Poems by Mrs. Opie The Sixth Edition |
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LINES RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE SOCIETY FOR THE RELIEF OF PERSONS IMPRISONED FOR SMALL DEBTS. |
 | Poems by Mrs. Opie |  |
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LINES RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE SOCIETY FOR THE RELIEF OF PERSONS IMPRISONED FOR SMALL DEBTS.
What are the deeds that fill the historic page,
And most the plaudits of the world engage?
What actions most attract the eyes of Fame,
And from her voice the loudest pæans claim?
The conqueror's deeds,....the awful works of death,....
For them the trophied bust, the flatterer's breath.
He, he alone a nation's praise enjoys,
Whose noble daring dazzles, but destroys;
While the blest deeds performed by Pity's hand
Nor praise nor notice from the world command:
Her useful charities to virtue dear,
Lost in the blaze of victories, disappear;
E'en the blest Howard's, long the boast of fame,
To Abercrombie's shines a second name.
And most the plaudits of the world engage?
What actions most attract the eyes of Fame,
And from her voice the loudest pæans claim?
The conqueror's deeds,....the awful works of death,....
For them the trophied bust, the flatterer's breath.
He, he alone a nation's praise enjoys,
Whose noble daring dazzles, but destroys;
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Nor praise nor notice from the world command:
Her useful charities to virtue dear,
Lost in the blaze of victories, disappear;
E'en the blest Howard's, long the boast of fame,
To Abercrombie's shines a second name.
So, when the traveller various countries seeks,
Not the smooth-flowing stream his praise bespeaks,
Which, as it humbly fills its narrow bound,
Diffuses verdure, plenty, health, around:
Unseen by him, perhaps, its waters glide;
He seeks the foaming cataract's lofty tide;
And while, creating wonder, awe, delight,
The frantic torrent sparkles to the sight,
He sees, admiring, the dread flood expand
That scatters waste and havoc o'er the land.
Not the smooth-flowing stream his praise bespeaks,
Which, as it humbly fills its narrow bound,
Diffuses verdure, plenty, health, around:
Unseen by him, perhaps, its waters glide;
He seeks the foaming cataract's lofty tide;
And while, creating wonder, awe, delight,
The frantic torrent sparkles to the sight,
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That scatters waste and havoc o'er the land.
But though I Valour's offspring love to praise,
To pity's humbler sons shall flow my lays.
To me the warrior's brightest wreath appears
Steeped in the orphan's, parent's, widow's tears.
More blest, to me, one deed of Christian love
Than all the feats which British prowess prove:
From laurell'd conquerors still to those I turn
Who bid the debtor's bosom cease to mourn,....
Those who the victim of misfortune's hour
To useful labour, and his home, restore,....
Snatch him from indolence, from noxious air,
From vile associates, from his own despair,
Destructive habits, misery's baleful gloom,
An useless life, and an untimely tomb.
Blest men! to you, howe'er you shrink from fame,
Belongs the patriot's prostituted name.
If Rome to him a civic garland gave
Who snatched one Roman from the yawning grave,
On you what bright rewards should Britain shower,
For countless Britons saved from Death's dread power!
While want's pale sons, by your exertions charmed,
And their soothed hearts of jealous rage disarmed,
At fortune's partial smiles their frowns repress,....
Since wealth in you appears the power to bless.
But in your sight how poor were earthly praise!
For you to Heaven the eye of hope can raise.
Weak must the world's applause to them appear
Who thy still voice, approving Conscience, hear.
To pity's humbler sons shall flow my lays.
To me the warrior's brightest wreath appears
Steeped in the orphan's, parent's, widow's tears.
More blest, to me, one deed of Christian love
Than all the feats which British prowess prove:
From laurell'd conquerors still to those I turn
Who bid the debtor's bosom cease to mourn,....
Those who the victim of misfortune's hour
To useful labour, and his home, restore,....
Snatch him from indolence, from noxious air,
From vile associates, from his own despair,
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An useless life, and an untimely tomb.
Blest men! to you, howe'er you shrink from fame,
Belongs the patriot's prostituted name.
If Rome to him a civic garland gave
Who snatched one Roman from the yawning grave,
On you what bright rewards should Britain shower,
For countless Britons saved from Death's dread power!
While want's pale sons, by your exertions charmed,
And their soothed hearts of jealous rage disarmed,
At fortune's partial smiles their frowns repress,....
Since wealth in you appears the power to bless.
But in your sight how poor were earthly praise!
For you to Heaven the eye of hope can raise.
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Who thy still voice, approving Conscience, hear.
Go, sons of Charity! your course pursue,
Yours be the secret joy to virtue due!
O happy ye, whom every scene can please,
Viewed through the medium of a mind at ease!
E'en when, by fashion led, you chance to stray
Where triflers bow to dissipation's sway,....
As the phosphoric flame, though always bright,
Shines in pure air with most refulgent light;....
So still for you, within whose bosom glow
The pure enjoyments virtuous deeds bestow,
Pleasure's soft rose seems fresher sweets to shed,
And its bright blush to beam with livelier red.
But hail to all who others' sufferings feel,
And ills they pity nobly strive to heal!
Whether they rear the felon's orphan child,
Or sooth the stranger from his home exiled,
Or helpless foundlings to their care receive,
Or bid the captive's heart no longer grieve,....
Or, urged by justice to the virtuous deed,
The cause of Afric's injured offspring plead,....
Or, like those deep and unseen springs that spread
Verdure and plenty from a secret bed,
They bid their charities obscurely flow,
Content their God alone the deeds shall know.
Should pining woe or worldly want be theirs,
For them shall rise affection's fondest prayers;
To them shall friendship's seraph voice impart
The soothing words that heal the wounded heart;
Aid shall the acquaintance, nay the stranger, lend,
And in attentions rival e'en the friend;....
Shall, proud to bid those sufferers cease to groan
Who others' miseries ever made their own,
With watchful eye their secret wish explore,
And change affliction's into triumph's hour:
For then the world will see distinctly proved,
How much they're honoured, and how much beloved.
And, nobler prospect, when life's closing day
Sinks in the night of sickness and decay,....
In vain to them shall death's dark horrors gloom:....
Theirs the bright day that beams beyond the tomb....
Yours be the secret joy to virtue due!
O happy ye, whom every scene can please,
Viewed through the medium of a mind at ease!
E'en when, by fashion led, you chance to stray
Where triflers bow to dissipation's sway,....
As the phosphoric flame, though always bright,
Shines in pure air with most refulgent light;....
So still for you, within whose bosom glow
The pure enjoyments virtuous deeds bestow,
Pleasure's soft rose seems fresher sweets to shed,
And its bright blush to beam with livelier red.
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And ills they pity nobly strive to heal!
Whether they rear the felon's orphan child,
Or sooth the stranger from his home exiled,
Or helpless foundlings to their care receive,
Or bid the captive's heart no longer grieve,....
Or, urged by justice to the virtuous deed,
The cause of Afric's injured offspring plead,....
Or, like those deep and unseen springs that spread
Verdure and plenty from a secret bed,
They bid their charities obscurely flow,
Content their God alone the deeds shall know.
Should pining woe or worldly want be theirs,
For them shall rise affection's fondest prayers;
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The soothing words that heal the wounded heart;
Aid shall the acquaintance, nay the stranger, lend,
And in attentions rival e'en the friend;....
Shall, proud to bid those sufferers cease to groan
Who others' miseries ever made their own,
With watchful eye their secret wish explore,
And change affliction's into triumph's hour:
For then the world will see distinctly proved,
How much they're honoured, and how much beloved.
And, nobler prospect, when life's closing day
Sinks in the night of sickness and decay,....
In vain to them shall death's dark horrors gloom:....
Theirs the bright day that beams beyond the tomb....
| Poems by Mrs. Opie | |