University of Virginia Library

Hester

The Insanity of Ambitious Love

The Lover of Virtue

Late in the Night—the Wind forbade by Day—
From the tall Ship that anchor'd in the bay
A young Lieutenant to his native Shore
Was row'd, then left the well known Way t'explore.
See he could not, he listen'd to the Sound
That Southward came, & thither he was bound.
Walk but one Mile, & he should then behold
The World's best Wealth, and in his Arms infold.
Some Months had past since he beheld ye maid,
But Hope by promises for Absense paid,
For tho' with beauty to a Heart all Eyes,
She had the Sense all Flattery to dispise.
“O! my best Adela, my loveliest Friend,
“My Virtuous Mistress! I on thee depend.
“In thee is all that Youth or Age admires,
“That prudence seeks, that Tenderness requires,
“All that can Grief subdue & Joy improve,
“Eternal Smiles & everlasting Love,
“And yet tho' fair—& Oh! ye powers on high!
“Dwells there more beauty in that peopled Sky?—
“Yet, known her Virtues, I adhere to them,
“Nor deem the Casket worthy of ye Gem.

Lord Byron's Inscript upon a Newfoundland Dog

From whence, Lord B., did your Lordship find
This horrid Picture of undone Mankind?
What to thy Muse the colours could impart,
Thy Dogs? thy friends? or thine own Head & Heart?
Thy Dog could nothing of the matter tell,
But his poor Master could have done as well.
If Friends, thy friends can make th' assertions true
The Friends of Satan are a nobler crew.
If your own Heart inspir'd your angry Pen,
No Wonder you exclaim: “What Brutes are men!”
But if your Head alone, your Wit & Spleen,
Have drawn mankind so wretched & so mean,
If these have sketched for you th' abandonn'd Race,
So worse than brutal & so more than base,
Recant, my Lord, & learn what numbers live
Thy Powers t'admire, thyne error to forgive.
Ten thousand minds in either sex agree
To prove thy falshood & to pity thee,
And many a fervent Prayer to Heav'n is sent
Thou migh'st thy Verses or thy Life repent—
That like thy Friend, the Dog, thou wouldst be mute,
Or mourn and be above the Brute.

Where am I now?

In a neat Cottage

In a neat Cottage hid from public View,
Within a Vally bounded by a Wood,
Near to the Coast, but distant from a Town,
With the kind Sister of a Mother dead
Dwelt a fair Damsel named Elizabeth.
From an expiring Mother's feeble Hand,
In holy Confidence, a sacred Trust
The Aunt receiv'd, and bore her to this Place.
There as a Parent, Governess & Friend,
She nurst and trained and led the little Maid,
In Peace to Virtue, & in Love to Knowledge;
Gave to her Mind the Riches of her own!
Corrected all that she perceiv'd Amiss!
Implanted Every Truth that she believed,
Fostered the new-born Virtue, and in Time
Spoke of God's Grace and taught the Soul to pray.
But of the Ways of social Life, the Good
And Evil, Dangers & Delights, the Charm
And Fascination of Society,
Save with that Mind whose Stores were made her own,
She nothing knew! The World was yet a Book
In a strange Language written, and the Guide,
When the Niece, eager and inquisitive!
Begged for One Page! said tenderly: “Forbear!
“Ask me not, Love, I read it not myself.”
The Persons whom Elizabeth beheld
Were a few Peasants from the neighbouring Green,
Farmers of Occupations small, and Wives
Of these small Farmers! who in modest Pride
Looked kindly down upon the Cottage Dames,
Wives to the Lads who laboured for the Farm.
To these we add the Vicar and his Wife,
A Man of Cambridge, but of him unseen
These 40 Years! & he would sometimes say,
Vapoured perhaps, or troubled for a Tax,
Or forced to take a twentieth for a Tithe,
Or when his Brother cast upon his Coat
A Look contemptuous, but with Pity blent!
Pride's Tenderness!: “I wish I had not seen.”—
He was an elder Son, whose Father sent
The Boy to Cambridge, & kept John at home.
And John in time was Tenant in the Farm,
And of its Stock the Owner. Dick must pay
For what it cost at College, & has paid,
For he is Vicar in the Place, where John
Is Lord! and governs as an Overseer.
But still he makes his Bow, & gives his Seat,
And says: “My Brother is a Learned Man!
“'Twas my poor Father's Pride, but he cd not
“Afford to make his John a Gentleman.
“Brother, my Service, we are getting poor;
“Come now, abate a little of your Tithe.”
Such the Companions of Elizabeth.
Here she resided, of the World she knew
What these could give—no more! Some pious books
Of solid practical Divinity,
Laid in a quiet Case! the Vicar lent
Monthly a Magazine, & Farmer John
A weekly Paper fraught with Country News.
But not this Reading, tho' she often read
And try'd to make Another's thoughts her own!
Not Conversation with her Village Friends,
Nor closer Converse with the dearer One,
Not the good Vicar's Piety or Pride,
When dwelling on ye Sermon of the Day!
Nor Song of Morning Bird nor, sweeter yet,
The varied Sweetness of the Bird of Night,
Nor these, nor aught of Nature she [?removed]
On Earth or in ye Waters, nor the Tribes
Of sportive Insects on the Wing, at Eve,
Soft but not silent! satisfied the Heart
That ever sought for that it never found!
It wanted something that was like itself,
But not itself! & in her devious Walks,
Or on the Heath, or by the rapid brook,
Not in the Path way! not within ye Wood,
Nor where a Bound was fixt, nor where ye feet
Of Numbers marked the Way! she chose her own,
But in her own she mus'd! & dared to think
Of Forms & Minds that she should love to know!
The Forms majestic with the noblest Mind,
Beauty & Courage! Tenderness & Grace,
Not without Splendour! in ye very Garb
And Grandeur in the Mein! & she would suit
Deeds to the Man! Elizabeth was young.
While thus she lived, & thought, & wish'd, & dreamt,
Her Aunt died Suddenly—
A large, lone House
Between the River & the Sea was named
“The Dolphin's Wreck”! Some 60 years had past,
Since that good Ship “The Dolphin” on ye Sand
Of that wild Shore was stranded! & the Plank
First formed a Shepherd's Lodge! And hence ye Name.
Strange Place for One who tended flocks! yet there
Were Marshes all around! from that rude Sea
To that wide River! & in Time One Man
Was ye Sole Tenant! In the narrow Farm
Between ye Wasty bounds for many a Mile
Bit the small hardy breed! And then arose
A more commodious Building! but ye Name
Was yet “The Dolphin's Wreck”! Within was heard,
In the soft Summer Night, the rimpled Waves
Roll on the sanded Shore! In Winter, floods!
When the full Moon upon the billowy Tide
Shone in her splendor fearfully! & ye Wind
Changed from ye South! unto the dread North-west,
Then from her Window looked Elizabeth,
For 'twas her Father's House, & she at home
Had found a Melancholy Mishap there!
There she beheld the troubled Waters rise!
And from her Bow-formed Window on ye West
Saw the broad Stream for many a Rood engulph
The salt short Herbage! Wider yet became
The Watry-waste! & billowy like the Sea!
So thought the Maid, but, turning to the Sea,
Thought that no Likeness to that dreadful Sight
Could the sad World present! above ye Ridge
Stoney & Steep, the giant Billows threw
Their foaming [?force]! & dreadful was ye Sight
Of clashing Waves as far as Eye could reach,
And sounds of blended Horror! as they raked
The rolling fleet far down ye lengthen'd Shore.
How trembled then ye Maid; it cd not be
But those wild Waters in their Strength would meet!
All would be Sea! &, like a stranded Ship!
Their House a Wreck! & all it held a Prey.

Joseph and Jesse

The Lady's Album

Write in that Album?...Lady, Nay!—
I pray you, do not press me to it;
So rich within, without so gay,
Indeed, I know not how to do it.
Here, too, are drawings neat and fine,
All subjects for the muse affording,
That all with equal grace may shine,
The Work and the appropriate wording.
And can I join in Works like these
With any decent hope to please?
Indeed, my timid Muse, I doubt it:
But let us through the volume run,
And when we read what has been done,
We fairly may decide about it—
First comes a Sonnet—Ah! I fear
I cannot be a Sonneteer;
I cannot let a single thought
In just so many lines be wrought,
All to the Subject fairly due,
I cannot draw, as men a wire,
What the strict Sonnet-rules require,
In measure and in meaning, too.
Pass then the Sonnet—next we see
A most pathetic Elegy;
On Celia's Bullfinch; how it died
And Celia then like Lesbia cried,
When her dear bird, that used to sip,
The nectar from her balmy lip,
By Fate demanded, left the lass,
Th' irrevocable Way to pass,
In the dim World of Ghosts to go,
Where now he skips among the Shades
Of Birds in melancholy Glades,
And chirps faint notes of Woe—
But this is grief, and I have not a sigh,
Not one soft line for Birds who pine and die,
When Men and Maids are dying every day;
But here's a song, and that would seem a thing,
Within our power—it is not hard to sing,
For Poets all a love of Song betray.

Song—

When Jacob served in Rachel's sight,
Herself his promised pay,
Seven years were past in such delight,
Each seemd a single day:
Swiftly the moments seemed to glide,
While they, no change discerning,
Considered not the turning tide,
Nor thought that Tide had turning:
But when the youth had gained his prize,
And slept, no Fear possessing,
No sooner had he oped his Eyes
Than lo! a view distressing.
“O! this is not the maid divine,
“To whom I made my vow;
“'Twas Rachel when I made her mine,
“But O! 'tis Leah now!”
So bright their view in Lovers' Eyes,
No stormy cloud appearing,
How fixed to them the changing skies,
And every sound how cheering,
They smile to hear of Ills to come,
From which, what pair are free?
“It may be so”, They cry, “with some;
“With us it will not be.”
But Fortune the affairs of Life
In other Mode arranges,
And Lo! how Rachel, made a wife,
To Leah quickly changes—
Alas! I fear we now are wrong,
This looks like Satire, not like Song,
A Song should be on Chloe's cheeks,
Her air that breathes—Her eye that speaks,
Her tongue that Wisdom's self confounds,
Her shape that gives unnumbered wounds;
With all the hundred thousand graces,
That truth or the true lover traces;
But Songs like these, if duly written,
Require an heart completely smitten—
Again we change—this Page contains
A cottage with its happy Swains,
About it Meadows, Groves and Springs,
With all the beauties Summer brings,
And here are Verses meant to prove
That such are the retreats of Love—
I cannot tell—to me it seems
These are a kind of pleasant dreams,
For love had rather take his lot
Within a parlour than a cot;
He dwells beside the cheerful blaze,
And on the splendid carpet plays—
He takes a large well furnished room,
And loves a comfortable home—
Love no objection makes to dine
On Savory food with generous Wine.
He sometimes has his pensive hours
In shady walks and silent bowers,
But oftener he desires to be
With gay and pleasant Company.
Soft music he no doubt approves
From birds, who warbling fill their groves,
But he prefers a lively air
From Ladies sitting in his chair.
Love is, in short, though free and wild,
A taught and an observing child.
He sometimes speaks with scorn enough
Of wealth—but put him to the proof—
And you shall find he lives to eat—
No Patriarch better—savoury Meat,
And would sigh deeply to be fed
On skim-milk cheese and barley bread.
To sing of Love I then decline,
The rural Cupid is not mine,
But left to them who better know
Where he delights to bend his bow.
Then turn we to another page,
And see what there our mind engage.
Say then what comes—a Riddle, the delight
Of infant Bards when they begin to write,
And shall I now resume that early task,
Or teach my sober Muse to wear a mask?
Come! let us try, but we shall ill succeed,
The mask will drop as you begin to read—

Riddle—

I am—nay, that you cannot show.
I have been—that, I grant, may be.
I may be—That we do not know,
Nor on the question can agree.
I have a Master, such my lot,
For I am poor, and yet 'tis true
I have a Servant—doubt me not—
My servant is my master, too.
My power is not to mortals known,
My nature is not understood,
Yet kindred with the dust, I own
The Wants and Pains of flesh and blood.
Learn what unearthly things I do,
And wonder at the things you learn,
My Dwelling and my person view,
And wonder will to pity turn.
Yet am I proud as well as poor,
Kings of the Earth have Honour done me,
One came my Knowledge to explore,
Another wrote a treatise on me.
Here next some Lines on Freedom may be seen,
When the fair writer counted years fifteen.
Did the sweet girl of school day fetters dream,
And made the love of Liberty her theme?
All should be free, the young Enthusiast sings,
For Freedom makes us of ourselves the kings.
But if the blessing should to all extend,
Then let it not with human beings end;
There are a race of beings whom their pains
And place unite, their scourges and their chains.
Hear how their Keepers Men's attention win:
“The first Collection in the World—walk in.
“The King of Beasts—he rules o'er great & small,
“The Queen, his Wife—a Tygar from Bengal,
“Leopards and Panthers, and a noble Tribe
“That you may see, and therefore to describe
“Is of no use—Walk in—on English Ground,
“Nor on the Earth, is such Collection found.”
I enter. Lo, the Creatures—there they be;
Each in his den, with anguish in his Eye,
And roused by blows that some vile spirit gives,
Shows fearful tokens of the life he lives.
I saw the imprisoned Tribes, their sufferings felt,
And their hard Tale upon my memory dwelt;
Nay, in my Dreams upon my fancy rose
The king of beasts, exprest his Royal Woes,
His nobler Subjects heard with woe profound,
The distant Birds were silent at the Sound,
And all the smaller Tribes stood listening all around:
An ode to thee, Contentment, next ensues;
Thou art a favourite subject for a muse.
It would be doubtless pleasant, could we find
Where dwells content and with what happy mind,
For many seem like her, and for a while
They speak her Language and assume her smile.
First there is Mirth, mere Gaity of heart,
She can some tokens of content display,
But acts with too much spirit in her part,
And that performed, she vanishes away.
Her name the Idol Affectation takes,
Puts on a smile and talks of rural ease,
Her speech of many a borrowed sentence makes
And boasts how “Quiet and a cottage please.”
Hope, lively being, will the air assume,
And many by her cheerful looks deceive,
But Hope will vanish in an hour of gloom,
And disappointment with her victims leave—
I knew her well, and oft have been misled
By her seduction, and have wondered on
Where I have slept on Folly's easy bed,
And, waking, found my fickle flatterer gone—
In these you cannot true contentment find,
But one there is whom some affect to know,
Who stiles herself the pilot of the mind,
A grave, majestic being, solemn, slow—
—Wise and dispensing wisdom—we must own
That some thing in her like content we see,
But she disputes on Words and things unknown,
And is no more than vain philosophy.
Fancy, who takes all shapes, Content appears,
A lively actress with a changing face,
But Fancy dies, opposed by grief or Fears—
And then contentment comes not in her place.
Hard is the dwelling of the nymph to find,
And yet we ought not in our search to cease;
It's said she dwells with being Good and kind,
The just, the humble, and the fond of peace.
What Tale succeeds? a Fable, not a Tale,
“The Lark, the Linnet and the Nightingale”.
Sweet Birds, whose notes sweet nymphs delight to hear—
Ah, why have some the Adder's leaden ear?
Deaf to the charming songsters—Fable, too,
To me is not inviting, but is New.
Say then what moral shall by ours be taught?
“Suspect the favours that were never sought—
“The show of love that care and Trouble speaks,
“And Cost displayed that no repayment seeks.”—

Fable—The Duck and the Widgeon

A Duck and Widgeon, who had flown
Far from the sea and weary grown,
Beneath them saw a lovely lake,
Where they their night's repose might take.
Upon its bosom clear and still
The Feathered people swam at Will,
Where Ducks of every kind were seen,
And Divers undisturbed of men,
And dusky Coots of Raven hue,
And Teal with wing of Azure blue.
All these the stranger Birds invite
By friendly signs to stop their flight—
The weary Widgeon judged it best
To take th' advice and seek for rest—
For they had flown for many a league,
And hunger added to fatigue.
So fell the Widgeon, “Duck”, said she,
“A fairer pool you'll seldom see,
“Good company, a silent shore,
“No boys to shout, no gun to roar;
“In such a place we may be sure
“Of food, and shall our rest secure.”
The Duck, who in a former year
Had left the north and wintered here,
Knew more than simple widgeons know,
And as she calmly looked below
On all the witless swimmers there,
Said to her Neighbour: “Have a care,
“Look at that netted, reeded fence,
“And tell me what proceeds from thence.
“'Tis wide, you see, at first, & tall,
“Then smaller grows, then very small,
“And be you sure that nature makes
“No such appendages to Lakes.
“Man is a creature who contrives
“Unnumbered arts, to take our lives,
“And this, the scene of so much Joy
“To foolish birds, is a Decoy.
“For so my Ancestor of old,
“A grey and Reverend Mallard, told.
“‘Be sure’, he said, ‘no man would make
“‘What we behold on yonder lake,
“‘Were he not sure the care & cost
“‘Would be repaid, and nothing lost.’
“Therefore, altho' we weary feel,
“And fain would sleep, & want a meal,
“Yet, cautious, let us further go,
“Nor trust the kindness of a Foe,
“For we, who thus are kindly prest,
“When strangers, to be fed as guests,
“Should think, e'er we consent to stay,
“What kind of reckoning we must pay.”

The Flowers

For Miss Hoare

Poins

A gay, young Man, with Spirits strong & high,
Was listening to his widowed Mother's Sigh,
The well-known Prelude to that grave Discourse,
Which he expected as a Thing of Course,
And heard with due Respect; for he was One
Who felt & owned the Duty of a Son,
And prized that Love which sometimes gave him Pain
That so much Wisdom was bestowed in vain.
Among his Friends, for so he used to call
All his Companions, for he loved them All,
I left a Youth, who in his twentieth Year,
Had his Associates but had not his Peer.
The Lasses all addresst him as a Man,
But when his Mother her Reproofs began,
With sad fixed Features, but with Accent mild:
“How canst thou grieve me thus, my thoughtless Child?
“Thy Heart is hardened grown, & all thy Ways are wild.
“It is thy Boast the Laugh of Fools to raise,
“And thou art fond of Pleasure, fond of Praise.
“Talents thou hast, but they were lent for Use;
“Thine but that barren Praise of Fools produce.
“Where's that Increase, that he who gave designed?
“Not to improve is to debase the Mind.
“Thy Father's Pride, e'er to his Grave convey'd,
“Thee shall thy Mother, in her Fear, upbraid?
“Thou'st Courage, Rd, but the bravest Deed
“Should be thy Choice, the noblest Praise thy Meed.
“And is it not the noblest Act to stem
“The Passion's Currants, not be forced by them,
“Not their strong Impulse weakly to obey,
“And headlong hurry where they lead the Way?
“Pause then and pray, and God will give thee Grace
“To fly from Sin and Folly's frantic Chace
“Of fancied Good, which those alone enjoy,
“Who first all Sense of real Good distroy.
“Nay, be not weary”—for the Youth gave Proof,
Though still respectful, that he heard enough,
For if he silent and submissive bowed,
'Twas not that he the serious truths allowed;
Submissive he & silent, for he knew
His Time was short'ned, if his words were few.
From fond reproving Fear, to Scenes he loved,
With quickened Pace and eager Mind he moved;
There the chief Place where none but he may sit,
There the loud Laugh of bold Attempts at Wit,
There dubious Facts that daring Oaths attest,
The Tale licentious and the sportive Jest,
With Language such as when Reflection came,
He, who could most applaud, found much to blame.
Here Richard listened to th' Applause he felt,
Till in his heart the poisoned Flattery dwelt.
So gay, so joyous, his Companions swore
Poins was his Name, & Richard was no more.
Poins then he was, and his Associates led
In all Adventures, he their heart and Head,
Their Mischief's bold Contriver, Champion stout,
Their Guide in Danger, & their Pride when out.
When in their favourite Inn they sang Aloud,
Pleased with themselves, & of their Leader proud,
Poins was their Boast, a fit Companion He
To any Prince in any Court might be,
Yea, Prince himself, as long as he could say:
“Bring in”, & then in prince-like Manner pay.
Th' obedient Host his every Call obeyed,
As if the Honour for the Service paid,
For well he judged that unpledged Acres yet
Remained, & gave their Sanction to the debt.
How long to serve he could not justly tell,
But while the Lady held them, All was well.
A Youth like this, with Spirits strong & high,
Was not the One for Love to pine & die,
But One who would by Beauty's Power be moved,
At least to fancy that he dearly loved.
In the next Village dwelt a gentle Maid,
With too much Cause, of Love & him afraid,
Handsome & Good & innocent & Mild,
Meek as a Saint & simple as a Child.
Her Richard loved, and she had loved Again,
But that her Prudence whispered her refrain.
She feared to give him Hope, tho' vex'd to give him Pain.
In his wild Days fair Susan was his Boast,
His Pride, the Subject of his Song, his Toast.
Her Name suppressed, he in his idle Lay
First wrote, then sang the praise of Jesse Gay:
This was the time when evil Passions sway'd
Th' eager Mind and He their Call obey'd,
And oft he thought, whate'er his Song implied,
She might be his, & yet not be his Bride,
But some bold Efforts were so sharply checked
That he perceiv'd he lost by their Effect,
And soon he felt, so cold & cautious she,
The Bailiff's Son had better Chance than He;
It must be Marriage or it must not be.—
Softened by Love, his thoughts began to take
The better side; He would his Ways forsake,
His Tavern Mirth, his riotous Delight,
And all the Pleasures of the noisy Night,
The Friends, whose Fondness was th' Effect of Wine,
Except the few who would such Life resign—

David Morris

Epitaph on the Lady Margaret North

A RIDDLE.

WHO CAN SAY?

I walked as it were in a Race,
Yet nothing I gained by my Speed,
But had I sat still in my Place,
I then had gone forward indeed.