The Works of Richard Savage ... With an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author, by Samuel Johnson. A New Edition |
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THE BASTARD:
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 | The Works of Richard Savage |  |
87
THE BASTARD:
A POEM.
INSCRIBED, WITH ALL DUE REVERENCE, TO MRS. BRETT, Once COUNTESS of MACCLESFIELD.
Decet hæc dare dona Novercam.
Ov. Met.
Ov. Met.
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In gayer hours, when high my fancy ran,
The muse, exulting, thus her lay began.
The muse, exulting, thus her lay began.
Blest be the Bastard's birth! thro' wond'rous ways,
He shines excentric, like a comet's blaze!
No sickly fruit of faint compliance He!
He! stampt in nature's mint of exstacy!
He lives to build, not boast a generous race:
No tenth transmitter of a foolish face.
His daring hope, no sire's example bounds:
His first-born lights, no prejudice confounds.
He, kindling from within, requires no flame:
He glories in a Bastard's glowing name.
He shines excentric, like a comet's blaze!
No sickly fruit of faint compliance He!
He! stampt in nature's mint of exstacy!
He lives to build, not boast a generous race:
No tenth transmitter of a foolish face.
His daring hope, no sire's example bounds:
His first-born lights, no prejudice confounds.
He, kindling from within, requires no flame:
He glories in a Bastard's glowing name.
Born to himself, by no possession led,
In freedom foster'd, and by fortune fed,
Nor guides, nor rules, his sov'reign choice controul,
His body independent as his soul;
Loos'd to the world's wide range—enjoin'd no aim,
Prescrib'd no duty, and assign'd no name:
Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone,
His heart unbias'd, and his mind his own.
In freedom foster'd, and by fortune fed,
Nor guides, nor rules, his sov'reign choice controul,
His body independent as his soul;
Loos'd to the world's wide range—enjoin'd no aim,
Prescrib'd no duty, and assign'd no name:
Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone,
His heart unbias'd, and his mind his own.
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O Mother, yet no Mother!—'tis to you,
My thanks for such distinguish'd claims are due.
You, unenslav'd to Nature's narrow laws,
Warm championess for freedom's sacred cause,
From all the dry devoirs of blood and line,
From ties maternal, moral and divine,
Discharg'd my grasping soul; push'd me from shore,
And launch'd me into life without an oar.
My thanks for such distinguish'd claims are due.
You, unenslav'd to Nature's narrow laws,
Warm championess for freedom's sacred cause,
From all the dry devoirs of blood and line,
From ties maternal, moral and divine,
Discharg'd my grasping soul; push'd me from shore,
And launch'd me into life without an oar.
What had I lost, if conjugally kind,
By nature hating, yet by vows confin'd,
Untaught the matrimonial bounds to slight,
And coldly conscious of the husband's right,
You had faint-drawn me with a form alone,
A lawful lump of life by force your own!
Then, while your backward will retrench'd desire,
And unconcurring spirits lent no fire,
I had been born your dull, domestic heir,
Load of your life, and motive of your care;
Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great,
The slave of pomp, a cypher in the state,
Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown,
And slumb'ring in a seat, by chance my own.
By nature hating, yet by vows confin'd,
Untaught the matrimonial bounds to slight,
And coldly conscious of the husband's right,
You had faint-drawn me with a form alone,
A lawful lump of life by force your own!
Then, while your backward will retrench'd desire,
And unconcurring spirits lent no fire,
I had been born your dull, domestic heir,
Load of your life, and motive of your care;
Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great,
The slave of pomp, a cypher in the state,
Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown,
And slumb'ring in a seat, by chance my own.
Far nobler blessings wait the Bastard's lot;
Conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot!
Strong as necessity, he starts away,
Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.
Conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot!
Strong as necessity, he starts away,
Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.
Thus unprophetic, lately misinspir'd,
I sung: Gay flutt'ring hope, my fancy fir'd;
Inly secure, thro' conscious scorn of ill,
Nor taught by wisdom, how to balance will,
Rashly deceiv'd, I saw no pits to shun,
But thought to purpose, and to act were one;
Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way,
Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray;
But now expos'd, and shrinking from distress,
I fly to shelter, while the tempests press;
My Muse to grief resigns the varying tone,
The raptures languish, and the numbers groan.
I sung: Gay flutt'ring hope, my fancy fir'd;
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Nor taught by wisdom, how to balance will,
Rashly deceiv'd, I saw no pits to shun,
But thought to purpose, and to act were one;
Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way,
Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray;
But now expos'd, and shrinking from distress,
I fly to shelter, while the tempests press;
My Muse to grief resigns the varying tone,
The raptures languish, and the numbers groan.
O memory! thou soul of joy and pain!
Thou actor of our passions o'er again!
Why dost thou aggravate the wretch's woe?
Why add continuous smart to every blow?
Few are my joys; alas! how soon forgot!
On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not:
While sharp, and numberless my sorrows fall;
Yet thou repeat'st, and multpli'st 'em all!
Thou actor of our passions o'er again!
Why dost thou aggravate the wretch's woe?
Why add continuous smart to every blow?
Few are my joys; alas! how soon forgot!
On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not:
While sharp, and numberless my sorrows fall;
Yet thou repeat'st, and multpli'st 'em all!
Is chance a guilt? that my disast'rous heart,
For mischief never meant, must ever smart?
Can self-defence be sin?—Ah, plead no more!
What tho' no purpos'd malice stain'd thee o'er?
Had heav'n befriended thy unhappy side,
Thou had'st not been provok'd—Or thou had'st died.
For mischief never meant, must ever smart?
Can self-defence be sin?—Ah, plead no more!
What tho' no purpos'd malice stain'd thee o'er?
Had heav'n befriended thy unhappy side,
Thou had'st not been provok'd—Or thou had'st died.
Far be the guilt of home-shed blood, from all
On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall!
Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me,
To me! thro' Pity's eye condemn'd to see.
Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate;
Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late,
Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day
What rip'ning virtues might have made their way!
He might have liv'd, till folly died in shame,
Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame.
He might perhaps his country's friend have prov'd;
Both happy, gen'rous, candid, and belov'd.
He might have sav'd some worth, now doom'd to fall;
And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all.
On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall!
Still the pale dead revives, and lives to me,
To me! thro' Pity's eye condemn'd to see.
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Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late,
Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day
What rip'ning virtues might have made their way!
He might have liv'd, till folly died in shame,
Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame.
He might perhaps his country's friend have prov'd;
Both happy, gen'rous, candid, and belov'd.
He might have sav'd some worth, now doom'd to fall;
And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all.
O fate of late repentance! always vain:
Thy remedies but lull undying pain.
Where shall my hope find rest;—No Mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with pray'r:
No Father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
Is it not thine to snatch some pow'rful arm,
First to advance, then skreen from future harm?
I am return'd from death, to live in pain!
Or wou'd Imperial Pity save in vain?
Distrust it not—What blame can Mercy find,
Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind?
Thy remedies but lull undying pain.
Where shall my hope find rest;—No Mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with pray'r:
No Father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
Is it not thine to snatch some pow'rful arm,
First to advance, then skreen from future harm?
I am return'd from death, to live in pain!
Or wou'd Imperial Pity save in vain?
Distrust it not—What blame can Mercy find,
Which gives at once a life, and rears a mind?
Mother, miscall'd, farewel—of soul severe,
This sad reflection yet may force one tear:
All I was wretched by, to you I ow'd,
Alone from strangers ev'ry comfort flow'd!
This sad reflection yet may force one tear:
All I was wretched by, to you I ow'd,
Alone from strangers ev'ry comfort flow'd!
Lost to the life you gave, your Son no more,
And now adopted, who was doom'd before,
New-born, I may a nobler Mother claim,
But dare not whisper her immortal name;
Supremely lovely, and serenely great!
Majestic Mother of a kneeling State!
Queen of a People's heart, who ne'er before
Agreed—yet now with one consent adore!
One contest yet remains in this desire,
Who most shall give applause, where all admire.
And now adopted, who was doom'd before,
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But dare not whisper her immortal name;
Supremely lovely, and serenely great!
Majestic Mother of a kneeling State!
Queen of a People's heart, who ne'er before
Agreed—yet now with one consent adore!
One contest yet remains in this desire,
Who most shall give applause, where all admire.
| The Works of Richard Savage | |