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120
FRAGMENT.
[Obscure thy rays, thou beamy god of light!]
Obscure thy rays, thou beamy god of light!Be mine the stillness and the gloom of night;
For horrors now usurp my pensive breast,
And ev'ry chearful thought is lull'd to rest.
Come, blackest night! come, ebon-mantled dame!
Be you the witness of my country's shame:
And thou, pale sphere! that lend'st thy partial ray,
And yon bright glitt'ring host, now fade away;
Leave me surrounded by the dunnest gloom—
I, bending, weep neglected merit's doom;
I mourn the sons of fire, Apollo's race;
I mourn their fate, and England's foul disgrace.
No more I'll strive to pluck the blooming crest;
In cypress wreath my brows shall now be dress'd:
No myrtle groves I'll seek, no verdant glade,
But stretch my form beneath the yew tree's shade.
To downy dove and shrill-toned lark farewell,
Be mine the screech owl and the raven's knell.
121
Which only own'd meek Charity's control?
That feeling, which should warm each earthly clod,
That plants in man, an essence of his God?
Say, wherefore was the heavenly fervor mute?
Why were ye kindred to the senseless brute?
Each fellow-creature should demand our care;
We all are brothers, and as such should share:
Then why neglect the boast of ev'ry age?
Those sons of genius that have trod life's stage;
Who live neglected, but whose fame, in death,
You trumpet forth with sycophantic breath:
Yes, you your contrite pity then extend,
Who, while he liv'd, refus'd to be his friend:
Consummate art! fine pageantry of grief!
Propitious hour indeed to yield relief.
Such the reprieve lame justice will impart,
Which comes when the dread rope has played its part.
In vain would each arrest the culprit's fate,
He's deaf to mercy, for it came too late.
Enough—Oh! shame; and is this Britain's isle,
Where all are said to wear contentment's smile?
Read on, and if one pitying tear remains,
Let it be shed o'er these disgraceful strains.
122
Behold their leader, famish'd Poverty;
See where her meagre form now stalks in view,
With ravenous eye, and lank cadav'rous hue;
With pace unsteady, and long matted hair,
That hangs disorder'd o'er her shoulders bare;
With scanty covering, form'd of filthy rags,
Loathsome to sight, and fringed with clotted jags;
Whose webby texture, sometimes worn away,
The sharp projecting bones beneath display;
With knees that stare without their torn abode,
Trembling beneath the skinny, starving load;
An object fram'd at once to pall the sight,
And chill the wanton wish of young delight:
Yet with fell horror rouse soft pity's flood,
And from the feeling heart drain tears of blood.
God! in her train what forms I now behold;
My heart beats one; life's stream is almost cold:
A torpor numbs each sense; I stare aghast—
Now stiff—now trembling with chill ague's blast:
How pale, how sad appears each godlike mien!
How like fell misery this wretched queen!
See Spencer first [OMITTED]
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