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 VOLUNTEER LAUREAT.
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 | The Works of Richard Savage |  |
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THE VOLUNTEER LAUREAT.
A POEM ON HER MAJESTY's BIRTH-DAY, 1735–6.
No. V.
Lo! the mild sun salutes the opening spring,
And gladd'ning nature calls the muse to sing;
Gay chirp the birds, the bloomy sweets exhale,
And health, and song, and fragrance fill the gale.
Yet, mildest suns, to me are pain severe,
And music's self is discord to my ear!
I, jocund spring, unsympathizing, see,
And health, that comes to all, comes not to me.
Dear health once fled, what spirits can I find?
What solace meet, when fled my peace of mind?
From absent books, what studious hint devise?
From absent friends, what aid to thought can rise?
And gladd'ning nature calls the muse to sing;
Gay chirp the birds, the bloomy sweets exhale,
And health, and song, and fragrance fill the gale.
Yet, mildest suns, to me are pain severe,
And music's self is discord to my ear!
I, jocund spring, unsympathizing, see,
And health, that comes to all, comes not to me.
Dear health once fled, what spirits can I find?
What solace meet, when fled my peace of mind?
From absent books, what studious hint devise?
From absent friends, what aid to thought can rise?
A genius whisper'd in my ear—Go seek
Some man of state!—The muse your wrongs may speak.
But will such listen to the plaintive strain?
The happy seldom heed th' unhappy's pain.
To wealth, to honours, wherefore was I born?
Why left to poverty, repulse, and scorn?
Why was I form'd of elegant desires?
Thought, which beyond a vulgar flight aspires!
Why, by the proud, and wicked, crush'd to earth?
Better the day of death, than day of birth!
Some man of state!—The muse your wrongs may speak.
But will such listen to the plaintive strain?
The happy seldom heed th' unhappy's pain.
To wealth, to honours, wherefore was I born?
Why left to poverty, repulse, and scorn?
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Thought, which beyond a vulgar flight aspires!
Why, by the proud, and wicked, crush'd to earth?
Better the day of death, than day of birth!
Thus I exclaim'd: a little cherub smil'd:
Hope, I am call'd (said he), a heav'n-born child!
Wrongs sure you have; complain you justly may:
But let wild sorrow whirl not thought away!
No—trust to honour! that you ne'er will stain
From peerage-blood, which fires your filial vein.
Trust more to Providence! from me ne'er swerve!
Once to distrust, is never to deserve.
Did not this day a Caroline disclose?
I promis'd at her birth, and blessing rose!
(Blessing, o'er all the letter'd world to shine,
In knowledge clear, beneficence divine!)
'Tis hers, as mine, to chase away despair;
Woe undeserv'd, is her peculiar care.
Her bright benevolence sends me to grief:
On want sheds bounty, and on wrong relief.
Hope, I am call'd (said he), a heav'n-born child!
Wrongs sure you have; complain you justly may:
But let wild sorrow whirl not thought away!
No—trust to honour! that you ne'er will stain
From peerage-blood, which fires your filial vein.
Trust more to Providence! from me ne'er swerve!
Once to distrust, is never to deserve.
Did not this day a Caroline disclose?
I promis'd at her birth, and blessing rose!
(Blessing, o'er all the letter'd world to shine,
In knowledge clear, beneficence divine!)
'Tis hers, as mine, to chase away despair;
Woe undeserv'd, is her peculiar care.
Her bright benevolence sends me to grief:
On want sheds bounty, and on wrong relief.
Then calm-ey'd Patience, born of angel-kind,
Open'd a dawn of comfort on my mind.
With her came Fortitude of godlike air!
These arm to conquer ills; at least to bear:
Arm'd thus, my Queen, while wayward fates ordain,
My life to lengthen, but to lengthen pain;
Your bard, his sorrows with a smile endures;
Since to be wretched, is, to be made Yours,
Open'd a dawn of comfort on my mind.
With her came Fortitude of godlike air!
These arm to conquer ills; at least to bear:
Arm'd thus, my Queen, while wayward fates ordain,
My life to lengthen, but to lengthen pain;
Your bard, his sorrows with a smile endures;
Since to be wretched, is, to be made Yours,
| The Works of Richard Savage | |