rivals; they appear before the throne
To plead—and make their various merit known.

157

Faith, while a sable band o'erspread her eyes,
In accents to this purport claim'd the prize:
‘Foe to the prying search of shallow wit,
‘Thy sacred lore, unquestion'd, I admit:
‘Before the dazzling splendor of the Law
‘I close my view, and bend with trembling awe.’

Hope, with an air to confidence ally'd,
Advanc'd—her symbol leaning at her side:
‘The sea of life do wrecking winds deform?
‘Borne on a plank, I smile amidst the storm:
‘Still thro' the dark'ning show'rs that intervene,
‘With piercing view I mark the promis'd scene,
‘Where, list'ning to the ocean's distant roar,
‘Delight sits harbour'd near the fragrant shore.’

Next Charity, with looks that dwelt on high,
Her soul, ecstatic, beaming from her eye,
Began—‘No fond expectancies I frame,
‘I boast no merit, no reward I claim;

158

‘While Heav'n's creative pow'r around me flows,
‘The flame of love within my bosom glows;
‘Rais'd from the nature of a senseless clod,
‘I burn with gratitude, and thank my God!
‘I feel, I feel affection's piercing dart—’
She paus'd, and laid her hand upon her heart.

A dove-like form now sailing from the skies,
Bore in her beak the flow'r-inwoven prize;
Religion reach'd it from the hov'ring dove,
And twin'd the wreath around the brow of Love.

Now other actors mute attention claim,
Whose antic gestures mark'd a lighter aim;
A troop of busy mutt'ring friars press'd
Around a law-man by the fiend possest:
The meagre Exorcist now plies his part,
Acts all the wonders of his secret art:
Nor word of magic, pray'r, nor rite avails,
The whole artillery of the Father fails:

159

At length he sportive cries: ‘Still uncontroul'd,
‘No pow'r can wrest sly Satan from his hold;
‘Here end we then this ineffectual strife,
‘A lawyer's bosom is a place for life.’—
The baffled Exorcist now quits his ground,
While peals of simple laughter burst around.

See to the tents the villagers repair,
The solace of the temp'rate feast to share;
A gay pavilion, that adorn'd the plain,
Receiv'd time-honour'd Chester and his train:
'Twas then a Maid, whose cheek wore beauty's hue,
(Clad as a pilgrim) rush'd upon their view;
And said, while at the Warrior's feet she fell,
‘This lowly attitude becomes me well;
‘Nor will I ever raise my blushing face,
‘Till my lov'd Father shall pronounce my grace.’

‘Lost Agatha!’ th' astonished Chester cries;
‘Lost Agatha!’ each glad'ning guest replies.

160

‘Tell, tell me, fugitive,’ the Father said,
‘Before my blessing on thy soul I shed,
‘Dost thou return with all thy bloom of name,
‘And all the wonted fragrance of thy fame?
‘If, soil'd by vice in some unhappy hour,
‘Thy character has lost its boasted flow'r,
‘Away, away—far from my sight retire,
‘Nor dare, rash girl! to meet thy wrathful Sire.’

With injur'd look, and blush-embellish'd cheek,
The beauteous Agatha began to speak:
‘Proud of my ancestry, our honor'd name
‘Shall ne'er thro' me receive the blast of shame;
‘Pure as the lily drooping with the dew
‘(Heav'n is my judge) I now approach thy view.’

‘Then with a Father's wonted glow I burn,
‘My fond affections all to thee return;
‘Thy look, thy words, thy tears, each doubt efface,’
He said—and lock'd her in his close embrace.

161

At length he urg'd his daughter to recite
The dark mysterious purport of her flight.

In act to speak advanc'd the beauteous Fair,
And drew attention still as midnight air:
She sigh'd—the roses on her cheek grew pale,
While expectation panted for the tale.
‘Recall,’ she said, ‘that brilliant hour recall,
‘When first Rodolphus grac'd the festive hall;
‘Adorn'd with Valor's wreath, in early fame,
‘In flow'r of youth, in beauty's pride he came;
‘The blush of diffidence was on his brow,
‘When, in soft voice, he spoke the ardent vow:
‘Oh kind, oh generous Sire! thy friendly voice
‘Approv'd the Youth, and sanctified my choice:
‘To his affection as I nearer drew,
‘Encreasing merit open'd on my view:
‘When he discours'd (till then to me unknown)
‘I breath'd the sigh that sorrow does not own:

162

‘Regardless of the throng when he was by,
‘Still linger'd on his form my love-sick eye,
‘Still did each moment some new charm disclose,
‘As brings each gale new fragrance from the rose.

‘Oh tender Sire! thou nam'dst the nuptial hour,
‘And grac'd thy daughter with a regal dow'r:
‘Ah me! what boots it that I now display
‘The fatal cloud that brooded o'er that day?
‘That day—when hope had chas'd each ling'ring fear,
‘When all my fond expectancies drew near,
‘When love and fortune smil'd—joy turn'd aside,
‘And left me, plung'd in woe, misfortune's bride:
‘To the swift progress of disease a prey,
‘On death's terrific couch Rodolphus lay;
‘As sorrow-wounded o'er his form I bent,
‘His closing voice these accents feebly sent:—
“The Pow'r above, whose will we must obey,
“Who tears me now from thee and joy away,

163

“Late saw me at the conscious altar bow,
“And heard these lips pronounce the hallow'd vow,
“Beneath the banner of the Cross to stand,
“And scourge th' usurpers of the Holy Land.
“This unaccomplish'd vow to thee I leave,
“With stedfast ear my parting words receive:
“In the small compass of an urn enshrin'd,
“To some bold warrior be my heart consign'd,
“To live with him when his intrepid hand
“Shall scourge th' usurpers of the Holy Land.”
‘He ceas'd—his fading eyes now roll'd in vain,
‘Now clos'd—and never gaz'd on me again .

‘No bold advent'rous war-bred youth I sought,
‘For love inspir'd me with a bolder thought:

164

‘I dropt the robe that deck'd the peaceful maid,
‘And, in the warrior's garb of steel array'd,
‘Amidst the embattled ranks unknown I stood,
‘Beneath the banner of the holy rood.
‘As in their urn Rodolphus' ashes slept,
‘I bore them to the plain where Rachel wept.
‘Peace to the souls of Archers that were hurl'd
‘In that dread moment to another world!
‘Fierce from the hands of hostile Pagans flung,
‘Dark o'er the field a cloud of jav'lins hung.
‘Still to this mind returns (dismiss'd in vain)
‘The thund'ring tumult of the horrid plain.

‘At length our daring men, to valor true,
‘The fiery-tressed Saracens o'erthrew:
‘Still dost thou ask what charm, what sacred pow'r,
‘Upheld my frame in danger's rudest hour?
‘Behold, behold the wonder-working charm ,
‘That calm'd my fear in danger's rude alarm:

165

‘This little tomb, that clasps his better part,
‘Where sleep the ashes of his spotless heart,
‘This relic, as it touch'd my conscious breast,
‘My fainting soul with energy imprest.
‘Enough—soon as the flag of truce unfurl'd
‘Its softer color to the Pagan world,
‘To England then I urg'd my lonesome way,
‘Cloath'd in this pilgrim garb of amice grey:
‘Still as the tenor of my way I kept,
‘O'er thee, oh Father! fond remembrance wept:
‘Oft did I say, while tears roll'd down my face,
‘(And as I spoke I mov'd with quicker pace)
‘By Time's devasting hand despoil'd of friends,
‘Unspous'd, undaughter'd, my lov'd parent bends;
‘Like desolation, all unfenc'd he shews,
‘Expos'd and naked to assailing woes.
‘I go, I go his sorrows to assuage,
‘To smooth with filial hand the couch of age:
‘Ply duty's task, whose labors never tire,
‘Invent young sports to chear his evening fire;

166

‘The joy I cannot feel to him impart,
‘And brighten with his smiles my drooping heart.’

‘Forbear, forbear!’ th' enraptur'd Father cries,
(While tears of gladness glitter in his eyes)
‘Oh insupportable! oh joyful hour!
‘That bursts upon me in a flood of pow'r.’
He ceas'd—and to the moat-encircled dome
In triumph led the beauteous wand'rer home;
Where at the castle-gate expecting staid
A num'rous train to greet the welcome Maid.

Mean-while the jocund villagers convene,
Where the wreath'd may-pole crowns the festive green;
The comely maids the gifted ribband wear,
Gay-streaming from the flow'r-encircled hair.
See with the am'rous youths they now advance,
Demand the music, and provoke the dance;
Link'd hand in hand they form the mirthful round,
Obedient to the shrill pipe's nimble sound.

167

Thus on the flowing stream of time, the day
With prosp'rous sails glides rapidly away,
Till, as the faint beams glimmer from the west,
The curfew tolls the hamlet train to rest.

A celebrated character in the reign of Henry the Third.

Though the Scottish music, as we now have it, is attributed to James the First of Scotland, yet, as most of the harpers were supposed to have come from the North, it is very probable that there was something alluring and characteristic in the northern music previous to that period, and which partook of the style that reigns in the compositions of James the First, and which Tasconi calls Musica lamentevole e mesta differente da tutte l'altre.

Dr. Warton observes, in his History of English Poetry, that the subject of this sort of spectacle was (till the reign of Henry the Seventh) confined to moral allegory, or to religion blended with buffoonery.

It was not unusual, during the long period of the Crusades, for the knights to make this request upon their death-beds. Among other instances, see particularly one mentioned by Froissart, in his first volume, chapter 21; where the king of Scotland entreats Douglas to embalm his heart immediately after his decease, in order to carry it with him to the holy war.

Taking the urn from her garment.

A beautiful Picture, taken from the Ancient Wake, by Hamilton, is to be seen in Macklin's Gallery.

168

INSCRIPTION INTENDED FOR AN OLD THATCHED CHURCH.

Far from the splendor of a costly fane,
My low roof canopies the humble train:
Deep in my vaults, divorc'd from human woes,
The life-worn weary villagers repose:
When at my altar kneels the hamlet Fair,
And to her God unveils her bosom'd care:
Or does the herdsman bend with grief distrest,
Kind comfort steals upon their lighten'd breast:
Here too Religion weaves, with viewless hand,
For spotless village hearts, the nuptial band,
And twines with many a charm the holy braid
That joins the lab'rer and the nut-brown maid.

169

ON THE DEATH of Two Favourite Birds.

Involv'd in flame and suffocating breath,
A hapless bird was doom'd to sudden death;
The female, touch'd at his uncommon fate,
Survey'd the form of her disfigur'd mate;
With drooping head and shiv'ring wings she stood,
In all the agony of widowhood!
At length, to grief's severest pow'r a prey,
She dropt—and sigh'd her little soul away.

Ye wedded birds, tho' rigid be your doom,
Yet Anna watches at your early tomb;

170

For you her flowing pity bursts restraint,
Your dirge is utter'd in her soft complaint,
Your elegy, without the poet's art,
Is writ by sorrow on the purest heart.

The Honourable Mrs. Talbot.

171

SENSIBILITY.

Celestial spring! to Nature's favourites giv'n,
Fed by the dews that bathe the flow'rs of heav'n:
From the pure crystal of thy fountain flow
The tears that trickle o'er another's woe;
The silent drop that calms our own distress;
The gush of rapture at a friend's success;
Thine the soft show'rs down Beauty's breast that steal,
To sooth the heart-wounds they can never heal:
Thine too the tears of ecstacy that roll,
When Genius rushes on the ravish'd soul;
And thine the hallow'd flood that drowns the eye,
When warm Religion lifts the thought on high.

172

THE SOLDIER's FAREWELL, ON THE EVE OF A BATTLE.

Night, expecting the dread morrow,
Hover'd o'er the martial train;
Beauteous Alice, led by sorrow,
Hurried to the silent plain:

‘Give the watch-word!’ the guard utter'd
Loudly from his destin'd place;
‘Lo! 'tis I,’ fair Alice mutter'd
Hastening to his fond embrace.

‘Ever beauteous, faithful ever,’
Quick the gallant Youth rejoin'd
‘Cruel Death can only sever
‘Hearts in love's strong links entwin'd.

173

‘Soon shall we be torn asunder,
‘Therefore welcome art thou come:
‘Till morn wakes the battle's thunder
‘Rest thee on that broken drum.’

She sat down, in mind reviewing
Ills the morning might behold,
Tears still other tears pursuing,
Down her cheek in silence roll'd:

Thoughts to other thoughts succeeding
O'er her mind incessant flow;
She, like Meekness, inly-bleeding,
Broods in stillness o'er her woe:

‘Wherefore, Alice, dost thou ponder
‘Evils that are Fancy's brood?
‘Sure our parting might be fonder
‘Than beseems this silent mood:

174

‘Yet continue still to ponder
‘Things thy voice wants pow'r to say,
‘Thy dumb grief to me seems fonder
‘Than words deck'd in bright array.’

She replied (her tears still gushing)
‘What avails it to be brave?
‘Thou, amidst the battle rushing,
‘Here perchance may'st meet a grave:

‘Should'st thou perish in the action,
‘Where's the peace to sooth my care?
‘All my life would be distraction,
‘Madness, wailing, and despair.

‘Still thou wert of gentlest carriage,
‘Still affectionately true,
‘And a lover still in marriage,
‘And a friend and parent too.’

175

‘Cheer thee, cheer thee, best of women,
‘Trust to the great Pow'r above;
‘When I rush amidst the foemen,
‘Heav'n may think on her I love.

‘Saving is the Miser's pleasure,
‘Spending is the Soldier's thrift;
‘Take this guinea, all my treasure,
‘Take it—as a parting gift.

‘Here end we this mournful meeting,
‘Catch from my lips this fond sigh;
‘If this be our last, last greeting,
‘Know, that I was born to die.

‘See! the day-spring gilds the streamers
‘Waving o'er the martial train;
‘Now the hoarse drum wakes the dreamers,
‘Ne'er perchance to dream again:

176

‘Hark! I hear the trumpet's clangor
‘Bid the British youth excel;
‘Now, now glows the battle's anger:
‘Lovely Alice, fare thee well!’

177

ALBINA.

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The subject of these Stanzas is not founded upon a fiction. The young woman was cruelly deluded by a man who was already married: The mock ceremonial of a marriage took place in ITALY: She soon after returned to ENGLAND, and going into a sequestered part of the country, devoted herself to retirement.

179

Would Genius to my fond demand
My earnest bold request bestow,
A vivid pencil to this hand,
Dipt in the brilliant vernal bow:

How eager would I then engage
(With faithful and unerring aim)
To paint on the poetic page
Albina's elegance of frame!

180

Her tresses—dark with auburn hue:
Her brow serene—young Candour's throne:
Her timid eye—whose languid blue
Sheds charms peculiarly its own.

Her cheek—that wears a lively glow:
Not after the fresh morning show'r
Can Italy's rich summer show,
On all her banks so bright a flow'r.

Her cherry lip—inviting bliss,
Where Love deliciously reposes,
Accompanied by many a kiss,
On fragrant leaves of breathing roses.

Yet who can paint her beauteous mind?
There Innocence has fix'd her seat;
There easy wit, and taste refin'd,
And sentiment and knowledge meet.

181

Love, who oft whelms the Fair in woe,
Soon robb'd her guileless mind of rest:
Affection's flame dissolv'd the snow
That lodg'd within her spotless breast.

As still the East the morn-beams streak,
And gild the portal of the day,
So did her morning thought still break
On the same Youth with Ardour's ray:

As the last glimm'rings of the sky
Pause on the lake, ere they expire,
Each night her thought (as clos'd her eye)
Died on the Youth of her desire.

The nuptials eager to profane,
The bold, unfeeling, treach'rous Youth
Led the chaste Maiden to the fane
With all the mockery of Truth.

182

Hypocrisy with downcast air,
Profaneness with an atheist eye,
And Lust with a malignant leer,
Remark'd the mock-connubial tie.

No sooner had the Youth prevail'd,
Successful in his impious aim,
He left the drooping Fair, assail'd
By Grief, by Infamy, and Shame.

'Twas then the beauteous Mourner woo'd
Meek Quiet, in her lonely seat,
Where Competency watchful strew'd
Her sober treasures at her feet.

I'll not the little path-way tell
That winds to thy sequester'd scene;
Where Virtue loves with thee to dwell,
Remote—unseeing and unseen.

183

Where Resignation takes her stand,
Prompt to perform her friendly part,
And gathers with a trembling hand
The fragments of a broken heart.

184

TO THE LATE Earl of CHESTERFIELD.

Reclin'd beneath thy shade, Blackheath!
From politics and strife apart;
His temples twin'd with laurel-wreath,
And Virtue smiling at his heart:

Will Chesterfield the Muse allow
To break upon his still retreat;
To view if health still smooths his brow,
And prints his grove with willing feet?

'Twas this awak'd the present theme,
And bade it reach thy distant ear;
Where, if no rays of Genius beam,
Sincerity at least is there.

185

May pale Disease fly far aloof,
O'er venal domes its flag display;
And Health beneath thy peaceful roof
Add lustre to thy evening ray!

If this my fervent wish be crown'd,
I'll dress with flow'rs the godhead's shrine:—
Nor thou, with Wisdom's chaplet bound,
At any absent gift repine.

What tho' thou dost not grace a throne,
While subjects bend the supple knee;
No other king the Muses own,
And Science lifts her eye to thee.

Tho' Deafness, by a doom severe,
Steals from thy ear the murm'ring rill,
Or Philomel's delightful air;
E'en deem not this a partial ill.

186

Ah! if anew thine ear was strung,
Awake to ev'ry voice around;
Thy praises, by the many sung,
Would stun thee with the choral sound.

187

ON THE DEATH OF Mr. GARRICK, 1779.

O hallow'd Censer! form'd by magic pow'r
To waft the incense of bright Avon's flow'r!

Those airy forms, by glowing Truth design'd,
Which proudly issued from the Poet's mind,
No longer realis'd by Garrick's art,
Rush on the scene, and rouse the throbbing heart:
Ambition—prompt to seize th' imperial reins,
Who hospitality's pure rite profanes,
And sees (as wildly his strain'd eye-balls glare)
The fatal dagger trav'ling thro' the air:

188

Affection—who, half-daring, half-dismay'd,
Pursues with anxious steps a Father's shade:
As th' awful form stalks solemnly along,
Dread Expectation chills the circling throng:

Proud Cruelty—beside a languid lamp,
Who 'mid the stillness of the slumb'ring camp,
Amid the terrors of the lonesome night,
Sits deeply musing on the morrow's fight:
'Till worn with thought, with many a care opprest,
He drops the world, and wearies into rest:
In vain—Remorse now bids her serpents roll
In horrid volumes round his tortur'd soul:

Old-age—who banish'd from his native throne,
Forc'd from the door so lately call'd his own,
Stands muttering to the foul and midnight air
(In beggar'd robes) the accents of Despair:

189

Unreverenc'd, shunn'd, rejected, and revil'd,
Stung at the mockery of an impious child,
And while the big tears trickle from his eyes,
I gave you all, the generous Father cries;
Let the fierce spirit of the tempest shed
The raging torrent on this hoary head;
The worst is past, let the loud thunder burst,
The drooping Sire is by a Daughter curst.

These were the scenes late held to Britain's view,
On which she gaz'd with transport ever new:
Endearing scenes! Ah! never to return,
While Genius sorrows o'er a Garrick's urn.

Macbeth.

Hamlet.

Richard the Third.

Lear.

190

ON THE AUTHOR OF THE BALLAD CALLED THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.

Let others praise the martial song,
Which rushes as a flood,
And round the harp attentive throng
That honours deeds of blood:

Let me that humble Bard revere,
Tho' artless be his theme,
Who snatch'd the tale to Pity dear,
From dark Oblivion's stream.

191

Say, little Mary , prattling maid,
(Whose wit thine age excels)
Beneath what holy yew-tree's shade
Thy favourite Author dwells?

Ah! not on Westminster's proud ground
The fond enquiry waste:
Go where the meek of heart are found,
And th' unambitious rest.

Where Walton's limpid streamlet flows,
On Norfolk's rich domain,
A gently-rising hillock shews
The hamlet's straw-roof'd fane.

192

Hard by is seen a marble stone,
By many a winter worn;
Forgetfulness around has thrown
The rude o'ermantling thorn:

Within this low obscure abode
Fame says the Bard is laid;
Oft have I left the beaten road
To greet the Poet's shade.

Fame too reports, that when the bier
Receiv'd the Poet's frame,
The neighb'ring Hamlets hasten'd here,
And all the Childhood came:

193

Attir'd in white, an Infant Band
Advanc'd in long array;
With rosemary-leaves each little hand
O'erspread the mournful way:

Encircling now the Poet's tomb,
Thrice on his name they call,
And thrice into the hallow'd gloom
Sweet show'rs of violets fall.

Compassion's Priest! oh! feeling Bard,
Who melts the heart away,
Enduring praise shall still reward
Thy short and simple lay.

194

Those shall thy praise be found among
Whom Nature's touch has grac'd,
The warm of heart applaud thy song,
And all the pure of taste:

The Child shall leave his jocund dance,
Suppress his frolic mood,
And bend to hear, in silent trance,
The Story of the Wood.

The daughter of Sir Thomas Beauchamp, of Langley Park, in Norfolk.

195

TO LADY CATHARINE MURRAY,

DURING HER RECOVERY FROM AN ILLNESS, OCCASIONED BY HER CLOATHS CATCHING FIRE, 1781.

With a green and yellow
Melancholy she sat, like Patience on
A monument, smiling at grief.
Shakispear.

Had our great tragic Bard (whose master-hand
The patient Viola's sweet portrait plann'd)
Beheld fair Catharine to pain consign'd,
Yet tow'ring o'er her fate with strength of mind,
In other colours he had then display'd
The pleasing image of his patient Maid!
Not with dim tints of yellow and of green,
Would he have sicklied o'er the sufferer's mien:

196

But in a shading cap that veils the face,
Half-stealing from the sight each soften'd grace,
He would have pictur'd to the stedfast view
A cheek a little pal'd with languor's hue;
An eye that, beaming with the rays of sense,
Speaks to the soul an artless eloquence,
And seems a look of gratitude to throw
On those whose feelings share the sufferer's woe:
And last her lips (whose blushes well display
The glowing colour of the ruby's ray)
Where Patience dwells, refusing to complain,
With Resignation that can smile at pain!

This accomplished young lady was married, in 1782, to the Honourable Edward Bouverie, and died in 1783.

197

TO A LADY, WHO LAMENTED SHE COULD NOT SING.

‘Oh! give to Lydia, ye blest Pow'rs,’ I cried,
‘A voice!’ the only gift ye have denied.—
‘A voice!’ says Venus, with a laughing air,
‘A voice! strange object of a Lover's pray'r!
‘Say—shall your chosen Fair resemble most
‘Yon Philomel, whose voice is all her boast?
‘Or, curtain'd round with leaves, yon mournful Dove,
‘That hoarsely murmurs to the conscious grove?’
—‘Still more unlike,’ I said, ‘be Lydia's note
‘The pleasing tone of Philomela's throat,
‘So to the hoarseness of the murm'ring Dove
‘She joins ('tis all I ask) the Turtle's love.’

198

A SONNET to the Book

Ah go! beyond thy kindred copies blest,
Go meet thy happiness—be Jersey's guest:
She, skill'd to judge, thy humble themes receives,
Her graceful hand shall touch thy trembling leaves:
Her eyes, the boast and envy of the age,
Shall shed their pleasing lustre o'er thy page:
And while she reads, thy conscious form shall feel
The breath of spring from lips celestial steal.

These lines were sent to Lady Jersey, with a former edition of these Poems.

199

FEBRUARY 4th, 1785.

Ye radiant Fair! ye Hebes of the day,
Who heedless laugh your little hour away!
Let Caution be your guide, when next ye sport
Within the precincts of the splendid court:
Th' event of yesterday for prudence calls,
'Tis dangerous treading when Minerva falls.

Alluding to Mrs. Montagu's fall, the preceding day, as she was going down the stairs at St. James's.

201

HONORIA:

OR, THE DAY OF ALL SOULS.

A POEM.

[_]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The Scene of the following little Poem is supposed to be in the great church of St AMBROSE at MILAN, the second of November, on which day the most solemn office is performed for the repose of the Dead.

203

‘Ye hallow'd bells, whose voices thro' the air
‘The awful summons of affliction bear:
‘Ye slowly-waving banners of the dead,
‘That o'er yon altar your dark horrors spread:
‘Ye curtain'd lamps, whose mitigated ray
‘Casts round the fane a pale, reluctant day:
‘Ye walls, ye shrines, by Melancholy drest,
‘Well do ye suit the fashion of my breast!
‘Have I not lost what language can't unfold,
‘The form of Valour, cast in Beauty's mould?
‘Th' intrepid Youth the path of battle tried,
‘And foremost in the hour of peril died.

204

‘Nor was I present to bewail his fate,
‘With pity's lenient voice to sooth his state,
‘To watch his looks, to read, while Death stood by,
‘The last expression of his parting eye.

‘But other duties, other cares impend,
‘Cares that beyond the mournful grave extend:
‘Now, now I view conven'd the pious train,
‘Whose bosom sorrows at another's pain,
‘While recollection, pleasingly severe,
‘Wakes for the awful dead the silent tear,
‘And pictures (as to each her sway extends)
‘The sacred forms of lovers, parents, friends.
‘Now Charity a fiery seraph stands
‘Beside yon altar with uplifted hands.

‘Yet, can this high solemnity of grief
‘Yield to the Youth I love the wish'd relief?
‘These rites of death—ah! what can they avail?
‘Honorius died beyond the hallow'd pale.

205

‘Plung'd in the gulph of fear—distressful state!
‘My anxious mind abhors to know his fate:
‘Yet why despond? could one slight error roll
‘A flood of poison o'er the healthful soul?
‘Had not thy virtues full sufficing pow'r
‘To clear thee in the dread recording hour?
‘Did they before the Judge abash'd remain?
‘Did they, weak advocates, all plead in vain?
‘By love, by piety, by reason taught,
‘My soul revolts at the blaspheming thought:
‘Sure, in the breast to pure religion true,
‘Where Virtue's templed, God is templed too.

‘Then, while th' august procession moves along,
‘'Midst swelling organs, and the pomp of song;
‘While the dread chaunt, still true to Nature's laws,
‘Is deepen'd by the terror-breathing pause;
‘While 'midst encircling clouds of incense lost
‘The trembling priest upholds the sacred host;

206

‘Amid these scenes shall I forget my suit?
‘Amid these scenes shall I alone be mute?
‘Nor to the footsteps of the throne above
‘Breathe the warm requiem to the Youth I love?

‘Now silence reigns along the gloomy fane,
‘And wraps in dread repose the pausing strain:
‘When next it bursts, my humble voice I'll join,
‘Disclose my trembling wish at Mercy's shrine,
‘Unveil my anguish to the throne above,
‘And sigh the requiem to the Youth I love.

‘—Does Fancy mock me with a false delight,
‘Or does some hallow'd vision cheer my sight?
‘Methinks, emerging from the gloom below,
‘Th' immortal spirits leave the house of woe!
‘Inshrin'd in Glory's beams they reach the sky,
‘While choral songs of triumph burst from high!
‘See, at the voice of my accorded pray'r,
‘The radiant Youth ascend the fields of air!

207

‘Behold!—he mounts unutterably bright,
‘Cloath'd in the sun-robe of unfading light!
‘Applauding Seraphs hail him on his way,
‘And lead him to the gates of everlasting day.’

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.