Poems on Various Subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems on Various Subjects

By John Thelwall. In Two Volumes

Thelwall, John (1764-1834)

II.

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The Muse's Office was by Heav'n design'd
To amuse, instruct, and to reform Mankind.
Churchill.

1. VOL I

CONSISTING OF TALES

POEMS.

EDMUND AND ROSALINDA.

“Ah me! the west no longer glows
“With evening's blushing ray:
“The moon a feeble light bestows,
“To paint the pathless way.

“Oh! whither shall our feeble feet,
“With lengthen'd toil oppress'd,
“In all this dreary forest meet
“A place secure to rest?

“For here oppressive outlaws dwell,
“And rapine's desp'rate race;
“And prowling wolves, more fierce and fell,
“Infest the houseless place.

“Alas! with toil and fear I faint!”—
Fair Ros'lind said, and sigh'd.
“Ah cease thy moan, my love, my saint!”
The gentle Edmund cried:

“Dismiss thy fears, and thank the Pow'r
“Who pities the distress'd,
“And leads us to an humble bow'r
“Of safety and of rest.

“For where yon spiring poplars bend
“Before the fanning breeze,
“I see a little cottage send
“Its smoke above the trees.

“Then courage, love! and let's away
“To yon sequester'd shed;
“Where we perhaps secure may lay,
“Or hide the weary head.”

Not evening dew to drooping flow'rs
Such fresh'ning strength affords,
Nor to the turf descending show'rs,
As to her mind his words.

Then, hand in hand, the wild they trace,
To gain the low retreat;
Till faint and sad, they reach the place—
Of weeping age the seat.

With furz was thatch'd the lowly hut,
Part hollow'd from the hill,
Part built with planks, all rudely cut,
More form'd by want than skill.

They knock, and straitway at the door
A wrinkled dame appears;
Neat was her look, her habit bore
The signs of better years.

The shelter of her cleanly roof
The matron freely grants,
And gives them every friendly proof
Of pity for their wants.

Upon a table quick she spread
A napkin clean and neat,
Then brings a loaf of barley bread,
With fruits, a wholesome treat!

With many a welcome oft times said,
Her friendly heart she shows.
The fire, with added faggots fed,
A cheerful light bestows.

Then, for a while, the courteous dame
Withdrew in silent haste;
But with a bowl soon back she came,
Which she before them plac'd.

“My children,” says the matron sage,
“Behold the wholesome draught.
“With this your craving thirst assuage:—
“Such our forefathers quaft;

“Which them with health and strength supply'd,
“All luxury unknown,
“Then charity unmix'd with pride,
“And simple virtue shone.

“A cow, the sole remaining wealth
“Of all my former store,
“Supplying this, secures me health;
“Nor do I wish for more.

“And if, by chance benighted here,
“Some sadly wand'ring guest
“For shelter to my cot repair,
“I give him, and am blest.

“For such a portion I reserve
“When I the udder press;
“O'erjoy'd the pow'r I still preserve
“The needy to redress.

“For what can greater joy impart
“To minds with feeling blest,
“Than to revive the drooping heart,
“Or succour the distrest?

“The flow'rs the morning dews exhale,
“And gather thence their sweets,
“And kindly scent each gentle gale
“That fans their gay retreats.

“The larks, by nature's bounty fed,
“Their bliss to all impart;
“Melodious soaring o'er our head,
“They glad the drooping heart.

“Shall we alone, with reason bless'd,
“A sordid mind retain?
“See others with misfortune press'd,
“And not relieve their pain?”

Thus she, benevolent and kind,
The while each youthful guest
Griev'd, to behold so good a mind
By poverty opprest.

Their simple meal, their hostess good,
Delight each lover's mind:
Yet in their eyes the tear oft stood,
And, trembling, sadly shin'd.

The melting glance, the mutual sigh,
Bespoke the lover's flames:
But ah! the frequent moisten'd eye
A sadder cause proclaims.

At length the fair her drooping head,
With tender woes opprest,
Reclined, and there its sorrows shed,
On Edmund's throbbing breast.

The tender scene provokes the tears
To wet the matron's cheeks;
And thus, emov'd with generous fears,
The kind enquirer speaks:

“Ah me! reveal ye tender pair,
“If thwarted in your love,
“Ye fly some jealous guardian's care,
“A stolen bliss to prove?

“Or if in Hymen's bonds conjoin'd,
“An angry father's doom
“Compels you, in his wrath unkind,
“Abandon'd thus to roam?

“Perhaps some wealthier rival woo'd
“The virgin to his bed;
“Some titled wretch her love pursued,
“And gold's allurements spread.

“For this the father may withhold
“His sanction to your joy;
“And for vain stores of useless gold,
“Your happiness destroy.

“Can wealth relieve the aching heart,
“Or silence discord's voice;
“That parents act this cruel part?—
“Oh avaricious choice!

“To drive content and peace away
“To make their fortunes more;
“That, like the bee, some spoiler may
“Destroy them for their store.

“If hence, my friends, your sorrows flow,
“I can your sorrows feel.
“Then listen to the tale of woe
“Which, weeping, I reveal.

“The Mercian throne when Keonwulph held,
“My father did preside:
“A valiant soldier in the field,
“And in the council tried.

“Of all the children of his bride,
“But only me surviv'd:
“Young Alwin woo'd me from his side,
“But nought his passion thriv'd.

“The fav'rite of the king was he,
“My father took his part;
“But to a youth of less degree
“I had bestow'd my heart.

“Not lilies on the stem display'd
“Were half so fair to view;
“Nor doves that seek the woodland shade
“So tender and so true:

“Alas! but small his fortunes were,
“Which made my sire disprove;
“And long he sought to part the pair
“Combin'd in mutual love.

“And oft he press'd I'd Alwin wed;
“But I his will withstand,
“And to my humbler lover fled,
“And gave to him my hand:

“All to my sire unknown, I flew
“Just at the break of dawn:
“The fields were white with pearly dew,
“And hung with tears the thorn.

“Secluded long, compell'd, we dwelt,
“To shun my father's rage;
“In hopes that time his ire would melt,
“His cruel wrath assuage.

“The sun had walk'd his annual round,
“A witness to our bliss;
“A daughter fair our love had crown'd
“With double happiness.

“When that my angry father heard
“Where we had liv'd so long,
“And with his vassals arm'd appear'd—
“A bold and mighty throng!

“He swore the life he would not spare
“Of him my dearest lord;
“For wedding thus his daughter fair,
“Against his known accord.

“Behind the house a forest stood;
“And much my lord I pray'd,
“That thro' the same escape he would,
“And take our little maid.

“With much of tears and discontent,
“And with a heavy heart,
“He thro' the woods to exile went.
“We griev'd full sore to part.

“Now scarcely out of sight was he,
“When burst the castle door;
“In rush'd my sire, with cruel glee:
“I sunk upon the floor.

‘And where is he, the saucy slave,’
“When I reviv'd, he said,
‘Who dar'd, ere I my blessing gave,
‘My only daughter wed?’

“Safe from thy pow'r, (I bold reply'd,)
“O thou inhuman sire!
“By this he stems the briny tide;
“And mocks thy cruel ire.”

“Then me he to his home did bear,
“And keep me there confin'd,
“And oft with threats, oft speeches fair,
“He'd tempt my constant mind.

“From former vows, full oft he'd say,
“The pope should set me free,
“If I would his commands obey,
“And gallant Alwin's be.

“But I resolv'd I'd faithful prove
“To him my dearest lord,
“Who now, by my hard father drove,
“Was wand'ring sad abroad.

“To shun his persecuting pow'r,
“I from my father fled;
“All at the fearful, silent hour
“When darkness round was spread.

“Secluded in this homely cot,
“I've shunn'd the public eye;
“Submissive to my hapless lot,
“Where I'll contented die.

“If yours is like my former love,
“Oh may it happier end!
“May time your fond esteem improve,
“Your fortunes heav'n befriend!

“But, oh ye heav'ns! I yet must mourn,
“With tears and anguish wild,
“That I could yet no tidings learn
“Of Roldan or my child.

“Roldan, my lord! my dear delight!—”
Her tears her words delay;
While quick from Rosalinda's sight
Each object fades away.

Attentive long the tale she heard,
On every accent hung,
And toss'd on passion's tide appear'd,
And with impatience stung;

But, when she heard brave Roldan's name,
She sunk in Edmund's arms;
A sudden chilness seiz'd her frame,
And dimn'd her heav'nly charms.

To give her aid the hostess flies,
When, on the maiden's breast,
A picture met her wond'ring eyes
With Roldan's form imprest.

Then shook with joy the matron's frame,
“My child,” she cried, “my child!
“By heav'n's high will you hither came:
“Conducted thro' the wild.

“For when thy father with thee flew,
“Thy infant neck around
“I hung this toy, which now I view.
“And art thou, art thou found?”

Reviving, Rosalinda throws
Her arms around her neck,
Each to the other's bosom grows,
And tears their utterance check.

“My child,” demands the eager dame,
“My Rosalinda dear!
“Does yet thy father live,—proclaim—
“And how he lives, and where?”

Returning sorrow chills the blood
Of either youthful guest;
Forlorn and motionless they stood,
And sighs each voice supprest.

Then thus the youth: “Ah parent dear!
“As soon I hope you'll be,
“Thy Roldan lately press'd his bier,
“From guilt and terror free.

“He call'd me to his death-bed side,
“And press'd my hand in his;
‘My Edmund, oh my friend!’ he cried,
‘May yours be every bliss.

‘Like you I lov'd, in youthful time,
‘And was again belov'd:
‘Our joys were short, and in their prime
‘The source of sorrow prov'd.

‘Spurn'd from my country, forc'd to roam,
‘I've wander'd sad and poor:
‘But now I seek a peaceful home,
‘Where sorrow is no more.

‘By thy supporting bounty fed—
‘But oh! when I'm no more
‘Let Ros'lind share thy nuptial bed,
‘Nor broken vows deplore.

‘Have pity on her tender years,
‘And do not blast her fame,
‘Nor forfeit, by her injur'd tears,
‘The guerdon you may claim.

‘For heav'n its bitter wrath prepares
‘To blast his closing day,
‘Who wooes the maid, and basely dares
‘Her easy heart betray.’

“Oh rest thy heart, sincere I cried,
“I will be just and kind.—
‘Ah yet’ he rear'd his head and sigh'd,
‘One wish remains behind:

‘In Angles-land Elfrida seek,
‘If yet my dearest lives,
‘And wipe from tears her aged cheek,
‘If yet forlorn she grieves.’

“He said, and harder grasp'd my hand;
“His faultering accents cease;
“He smil'd serene, with aspect bland,
“And sunk to endless peace.

“Soon as each duteous task was done
“To his departed shade,
“We cross'd the sea, and journey'd on
“To seek you as he'd said.

“When now the sun's enlivening sheen
“Had pass'd the middle day,
“Our guides we left, the sylvan scene
“Invited us to stray.

“In mournful, pleasing converse long,
“Neglectful of the road,
“We wander'd inconsiderate on,
“And lost us in the wood.

“But sure 'twas heav'n's directing will
“That led our wand'ring feet,
“To end with joy thy years of ill,
“Whom here forlorn we meet.

“Then be he thank'd with grateful heart,
“Who led us on our way;
“Whose hand extracts affliction's dart,
“And wipes our tears away.”

Elfrida hears, her bosom heaves
With mingled joy and woe;
She clasps her child, her husband grieves,
And tears descending flow.

“And blest and happy may you be,
“And full of years,” she cried;
“May ne'er misfortunes sorrow ye,
“Nor angry fate divide!

“And may my Roldan's virtues shine
“In all your offspring fair:
“His sweet endowments bless your line,
“Without his weight of care.”

ALLEN AND MATILDA.

“Farewel my cot, of wood contriv'd,
“'Gainst storms and tempests proof,
“Round which the grape-vine long has thriv'd,
“And climb'd the rushy roof!

“Farewel my garden's pride and joy,
“With gosses fenc'd around,
“Where flow'rs in scented beauty vie,
“And useful herbs abound!

“Farewel my little orchard too,
“Whence I full oft, with care,
“The sweetest fruits of brightest hue
“Have pluck'd to please my fair!

“Farewel thou brook, whose babbling stream,
“As slow it roll'd along,
“Full oft inspir'd my moral theme,
“Or tun'd my mournful song!

“No more my sheep at middle day
“Shall brouze upon thy side,
“Or sportive on thy margin play,
“Or drink thy cooling tide;

“Allen no more that flock shall tend:—
“That flock is Ella's now.
“That roof shall Cedrec hence defend;
“For him the grape shall grow:

“For ah! Matilda scorns my love,
“And mocks my little store:
“Then shall the wars my state improve,
“Or I return no more.

“Yet sure the tender glancing eye
“With which she kens me oft,
“The swelling breast, the stifled sigh,
“Bespeak emotions soft.

“And sure the partial praise she gives
“To my unskilful theme;
“And sure the praise my pipe receives
“Are tokens of esteem.

“And sure the frequent pride she took,
“With flow'rets gaily twin'd,
“To deck my lambs beside the brook,
“Bespoke a partial mind.

“For ne'er were Ella's younglings fair
“With wreathing flow'rets hung;
“Nor did she lend a partial ear
“When Edwin sweetly sung.

“'Tis prudence then forbids the fair
“To wed a swain so poor:
“Then shall the wars my state repair,
“Or I return no more.”

“Stay, Allen, stay,” Matilda cried,
And issued from the grove,
Where sweet-briar with the woodbines vied
Which round the saplings wove;

“O'er yonder dewy mountain's head
“The morning scarce appears;
“No linnets yet their wings have spread;
“No lark the welkin cheers.

“Then where does Allen rove so soon?
“Yet ah Matilda knows!—
“For by that look, that tear, is shewn
“The cause of Allen's woes.

“Yet cease to mourn, thou tender youth,
“For fortune frowns no more;
“Matilda's love shall crown thy truth,—
“And wealth a plenteous store.

“For yester-night a reverend sire
“Approach'd my cottage gate,
“In silver mail, and rich attire;—
“He seem'd of high estate.

“It was my father; whom my tears
“Were wont so oft deplore,
“Made pris'ner in my infant years
“All on a distant shore.

“Full well thou know'st how Kendal's lord
“His lands and castle seiz'd,
“Which, all in vain, I oft implor'd
“To be to me releas'd.

“But when my sire his freedom gain'd,
“And back to Mercia came,
“He challeng'd him who thus detain'd
“His true and lawful claim.

“Before the king in listed fight,
“Tho' now in arms grown old,
“He bravely prov'd his question'd right,
“And slew his rival bold.

“Then all in quest of me he came,
“Nor to disarm would stay;
“For he had heard it told by fame
“I friendless pin'd away.

“Then Allen be thy heart elate,
“For thou shalt surely share
“The blessings of my alter'd state,”
Exclaim'd the gen'rous fair.

To pining flocks not dewy plains
Can greater joys impart,
Nor day-light to bewilder'd swains,
Than this to Allen's heart.

He caught her fondly in his arms,
He clasp'd her to his breast;
He gaz'd on all her blushing charms,
And kiss'd and fondly prest.

The tear of transport wets each eye,
Down either cheek it flows;
As dew-drops in the harebell lie,
Or on the blushing rose.

But not the bell which dew refines
Can match Matilda's eyen;
Nor humid rose so sweetly shines
As does her blushing mien.

“And will Matilda, will my love,”
The happy Allen cried,
“A poor unfortun'd youth approve,
“And be a shepherd's bride?”

“Yes, yes; for you I can resign
“The court's enticing pride:
“Let Allen be but only mine,
“I'll be a shepherd's bride.

“To bless my Allen with the news,
“I left my sleepless bed,
“And tow'rds his cottage, o'er the dews
“With eager haste I fled.

“For what of joy can wealth impart,
“Or fortune's smile so fair,
“Till we can gild a lover's heart,
“Or chace a friend's despair?”

As turtles in the woodland shade
Their tender vows prolong,
Or woodlarks warble thro' the glade
Their loves in mutual song.

They yielding all to harmless love,
Their artless passion vow;
When rush'd Sir Thudor from the grove,
With anger on his brow.

“Degenerate girl,” enrag'd he cries,
“Thou art no child of mine,
“That dost no more thy honour prize,
“But wouldst disgrace thy line.

“In wonder what so soon could lead
“Thy restless feet this way,
“I trac'd thee o'er the dew-white mead;
“And now thy shame survey.

“Degenerate girl! that to a swain
“Of low and mean degree
“Wouldst give thy hand, my house to stain,
“And shame thyself and me.

“But know that I have promis'd thee,
“And will perform my word,
“To one of rich and high degree,
“A valiant Lombard lord.

“But as for thee, thou saucy groom,
“That durst so high aspire;
“No longer to my child presume,
“Or dread my rising ire.”

When this the trembling fair-one hears,
She sinks upon the earth;
And, while her eyes o'erflow with tears,
She mourns her lofty birth.

As lilies overcharg'd with dew
Droop weeping on the plain,
So look'd the fair, forlorn of hue,
And thus she vents her pain:

“Oh! happier far, while friendless poor,
“A shepherd lass I liv'd,
“Than thus possess'd of wealth and store,
“And of my love bereav'd.”

Then drew young Allen from his side
A sword both sharp and keen;
And thus, with bended knee, he cried
To Thudor of the green:

“Here Thudor, take my keen edg'd sword,
“And plunge it in my heart;
“But do not, with thy keener word,
“Me from Matilda part.

“That sword, when on his death-bed lay'd,
“To me my father gave;
“And these the latest words he said,
‘My Allen, oh be brave!

‘From fierce Northumbria's warlike race
‘Thy ravish'd lands reclaim,
‘Or breathless laid in honour's chace,
‘Transmit thy deeds to fame.’

“But I, neglectful of his voice,
“Preferr'd the arts of peace;
“A calm retirement was my choice,—
“But now that calm must cease.

“Then, ah! within my aching breast
“In pity plunge the sword;
“Matilda, when my soul's at rest,
“May wed the Lombard lord.

“But let not me their nuptials view,
“Nor me his raptures hear;
“Lest I some frantic action do
“In madness of despair.”

Meanwhile, surpriz'd, Sir Thudor ey'd
The blade he knew full well:
“Thy father's name, and rank,” he cry'd,
“Oh quick young Allen tell.”

“Sir Eldred was my father's name,”
Reply'd the wond'ring youth;
“A title not unknown to fame
“For loyalty and truth;

“But plunder'd by invading pow'rs
“Of his paternal lands,
“He left me, in his latest hours,
“That sword, and those commands.”

“Rise Allen, rise, for only thou
“Shalt e'er my daughter wed:
“Rise, rise, Matilda, happy now,”
The joyous father said.

“Sir Eldred was my bosom friend,
“And 'twas in war our pride
“Each other nobly to defend,
“And combat side by side.

“And when fair peace the country blest,
“With jocund hound and horn,
“With mutual lance the wolf we prest,
“And wak'd with shouts the morn.

“And when I left my native shore
“We endless friendship vow'd;
(“Alas to think! we met no more)
“And each a gift bestow'd.

“Then I receiv'd from Eldred brave
“A quiver and a bow,
“And in return this sword I gave,
“Whose make full well I know.

“But thou a richer gift receive,
“Matilda's willing hand;
“And long and happy may ye live,
“In wedlock's purest band.”

“And do I call Matilda mine?”
The happy Allen cry'd;
“Yes, yes, my Allen I am thine,”
The blushing fair reply'd.

“Heav'n will at last reward the pair
“Whose mutual bosoms burn;
“Estrang'd from ev'ry selfish care,
“For passions pure return.”

ELWIN AND ANNA.

A TALE.

Hard by a dell, whose bushy side
Was deckt with primrose sweet,
With violets blue, and daisies pied,
There stood a lone retreat:

A humble cottage, unadorn'd
By arts of useless pride;
Yet was their want, nor be it scorn'd,
By neatness well supplied.

Nor let the haughty and the great
The humble roof despise;
For joy oft quits their downy state,
And to the cottage flies.

And virtue, and contentment sweet
Oft shun the gay parade,
And fix their calm unrivall'd seat
Within the rural shade.

And virtue here, content, and joy
Were oft with Anna seen;
While modesty inform'd her eye,
And meekness grac'd her mien.

The bud that on the hawthorn grew
Was not like Anna fair;
Nor could the rose's ruddy hue
With Anna's blush compare.

The violet, when it shone with dew,
Before her eye look'd pale;
Her breath surpast the sweets that flew
Upon the vernal gale.

But ah the virtues far more rare
That dwelt within her breast,
Outshone the brightest charms that were
Upon her form imprest.

A maiden aunt, of adverse mould,
Her infant beauties rear'd;
Of mind pedantic, manners bold:
Less to be lov'd than fear'd.

And now when Anna's swelling breast,
Fair as the whitest dove,
The season of desire confest,
Young Elwin sought her love.

Each means, each soft persuasive art
He tried, the maid to gain;
And she return'd his flame at heart,
But fear'd to own her pain.

But ah! in vain her tongue conceal'd
The feelings of her mind;
Her looks, her actions all reveal'd:—
And Elwin was not blind.

Delighted now their minutes glide,
Which mutual passion bless.
Not woodlarks, who in thickets hide,
Such tender joy express.

Full oft they sought the woodland shade,
Or trac'd the dell around;
Or by the bubbling runnells stray'd,
To mark the pleasing sound.

And on the primrose bank reclin'd,
Where circling woodbines grew,
Would Anna oft reveal her mind,
Or hear her Elwin woo.

Oft would the hand, with pressure soft,
The want of words supply;
And, here conceal'd, the kiss would oft
Restrain the rising sigh.

So blossom, like the freshest rose,
Their tender hopes awhile;
More bright their dawn of passion glows
Than May-day's morning smile.

The rose a sudden blight may kill,
A cloud the sky o'ercast;—
But love—thy joys, more fickle still,
Are seldom known to last.

The sordid dame, beneath whose care
The tender Anna liv'd,
Had long observ'd the gentle pair,
And long with envy griev'd:

She hated Elwin, for he ne'er
Would soothe her aukward pride,
Nor her pretended sense revere;
But often would deride.

And Anna too this pedant proud
With looks of envy view'd,
Because she was by all allow'd
With greater sense endu'd.

And now at once, with cruel spite,
To blast their peace she strove;
Denied the fair her Elwin's sight,
And bade her cease to love.

“Can I my Elwin cease to love?”
Exclaim'd the weeping maid;
“No, let me first the desert rove,
“To friendless want betray'd.”

“Tis well,” the envious Emma cried,
“Does Anna thus obey
“The last fond words which, ere she died,
“She heard her mother say?

“She bade me by her death-bed stand,
“As thou full well dost know;
“She held you in her pale-grown hand,
“And gaz'd with tender woe;

“And, sighing thus, with feeble tone,
‘My Anna, oh!’ she cry'd,
‘To Emma be obedience shown.’—
“Then sunk she down and died.

“Then if to her thou'dst duteous prove,
“Nor Emma's wrath deplore;
“Renounce for ever Elwin's love,
“And hear his vows no more.”

As droops the valley's modest flow'r,
By heavy rain opprest,
So Anna dropt, and rain'd a show'r
Of tears upon her breast.

Debarr'd her much-lov'd Edwin's sight,
Her beauties fade away;
As fades the rose's beauties bright,
Debarr'd the light of day.

Now Elwin rov'd thro' each retreat,
Where they so often stray'd,
Yet could he not his Anna meet,
By dell or wood and shade.

“Oh faithless Anna, cruel maid!”
The angry lover cry'd;
“Hast thou my easy heart betray'd,
“My weakness to deride?

“Am I deserted then, with scorn?
“Coquetted, slighted, crost?
“Let this by whining fools be born;
“But Elwin's not so lost.”

In scorn then left he Devon's plain,
While Anna pin'd away:
Each hour encreas'd the virgin's pain;
Each hour her charms decay.

So mourns the dove her absent mate;
So fades the hawthorn bloom,
When pluck'd before its fated date,
Expires its sweet perfume.

But not the turtle lov'd so true,
Or lov'd so much as she;
Nor not the May-flow'r's gayest hue
Esteem'd so sweet could be.

Her meek obedience now she blames;
Recalls each mem'ry sweet;
With past delight each grief enflames,
And haunts each lov'd retreat.

Full oft she rov'd each dingle green,
And sought each bushy dell,
Each glade, where she'd with Elwin been,
Their mutual loves to tell.

Full oft the flow'ry bank she sought,
Where runnells bubbled round;
Where, giving loose to tender thought,
They'd frequent prest the ground.

And where the clear and tranquil stream
Steals silent, would she stray;
Where thro' the trees no sun-beams gleam,
Or on the surface play.

“Here,” would she say, “the tender youth
“Did first his love declare;
“Here did he oft protest his truth;
“Here did we last repair.

“But ah! for ever is he flown,
“And Anna's heart must break:
“Yet, yet the fault was all my own;
“Why did I counsel take?”

Thus mourn'd the fair when Elwin came
To Devon's plains once more:
Then hope reviv'd her fading frame,
And bliss appear'd in store.

So opes the daisy on the lawn,
What time the sun appears;
So smiles the tulip when the dawn
With gladd'ning lustre cheers.

But short the beam of hope and joy;
For Elwin slights her charms:
Affects her proffer'd love to fly,
And seeks another's arms.

He scoffs at Anna's artless love,
Insults her easy heart;
And wooes Matilda of the grove,
And triumphs in his art.

When now one day, in cruel haste,
To Anna Emma flies:
“Here Anna, with this gift be grac'd,
“To please young Elwin's eyes.

“This bridal present Elwin sends,
“And this his new made bride.”
A sigh poor Anna's bosom rends,
She faints by Emma's side.

At length she op'd her feeble eyes:
“And is it true?” she said,
“If so unhappy Anna dies.
“And am I thus betray'd?

“Oh Elwin, Elwin! can'st thou ne'er
“Unhappy Anna's be?”
Pale shone her cheek with many a tear,
And trembled either knee.

Then to despair and grief resign'd,
Retir'd the hapless maid;
Nor long her slighted love repin'd:—
She flitted soon a shade.

I saw her in the earth laid low;
I wept upon her grave;
While pitying crowds, in speechless woe,
Their silent blessings gave.

THE HERMIT OF THE RUINED PALACE.

“Here, this way turn, my sister dear!
“And in this cavern seek
“Protection from the storm severe,
“And windy tempest bleak.

“O! enter quick, ere yet again
“The dreadful lightnings fly;
“Lest, like our guide, we press the plain,
“And all untimely die.”

“Alas!” replies the trembling fair,
With fault'ring voice and weak,
“Where, where, my friend, would thy despair
“A dangerous refuge seek?

“What if within this cavern drear
“Some hungry wolf were found,
“Whom nothing now prevents but fear
“To prowl the forest round?

“Or what if here fierce outlaws hive,
“To cruel actions bred;
“By rapine who and murder live,
“To love and pity dead?

“Oh save us heav'n! some place reveal
“Where safely we may rest:
“For ah my fluttering heart I feel
“Is fainting in my breast.

“Oh shield me, Anna, gentle maid!
“How fierce the lightning flies!”
“Alas! I need thy feeble aid!”
The trembling maid replies.

And now a light between the trees
Appears to move that way;
Sad terrors Anna's bosom seize;
Her sister faints away.

From murder warm then forward came
Two ruffians fierce and bold:
A torch one carries, by whose flame
The fair-ones they behold.

With speeches rude, they eager seiz'd
Each in his blood-stain'd arms
A wretched female, grimly pleas'd
To view their matchless charms.

Then tow'rds the cave the ruffians bore
With speed the hapless pair;
While struggling Anna wept full sore,
And rent with shrieks the air.

And now returning life appears
To 'lume the sister's eyes;
Fast fall the kind reviving tears,
Her bosom swells with sighs.

But when the lawless wretch she view'd
Who her so closely prest,
And felt his hand, with pressure rude,
Defile her snowy breast,

She fill'd the forest all around
With frequent shrieks and loud;
Whereat the caitiff sternly frown'd,
And thus he vaunted proud:

“In vain thy voice the forest rends,
“For none will bring thee aid:
“All know whoe'er assistance lends
“Must soon be breathless laid.”

“It is not so,” bold Rowland cried,
And rush'd from out the shade;
Then fell'd to earth the ruffian's pride:
The other flew dismay'd.

Then Rowland lifts the trembling pair,
Whose grateful hearts o'erflow,
In thanks to him whose timely care
Had snatch'd them both from woe.

“Oh thank me not,” he thus replies,
“For to the feeling breast,
“'Tis joy beyond all meaner joys
“To succour the distrest.

“Then what of thanks can I deserve,
“Who feel within my heart
“A greater joy, while you I serve,
“Than I to you impart.

“But leave, fair maids, this dang'rous place,
“And if ye will repair
“To do my lone retirement grace,
“I will conduct ye there.

“No downy couch to rest at ease
“My mould'ring cave can yield;
“But from the rain and chilling breeze
“My mossy roof can shield.

“And if that nature's frugal fare
“Can nature's wants suffice,
“My roots ye shall with welcome share,
“And drink the spring supplies.”

The fair-ones bow, as 'fore the gale
The waving flow'rets bend;
Then leads he winding tow'rds the dale,
And they his steps attend.

And now the winds their roarings cease,
The welkin grows serene;
The clouds disperse before the breeze,
The yellow moon is seen.

Fair Anna by the glimmering light
The op'ning view survey'd;
But ah! her sister veil'd her sight,
And trembled thro' the glade.

Her bosom, like the froth-white wave,
Heav'd with the swelling sigh;
Full many a tear her cheek did lave,
Or trembled in her eye.

And now they reach a ruin'd pile,
Of grandeur once the seat,
And wind thro' many a Gothic isle,
To Rowland's lone retreat.

Then up the marble steps they climb,
And to his room arrive,
Whose moss-grown walls, decay'd by time,
The nestling swallows hive.

With creeping ivy overgrown
Was one small casement seen;
Thro' one the moon obstructed shone,
And cast a checquer'd gleen:

For this the ivy fring'd around,
And crept fantastic thro';
And close the shatter'd frame it bound,
And up the roof it grew.

With crackling wood to dry the fair
The hermit now essays;
The dying embers wakes with care,
And bids the hearth to blaze.

The fair, refresh'd with warmth and food,
The hermit's grief observe:
His sigh-swoln breast, his troubl'd mood,
His silence and reserve.

And anxious thus the elder spoke:
“Say why, thou man of woes,
“The peopled city you forsook,
“And this retirement chose?

“What sorrows on thy bosom prey,
“To me if thou'lt declare,
“With grateful heart, I'll night and day
“Remind them in my pray'r.

“For I, forlorn, the cloister seek,
“In orisons to spend
“My wretched days, resign'd and meek,
“Till death my sorrows end.”

“Oh pious maid!” the hermit cried,
“How can I dare, for shame,
“To thy pure ears my tale confide,
“And guilt like mine proclaim?

“A man of high estate was I
“All in my youthful days;
“My meads did pasture rich supply
“For numerous flocks to graze.

“But ah! to wanton joys inclin'd,
“Heav'n's bounty I abus'd,
“And what for good was thus design'd,
“My misery produc'd.

“Full oft the artless maid I woo'd,
“By grot or shady grove;
“And many, by my arts subdu'd,
“Fell victims to their love.

“When now Elfrida met my view,
“A maid of modest air;
“The daisy on the mead that grew
“Was never half so fair.

“Retir'd she liv'd, for fortune's frown
“Had robb'd her of her friends—
“Alas to think! when wealth is flown
“How quickly friendship ends.

“Within a winding glade her cot
“Was built, secure from harms:
“An aged mother shar'd her lot,
“And watch'd her op'ning charms.

“Thus, screen'd the shelt'ring thorn beneath,
“The primrose early grows;
“So, guarded by the parent leaf,
“May's modest lily blows.

“But ah! her modest charms awoke
“In me a lawless flame;
“And ev'ry sacred vow I broke,
“To soil her virgin fame.

“My bounty cheer'd the mother's heart,
“And all her wants reliev'd;
“But ah! the while my cruel art
“The daughter's love deceiv'd.

“When oft, by moonlight, on the green,
“The cheerful village throng
“Desporting to the pipe were seen,
“Or to the rustic song,

“Then who like fair Elfrida danc'd?
“Who gain'd but me her hand?
“And who like we so fondly glanc'd
“Of all the youthful band?

“It chanc'd the lord who own'd the glade
“Had long assay'd in vain
“(For pure and spotless was the maid)
“Elfrida's love to gain.

“Like me he burn'd with lawless fires,
“Which different did unfold:
“I fann'd the maiden's soft desires,
“He tempted her with gold.

“But when he found that wealth and pride
“To move her had no charms,
“To tempt the aged dame he tried,
“To sell her to his arms.

‘Persuade,’ he said, ‘thy child this night
‘My eager love to crown,
‘This cottage, and this glade, my right,
‘Shall be for aye thy own.’

“But she refus'd, with honest pride,
“And scorn'd the proffer'd store.
‘'Tis well,’ the angry lord replied;
‘Thou shalt repent it sore.

‘For four long years have I forborn
‘To claim my annual right,
‘In pity to thy state forlorn:—
‘But mark it well ere night.

‘For soon on you my steward here,
‘By my command shall wait.’
“He said, and turn'd with frown severe;
“Nor did his anger 'bate;

“For ah! full soon the steward came;
“Nor would he brook delay,
“But to a prison forc'd the dame,
“To pine in grief away.

“That day, the annual sports to see
“Of merry harvest-home,
“Did fair Elfrida stray with me,
“And thro' the meadows roam.

“But when, at eve return'd, she found
“Her parent's hapless plight,
“The roses on her cheek she drown'd
“In pity's gems so bright.

“To soothe the maid, I instant flew
“To set her parent free,
“Unheedful of the dusky dew
“Which wet the darkling lea.

“But not releas'd could be the dame
“Until returning morn;
“So back return'd I, as I came,
“To cheer the maid forlorn.

“When now towards the cot I drew,
“Her cries assail'd my ear:
“I started at the sound, and flew
“To learn her cause of fear.

“There did I spy the ruffian lord,
“Elfrida in his arms.—
“He strove, without her free accord,
“To rifle all her charms.

“But soon to earth I fell'd the loon,
“And eas'd the maiden's fears;
“And, driving him the cottage, soon
“I kiss'd away her tears.

“But ah! what guilt can equal mine?
“E'en then, while in her eyes
“Love, gratitude, and sorrow shine,
“I seize the blushing prize.

“I press—I triumph o'er her heart.
“Ah me! how oft my soul,
“Repenting of the cruel part,
“Has pin'd in useless dole!

“To drown reflection's voice I tri'd
“In riot's noisy bow'rs:
“In banquets of lascivious pride
“Consuming all my hours;

“Till dissipation's wild excess
“Had wasted all my store;
“Then stung by anguish and distress,
“I here the world forswore.

“But ah! my anguish grew so great,
“I could no more endure,
“And so resolv'd to seek my fate,
“And ease by death procure.

“On death resolv'd this night I stood
“Beside the neighb'ring lake,
“When late you rent with cries the wood,
“Which did my purpose break.

“By this adventure taught in time,
“Self-slaughter I'll forego,
“And seek to wipe away my crime,
“By warding others woe.

“Nor should the guiltiest wretch, I see,
“Despairing seek the grave,
“Since he, thro' heav'n, the means may be
“Wrong'd innocence to save.

“Then in this shade will I remain,
“To lend the wretched aid,
“And rapine's lawless tribe restrain,
“Till life, or strength's decay'd.”

“These vows,” replied the elder fair,
“Proceed from thy distress.
“Soon from this gloom would'st thou repair,
“Should smiling fortune bless.

“Then Hermit, hear what, free from art,
“With blushes I propose:
“Accept my hand, accept my heart;
“I'll end at once thy woes.

“For lands and riches do I hold,
“And golden stores also;
“These shall be his whose hand so bold
“Preserv'd me late from woe.”

“Oh pardon, fair one!” Rowland spake,
“But never will I more
“Of love, or love's delights, partake;
“But Elfrid' I'll deplore:

“For Elfrid's now an empty shade;
“Broke is her tender heart:
“Then here I'll weep the injur'd maid,
“Nor ever more depart.”

Her veil she drew, as this she hear'd,
And all her charms display'd—
It was Elfrida's self appear'd—
Elfrida of the glade.

The lover stood awhile amaz'd,
Then caught her to his breast;
Again in speechless rapture gaz'd;
Again as fondly prest.

“And do I hold thee to my heart,
“Elfrida, yet once more?
“Can'st thou forgive my cruel art,
“And Rowland's peace restore?”

“Yes, yes; my Rowland to my heart
“I gladly will restore;
“Nor will I from the world depart,
“Or think of convents more.”

Her words more sweet his bosom cheer
Than larks that soar on high,
When to the weary wanderers ear
They speak the morning nigh.

“Nor mourn,” said she, “thy fortune fled;
“For late a kinsman near
“Did call me to his dying bed,
“And name me for his heir.

“He mourn'd that he, with cruel spite,
“Had let me pine so long;
“And said he could not rest his sprite
“Till I forgave the wrong.

“Sweet rest his soul, in endless peace;
“While we united prove
“The joys, which but in death shall cease,
“That flow from mutual love.”

“Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.” Deserted Village.

THE ZEPHYRS.

Tale the First.

Sporting o'er a smiling bow'r
Gay with ev'ry vernal dye,
Rich with every scented flow'r,
Two familiar zephyrs fly:

Ariel that the zephyr's name,
And the soft Amato this;
None who cool the noon-tide flame
Breathe so sweet the temp'ring bliss.

“Tell me, brother,” Ariel cries,
“How thy soft delicious gale
“Mine in sweetness so outvies—
“Richer flow'rs you can't exhale.

“Lovely rose, as I pass by,
“Turns to me her blushing lip;
“Violet greets me with a sigh;
“Lily's fragrant soul I sip.

“These, enamour'd all of me,
“All their treasur'd sweetness yield.
“Say what blossoms breathe for thee,
“That my sweets are thus excell'd?”

With a smile, he thus replies:
“I round lovely Delia fly;
“Watch her breasts, and when they rise
“Press her lips, and catch the sigh.”

Tale the Second.

Drooping on a mossy bank,
Odorus the zephyr lay;
Round about the bushes dank
Mourn'd their dews not brush'd away.

Sportive Ariel, brisk and light,
Flitting to the river's side,
Saw, and stopp'd awhile his flight,
His untoward sloth to chide.

“Lazy son of vernal air,
“Dost thou thus in sloth recline,
“Whilst forlorn thy slighted care
“For the wish'd refreshment pine?”

“Chide not,” sighing, Odor cries,
“For I droop by Cupid's pow'r:
“Aura sweet my suit denies;—
“Aura of yon jasmine bow'r.

“She to whom fair Flora gave
“All its mantling sprays to guide,
“From unwholesome blights to save,
“Wake its bloom and scented pride.”

“Silly zephyr, rise, I say,”
Smiling Ariel made reply;
“Brush these idle dews away,
“Then to gentle Aura fly.

“Yet again her breast assail,
“Nor for one denial droop:
“Frequent vows at last prevail.
“Gentle Odor rise and hope.”

Lightly from each circling bush
Odor brush'd the lazy dew,
Fanning wak'd each roses blush,
And to gentle Aura flew.

She with open arm receiv'd,
And with kisses met his kiss;
All his tender fears reliev'd,
Melting in extatic bliss.

“Why,” he said, “did Aura chide,
“Yester noon, her love away?”
“Grief had seiz'd me,” she replied,
“Worms had kill'd my fav'rite spray.

“But to-day has happy been
“Ev'ry tendril to improve;
“Pleasure therefore smooths my mien,
“And my soul's attun'd to love.”

Thus it is with all the sex:
Slaves to ev'ry varying wind,
They their lovers please or vex
As by chance or whim inclin'd.

Tale the Third.

“Pretty youth, whose painted wings
“Glitter in the noon-tide ray,
“From whose motion coolness springs,
“Tempering soft the glowing day!

“Whether now, in happy hour,
“Briskly flitting thro' the air,
“Dost thou all this scented show'r,
“All these vernal treasures bear?

“Blushing roses, jasmine white,
“Primrose sweet, and violet blue,
“Mantling woodbine, lily bright,
“Cowslip yielding honied dew.

“These, to form a secret bow'r,
“Dost thou happy zephyr bear;
“Where thou may'st recline an hour
“With some lov'd and loving fair?”

On a fleecy cloud reclining,
Gaily tipt with Phœbus' ray,
(Bright above, the welkin shining)
Thus did zephyr Aura say:

“Gentle fair, whose sweeter sigh
“Fans so oft the verdant grove,”
Odor softly made reply,
“No such bliss I'm doom'd to prove;

“But to yonder fountain fair,
“Fring'd with mossy verdure dank,
“With these flow'rets I repair,
“Gay to deck the smiling bank.

“For anon will Damon there,
“Happy Damon! happy ground!
“Meet his Delia, smiling fair!—
“Flora then should bloom around.”

“Needless toil,” she thus replies;
“Soon as e'er the lovely maid
“Meets her Damon's longing eyes,
“Flora there will seem display'd.

“Ev'ry hue that paints the spring,
“Ev'ry soft perfume of May,
“Smile but Cupid—pleasure's king!
“Raptur'd fancy can pourtray.

“Leave then, leave the needless toil.—
“Mark yon roses red and white,
“And yon woodbines, how they smile,
“Twining close in sweet delight.

“What a pleasant bower they make,
“Closely knit on either side?
“Scarce a sun-beam thro' can break—
“Thro' the blooms and scented pride.

“Thither let us then repair,
(“For no zephyrs there attend)
“Be its inmost shade our care,
“Which from blights we will defend.

“Pity such a smiling bower
“Should for lack of tending pine,
“Drooping 'fore the noon-tide pow'r:
“Let us, Odor, there recline.”

Thus ambiguous speaks the fair;
Odor answers with a smile;
To the bower they swift repair—
Laughing Love admir'd the wile.

Pendant o'er a dimpled tide
Hung its only entrance free;
Closely wove was either side;—
What they did could no one see.

Happy zephyrs, vagrants blest!
Ye unharm'd indulge in joy;
Yield to soft desires the breast,
Free from guilt or fear's annoy.

But ye maids of mortal mould,
How ye trust to man beware,
Where the bowery shades enfold:—
Dangerous 'tis for you, ye fair.

And from each ambiguous word
Guard, oh guard your blushing lips:
Censure watches still abroad,
Catching all that idly slips.

Lewdness hence may hope conceive,
And your virtues fall essay;
Chaste esteem the fault will grieve,
Stretch her wings, and haste away.

Treasure this remark ye fair:
“Actions chaste will not suffice;
“Words and looks the stamp must bear
“Of modest caution, scrup'lous, nice:
“Virtue wanton words impair,
“And to actions lewd entice.”

THE METAMORPHOSES.

A FAIREY TALE.

WHEN elfins on the moonlight mead,
Full eft beside the tinkling stream,
Were wont the mystick dance to lead,
And gladsome hail the yellow beam,
'Twas, then, if legends truly tell,
That this adventure strange befel.

What time the moon her ruddy look
Had dofft, and ta'en her silver sheen,
And dancing on the glitterand brook
Her beamy rays were trembling seen,
A youth, deep shent with hopeless love,
Did by the dappled streamlet rove.

May seem he wot not where he hied,
For drooping hung his doleful head,
His arms were cross'd, and eft he sigh'd,
And thus full eft he mournful said:
“Ah bright Egwina! cruel fair!
“Why wilt thou leave me to despair?”

As thus he rov'd, a tinkling sound
Awak'd him from his walking dream,
A dapper train the youth surround
Of tripping fays who haunt the stream.
“Aread and quick,” the monarch said,
“Why dost thou thus our haunts invade?

“Know'st not that where o'er pebbled beds
“The winding streamlet babbling falls,
“What time the moon her lustre sheds,
“Her train the sov'ran Ouphant calls
“Their nimble sports around to make?
“Why didst thou then our gambols break?

“But truly speak: for should a lie—
“A single lie escape thy lip,
“All night shalt thou unpitied sigh,
“Tormented by a nettle whip;
“And prickly thorns, and thistles eke,
“Thy bed shall strew, thy slumbers break.

“Into thy mouth, what time thou moan'st,
“An ouphe shall devil's-dung instil;
“And every time thou loudly groan'st,
“The nettle whip shall do thee ill;
“And up thy legs shall beetles crawl,
“And evets from the mouldering wall.”

“Oh monarch!” said the trembling wight,
“To thee I will the truth declare,
“Or may each torment on me light
“Which elfin magick can prepare.
“A youth I am, whom pining love
“Did cause unweeting thus to rove.

“Sir Egbert of the green am I,
“Who efttimes in the listed fight
“Was wont the tilting lance to ply,
“And prove in war my mickle might;
“And eft I wont the woods to trace,
“With bow in hand the wolf to chace.

“My derring-does afar were spread—
“But ah those deeds are now no more;
“For love has damp'd my hardyhead:
“I proud Egwina's scorn deplore.
“The bright Egwina of the grove
“My person flouts and slights my love.

“Albe the titled dames around
“Declare how soote my sonnets been!
“Albe 'tis by the hamlet own'd
“There's none so bounteous on the green;
“Yet, for my person is uncouth,
“She slights my love, she scorns my truth.

“Albeit that my serving train
“Proclaim I bear a gentle mind,
“Albe't, ere love did mirth restrain,
“Was none to pleasaunce more inclin'd;
“Yet—for my person is uncouth,
“She heeds not that my mind is smooth.

“What time with sighs, or trembling tear,
“Her cruel heart I seek to move,
“With wanton jest and bitter jeer,
“Her taunting words my shape reprove;
“And when love's softest arts I try,
“She bids me cease to look awry.

“Then pardon, fays, a hapless wight,
“Who, all unkenning where he stray'd,
“Bewailing his untoward plight,
“Did thus your sacred haunts invade:
“Nor let a slighted lover gain
“The hatred of the ouphant train.”

“Ah doff thy fear Sir Egbert soon,”
With smiles replied the elfin queen,
“For thou shalt bless the happy moon
“That lit thee to this fairey scene:
“And soon shall proud Egwina see,
“Who plainness scoffs shall plainer be.

“Eftsoons shall she the haughty fair
“With ardent love for Egbert burn:
“As thou do'st now, shall she despair,
“Nor shall you deign her love return;
“For they who mock at others woe,
“'Tis fit the same mishap should know.”

Then turning to her swiftest elve,
She bade him to the night-mare go,
And prick her from her fenny delve,
To work on proud Egwina woe;
And her upon the squab fiend lay,
And jerk her there without delay.

The elve obedient stretcht his wing,
And swift to Lincoln's fens arriv'd,
And marking round a mystick ring,
The ground unclos'd, and down he div'd:
In shorter time he there did flit
Than I have been relating it.

There stretch'd upon the foggy swamp,
Where toads and evets crawl around,
And breathing eft a murky damp,
The fiend deform'd asleep he found;
While Will-o'wisps, with anticks strange,
Did round the dungeon trembling range.

And ever did adown distill
Unwholesome damps and aguish dew,
Which numb'd the breast with baneful chill,
And ran the trembling sinews thro'.
Then did the elve the fiend awake,
And thus, with oafish stare, she spake:

“What would'st thou, Puck, that I should do?
“What is thy queen's supreme command?
“Who now must Mab's resentment rue?
“Who let her milk-dish empty stand?
“Or who hath hateful nightshade spread
“Around the place she loves to tread?

“Or hath some pair with love obscene
“Of late her sacred haunts defil'd?
“And must I gripe the wanton quean,
“And sore appay the losel vild?
“Or must I, from my doltish dug
“Some infant milking him beslug?”

“Thou must with all thy swiftness move,”
Quoth elfin Puck, “and work thy spight
“On fair Egwina of the grove,
“And bring her to my mistress' sight;
“For she hath done Sir Egbert wrong:
“Then flit away, nor be you long.”

Away they flitted. As they fled,
The fiend from cypress brush'd the dews,
And chilling drops from willows shed,
And damps that wash the baleful yews;
And froth of toads, and serpents tears
She gather'd in her shaggy ears.

Then came they to the fair-one's bed,
Where they her sleeping charms survey'd:
One snowy arm beneath her head,
And one below her paps was laid:
May seem her dreams were sweet the while,
For on her face she wore a smile.

Then first the night-mare o'er her shook,
Upon her breast, the baleful dew,
And with her hoof her bosom strook,
That black the fading beauties grew;
Then Puck across the goblin threw
The stiffen'd maid, and off they flew.

Meanwhile, conducted by the queen,
Sir Egbert sought the fairey-hall,
Where thousand lamps with trembling sheen
Reflecting 'lumed the crystal wall.
Of shells was built the ouphant throne,
And colour'd glass that gaily shone.

And ever with a babbling sound
A limpid fountain thence did well,
And pour its mazy streams around,
And water all the royal cell:
On this the fays would dance so neat,
And scarcely wet their nimble feet.

And now they circle Egbert round,
And thrice they drench him in the tide,—
Which him with sudden dread astound—
And three times thrice they round him glide;
And thrice they whirl their spells on high;
Then louting low away they fly.

All this perform'd, his sallow face
Assumes the roses brightest glow;
His aukward limbs acquire a grace;
His length'ning locks in ringlets flow:
He views him on the streamlet's brim,
While manly grace adorns each limb.

Ere long a foul, deformed maid,
With visage thin, and goggling eyes,
Approach'd him, and his form survey'd
With mingled rapture and surprize:
She fondly gaz'd, she seiz'd his hand,
And woo'd with words and actions bland.

But he her shunn'd with all his might,
And turn'd with pitying look away.
Then thus bespoke a fairey wight:
“Egwina there thou dost survey;
“Condemn'd for aye to pine and mourn
“At once her charms and heart forlorn.

“But thou to fair Elgiva turn,
“Whose heart has long been thine alone.
“How must she now with ardour burn,
“Whose gen'rous love before was shown?
“Thy mind before did her enthral;
“She now will love thee all in all.”

This counsel Egbert well obey'd,
And sought and won Elgiva's hand;
Since when, by valley, hill, or shade,
Was none so blest thro' all the land.
Reader, may thee such bliss attend!
So please you here my tale I end.

THE SEDUCER; ;

OR, DAMON AND AMANDA

A POEM, In Five Cantos; WITH A PREFATORY ESSAY ON THE Crime and Consequences of Seduction.

[_]

The prefatory essay has been omitted

109

Canto the First.

Seduction's base, insinuating wiles,
The bitter anguish of the injur'd fair,
His guilt who quits the fair-one he beguiles,
And his (the sire's) who leaves her to despair,
With all their sad effects, I fain would sing:
Assist ye nymphs of the Pierian spring!

But chiefly thou who scorn'st to waste thy hours
With sport and revel in soft pleasure's train;
Slight'st the deep bowl, and pastime's jocund bow'rs,
Where banquets gay the social tribe detain;
Seek'st the dejected, friendless, and opprest,
And with thy dreams becalm'st the troubled breast.

110

Oh plaintive virgin! to the call appear
Of one the meanest of the tuneful throng,
To whom the fair and sacred muse are dear;
Who scorns or sacred muse or fair to wrong;
Whose moral strain, tho' void of graceful art,
Shall still essay to mend the human heart.

Ah me! I grieve my pow'r so small to find!
I grieve to think no classic lore improv'd,
No timely learning cultur'd in my mind
The ray of science I so fondly lov'd!
Yet, tho' no classic elegance adorn,
Let none my well meant story treat with scorn.

'Tis not a tale of modern days I sing:
The muse shall here exert her magick pow'r,
And forth to view a sad adventure bring
Which long oblivion labour'd to devour.
Yet Saxon legends may to scorn display
A vice too common in the present day.

111

Say, sad inspirer of my mournful theme!—
Rest thy slow fingers from the weeping lyre,
And say, what waken'd Damon from his dream
Of thoughtless joy? Then to thy solemn wire
My voice I'll tune, and as the numbers flow
Each sympathetic breast shall melt with woe.

For cheerless thrice had hoary winter frown'd,
And thrice had spring her bosom'd sweets display'd,
And autumn thrice had been with fruitage crown'd,
And summers three in waving gold array'd,
Since to his arts Amanda fell a prey:—
Nor had reflection crost his heedless way.

Say then how conscience woke?—The jolly spring
Now smiles benevolent of breathing sweets;
Warbles each tuneful vagrant of the wing;
The foliage thickens in the green retreats;
Gay Flora sprinkles ev'ry verdant mead,
And sportive lambs in fertile pastures feed.

112

Lur'd by the beauteous season of the year,
To far Northumbria Damon bends his way,
With young Pastorus, friendly and sincere,
Of blameless morals, as of manners gay;
Virtue and sense inspir'd his manly breast,
The Graces polish'd, and the Muses blest.

And now it chanc'd, what time the sportive sun
To wed the rosy-bosom'd June awoke—
From whose blest influence, when the world begun,
The twins had birth, while forth the violet broke,
The odorous hyacinth o'erspread the ground,
And each sweet flow'r luxuriant smil'd around.

Now to the skies preferr'd, those twins adorn
With clust'ring stars the azure vault above.
To a thick wood arriv'd, that signal morn,
The road they quit, thro' many a wild path rove,
In converse bland, till they a thicket gain:
Here a small stile obstructs a verdant lane.

113

A willow parted, by decaying eld,
Just thro' the sapless centre, form'd the stile
With pliant ozier twigs a-cross impell'd;
Struck with the scene, they wond'ring gaz'd a while;
For some faint signs of culture here were found,
Far different from the savage scenes around.

Their steeds they left, to rove, on foot along
The pleasing walk, and to a bow'r arriv'd,
The fav'rite roof of ev'ry bird of song,
Where each gay-flow'ring shrub luxuriant thriv'd:
From hence the various prospect open'd round;—
For high the bow'r was built on rising ground.

The flow'rs so fresh, which trembling in the wind,
Shook on the mantled earth their balmy dews,
Pastorus of a faded bloom remind,
(Lost were its honied breath and glossy hues)
Which at his bosom hung; whereon the swain,
With prompt reflection, breaths this moral strain:

114

“Ill-fated flow'r! how are thy sweets decay'd?
“Where is each charm that pleas'd my ravish'd sight?
“Where is the blush thy modest cheek display'd?
“Where the fresh odour that could once delight?
“No more you boast or breath, or colours gay!
“Then thus I cast thy worthless form away.

“Yet scarce two suns have cheer'd this laughing bow'r,
“Where frolics Flora in luxuriant hues,
“And once Lucina, solemn, plaintive pow'r!
“Has spangled with her beam the yellow dews,
“Since, tempted by thy charms, with eager haste
“That form I pluckt, and in my bosom plac'd:

“The guardian briars that circled thee around
“Not long the ardour of my wish restrain'd;
“Thy beauties fir'd; the difficulties found,
“I soon surmounted, and the prize obtain'd.
“Yet I who caus'd thy ruin, now, with scorn,
“Cast thee to earth, unpity'd, and forlorn!”

115

With tearful look, then on the earth he threw
The wither'd flow'r that sick'ned at his breast,
While Damon's eyes the trembling tears bedew;
And scarce the groan of anguish he supprest—
Nor long supprest: for memory conscience woke,
And thus, with stifled sobs, he silence broke.

“Alas, Amanda! this poor blossom brings
“All thy sad story to my tortur'd mind.
“Oh, grief of heart! the keen remembrance wrings
“My faithless soul, too long to justice blind.
“For yours surpast this flow'ret's freshest pride,
“Till cruel I each blushing sweet destroy'd.

“Had Heav'n endow'd thee with a vulgar frame,
“Had sprightly wit ne'er sparkled in thy eyes,
“Thou had'st not known the pangs of grief and shame,
“Nor been the victim of my artful sighs:
“I ne'er so much had labour'd to betray,
“Nor scornful cast thy rifled form away.

116

“What guards could virtue give, or prudence frame,
“That did not circle sweet Amanda round?
“What time, what subtile projects did it claim,
“Ere a fit scheme for my design I found?
“But ah! what human pow'rs can equal prove
“To baffle art, hypocrisy, and love?

“With honest seeming and pretended truth,
“With ev'ry guile I cloath'd my treach'rous scheme:
“I gain'd the faith of her incautious youth
“With protestations of a chaste esteem;
“And ev'ry soft insinuation tried
“To make her think I woo'd her for my bride.

“When now my sighs had warm'd her virgin heart,
“To all my vows she lent a willing ear;
“When now the pearly drops I shed with art
“Call'd in her eyes the undissembled tear;
“And now, whene'er her hand I ardent prest,
“Love ting'd her cheek, and swell'd her panting breast;

117

“When now, if chanc'd I met her conscious eyes
“The downcast look of bashfulness reveal'd
“That tender wishes in her bosom rise,
“Which love inspir'd, but virgin shame conceal'd.
“I seiz'd the time (industrious to betray)
“And, weeping, begg'd my fortune she'd display:

“If yet my ardent passion might presume
“To hope from lov'd Amanda some return,
“Or black despair's all comfort-killing gloom,
“Decreed my ashes to a timeless urn?
“With well dissembl'd tears, and many a sigh,
“I urg'd the fair-one for a kind reply.

“Why should I tell what tender arts I us'd,
“And how unselfish I profess'd my flame?
“How many fraudful vows her faith abus'd?
“Attesting ev'ry sacred pow'r by name,
“To her alone, I said, my heart applied;
“On her free choice alone my peace relied.

118

“Her sire, I said, by int'rest might be sway'd,
“And by my fortune's dazzling splendour lur'd,
“Against her will, to force my lovely maid:
“But, ah! I scorn'd possession thus procur'd.
“I swore, I would not give Amanda pain,
“For all the blisses which immortals gain.”

“For this, I vow'd, and for no other cause,
“I hid my passion from her prudent sire.
“I curs'd the wretch who, trampling nature's laws,
“Would glut with beauty's grief his own desire.
“Let none, I said, who could so selfish prove,
“Presume to call their sordid passion love.

“Can words describe the lovely blushing maid,—
“The crimson flush which o'er her beauties came!
“The humid splendor in her eyes display'd,
“The heaving bosom, and the trembling frame,
“The interrupted sigh, the murmur weak,
“Which faulter'd on her tongue when she essay'd to speak!

119

“The op'ning rose, when fanning zephyrs play
“Ere yet Aurora's pearly drops are dried)
“Among the leaves, and wake the sanguine ray:
“Thus glows, thus swells, thus breathes in all its pride.
“And did I, oh inhuman spoiler! dare
“To blast this bloom, so bright, so sweet, so fair?”

Then with a groan, with looks distraught and wild,
On earth he fell, and tore his graceful hair:
He curs'd each charm by which his arts beguil'd,
His manly beauty, and his form so fair;—
But most he curs'd his soft persuasive tongue,
Its pow'rs perverted, and its syren song.

Melpomene.

That sign of the zodiac through which the sun passes in the month of June.

120

Canto the Second.

Oh conscience! conscience! bitter is his lot
Who spurns for purpos'd bliss thy guiding lore:
Wretched are they who, heav'n's high will forgot,
In chace of joy the realms of vice explore;
For thou, oh conscience! with thy smarting goad,
Wilt meet and check them on the flow'ry road.

And see where Damon, whose enraptur'd heart
Could once receive from nature's smiling face
Sincerest joy, and, with enthusiast art,
In all its hues the various landscape trace,
Insensate now he lays absorpt in woe,
Nor sees bright Phœbus in the orient glow.

121

The breezy fragrance of the new-born day,
The honied gale fresh scented in the bow'r,
The bird soft warbling on the bloomy spray,
The air made vocal by the sky-lark's pow'r,
The rustic labours of the distant hind,
Tending his flock, or o'er the plough reclin'd;

Th'embroider'd valley spangled o'er with dew,
The humid pearls soft dripping from the thorn,
Heav'n's cloudless vault, which glow'd in brightest blue,
Gay by the forest's edge the bounding fawn,
Who in the stream appeas'd his heated blood;
The stream whose murmuring tide meandering flow'd;

The pale Narcissus bending o'er its side,
The various flow'rets, and the mossy bank;
The snow-plum'd cignets, with majestic pride,
New-wak'd, forth issuing from the oziers dank;
The brambled walk that parts the woodland shade,
The humble cottage in the smiling glade;

122

The lofty mountain crown'd with stately oak,
The rocky summit, from whose rugged brow
Jumps the surge rough, with course delay'd, and broke,
Hoarse roars, and foams in eddies rude below:
All, all these beauties Damon once could prize,
Now unregarded court his streaming eyes.

The fragrant bow'r, beneath whose shade he lay,
Where roses wild, and smiling jessamine,
In blooms luxuriant, twist the wanton spray,
And o'er the hazle climbs the eglantine;
Where cowslips, violets, harebells, breathe around,
And blue-flow'r'd alehoof mantles o'er the ground.

No charm had these to stop the painful sigh,
Or in his breast appease the rankling wound:—
Ah what avails it to the jaundic'd eye,
Tho' thousand rainbows circle it around?
When thro' each vein fierce hydrophobia strays,
What boots the purling stream that round us plays?

123

Mean while within Pastorus' blameless breast
Contending passions waged a painful war;
Keen sensibility his voice supprest;
Nor knew he most to comfort or abhor:
Now pity sighs, now indignation frowns,
Horror now wakes, and all his bosom owns.

At length, upstarting, frantic, from the ground,
The sad repentant, with a trembling hand,
Embrac'd his friend's; his eyes roll'd ghastly round,
Which wont to languish with affection bland,
And “Oh, my friend! thy honest heart,” he cries,
“Must hate my crimes, and triumph in my sighs.”

But when his deep despair Pastorus view'd,
His face deform'd, his eyes with tears enflam'd,
The drops of sympathy his cheek bedew'd,
And tender pity all his bosom claim'd:
Each thought indignant from his heart retires,
And sorrow's show'r extinguish'd anger's fires.

124

Then Damon thus, deep sighing from his heart:
“And canst thou pity such a wretch as me?
“Alas! my guilt is but reveal'd in part!—
“Didst thou know all, where, where would pity be?
“My treach'rous arts would to thy breast recal
“Abhorrence just.—Yet will I tell thee all.

“The guileless fair one, thoughtless of deceit,
(“Faultering her tongue, her bosom heav'd with sighs)
“Reveal'd her heart with looks confus'dly sweet,—
“Love's humid gems bright sparkling in her eyes.
“With rapture, I the fond confession blest,
“And clasp'd the bright confusion to my breast.

“Yet still whene'er in grot or shady grove,
“By bubbling fount recluse, or private bow'r,
“With dalliance light, and toying sports, I strove
“To waken passion, blind reflection's pow'r,
“And so the purpose of my arts obtain,
“The bashful fair would each approach restrain.

125

“If e'er my lips her lips too warmly prest,
“If I too close her slender form embrac'd,
“Or, artful, o'er her snowy heaving breast,
“By seeming chance, my trembling hand I plac'd,
“The bashful frown, the blush of virgin pride,
“And coy-grown look my conduct seem'd to chide.

“Not that she did suspect my lewd design,
“Or dream I wish'd her innocence despoil'd;
“But that she held, ‘Meek modesty should shine
‘Spotless in seeming, as in deed unsoil'd.’
“To rigid virtue bred with maxims nice,
“She shunn'd the semblance as the act of vice.

“The commmon modes by which o'er other hearts
“I us'd to triumph, balk'd and frustrate all,
“My curs'd invention gender'd other arts,
“More deep-laid schemes to work Amanda's fall.
“Her virgin purity, which should inspire
“More chaste esteem, but fann'd my loose desire.

126

“One fatal hour—O! be that hour of guilt
“Which gave to branded scorn Amanda's name,
“For ever curs'd! and curs'd this heart that built
“Upon a short-liv'd joy her endless shame!
“Tho' free from dread, I wrapt in close disguise;
“As tho' I trembled at surrounding spies.

“Night's silent foot now rested on the ground,
“And rayless darkness thro' the void prevail'd,
“Each guiltless brow sleep's poppied garland bound;
“Save only those whom jealous love assail'd,
“Or fortune's spite, or caitiff fear annoy'd,
“Or pale despondency, or pain destroy'd.

“My treacherous steps disturb'd the gloomy shade,
“No doubt perplexing of the wish'd success,
“(Her menial had her trust for gold betray'd.)
“With hasty strides towards the house I press;
“For since our eyes last met in fond survey
“Thrice glow'd the orient, thrice the western ray.

127

“Me to her chamber the false minion brought,
“Where all in tears Amanda I beheld;
“Her eyes deep riveted in tender thought,
“As in her hand my pictur'd form she held;
“Unlac'd, unrobed, loose flow'd her auburn hair,
“Her sigh-swoln bosom all expos'd and bare:

“Upon the couch she sat; her zone unbound,—
“The night-gown's folds in loose luxuriance flow'd.
“Me when she saw, she shriek'd, and gath'ring round
“Her scatter'd robe, with wild confusion glow'd;
“While I, with acted modesty, withdrew,
“And o'er my eyes the doubled kerchief threw.

“Her fears my well-tim'd diffidence allay'd.
“But when my garb and acted grief she view'd,
‘Whence this late visit? Whence this dress? she said,
‘And why that face with anguish thus bedew'd?
‘Meet we (by stealth, alas!) one day in three?
‘And meet we then with tears and misery?’

128

“Deep sobbing I:—Ah, cruel fortune's spite!
“Then, as with anguish dumb, I paus'd awhile,
“Farewel to love, to peace, to soft delight!—
“Fly must thy Damon; leave his native isle,
“Friends, kindred, fortune, and paternal home,
“A wretched, joyless exile wide to roam.

“Oh! were this all, believe me when I swear,
“No single sigh should heave this manly breast,
“These eyes should scorn to shed the coward tear.
“But, oh, Amanda dear! to think the rest
“Grief and distraction seize my tortur'd mind!
“Thee must I leave, Amanda, thee, behind!

“She heard. Cold chilly dews her form o'erspread;
“Supine, and breathless in my arms she fell;
“Clos'd were her eyes, her cheeks the roses fled,
“Her frozen bosom ceas'd awhile to swell,
“Till careful I recall'd the ling'ring life,
“Then heav'd convulsive, toss'd in passion's strife.

129

“Meanwhile my tale abus'd her cred'lous ear,
“How a lewd ribald had her name defil'd,
“Whereat, enrag'd the sland'rous lie to hear,
“I drew my rapier, and with fury wild,
“Assail'd, and slew him.—At each word I spake,
“Her sighs renew'd, as tho' her heart would break.

“She seiz'd my hand, and languish'd on my face
“With such a doating look of mournful love,
“While sweet confusion soften'd ev'ry grace;—
“Pity did almost in my bosom move.—
‘And shall we part?’ she cried, ‘my Damon, no;
‘Where'er you wander shall Amanda go.’

“In vain, I said, would fond affection lead
“Her generous soul to share my present flight;
“In vain my heart must for her converse bleed;—
“Nor time, nor yet conveyance meet invite.
“Yet, if so dear an exil'd wretch could be,
“Some future bark might bear my love to me.

130

“Her love, I swore, could fortune's anger cross;
“But ah! I fear'd, when rumour should proclaim
“To her more prudent sire, my fortune's loss,
“My exil'd person, and my blighted fame,
“Against her will, Amanda might be led
“A victim to some happier rival's bed.

“And now she chid me for my groundless fears;
“And now in vows pour'd forth her tender heart,
“My bosom bathing with her flowing tears,
“While nature banish'd all restraints of art;
“Around my neck her twining arms she threw,
“Hung on my lip, and to my bosom grew.

“While thus dissolv'd in tenderness of thought,
“She fondly languish'd on my fluttering breast;
“Each mournful look, with yielding softness fraught;
“Her swimming eyes her melting soul exprest:
“Thro' all her frame the fond emotions rove;
“Each vein was passion, every pulse was love;

131

“The guardless hour, assiduous, I improv'd
“With ev'ry blandishment of strong desire;
“O'er all her charms, with fond endearments rov'd,
“And fann'd with ev'ry art the spreading fire:
“Then, half dissolv'd, half fainted in my arms,
“I press'd my suit, and triumph'd in her charms.

“Oh villain! monster of the blackest stain!
“Oh triumph that has stamp'd me for a fiend!
“Proclaim'd me worse than brute! Yet oh refrain
“Each judgment hard; nor in thy heart be skreen'd
“A thought can do the lost Amanda wrong.
“Could human virtue bear assault so strong?

“Reflection's voice, attentive to exclude,
“Each fond advance to amorous dalliance I
“With jealous doubts and anxious cares pursued,
“And arm'd with rivall'd fears each artful sigh.
“Thus gratitude and pity thought restain,
“And her own virtues were Amanda's bane.

132

“Thus tranc'd in bliss, on more than eagle wings
“Scud the fleet shades impatient from the sky;
“Then o'er the humid hill Aurora springs,
“And the blithe lark proclaims Hyperion nigh.
“I left the blissful couch and nymph forlorn,—
“Nor ever view'd her from that cruel morn:—

“Dissembling grief, I left the weeping fair,
“And far away my habitation mov'd,
“From Surrey's shades to Devon's sea-cool'd air;
“Where still in lawless pleasure I have rov'd,
“Nor ever once enquir'd Amanda's fate,
“Nor cast one thought upon her dubious state.

“Lewd dissipation, and the noisy roar
“Of pleasure all reflection's pow'rs confin'd.
“—And oh Pastorus! would thy moral lore,
“Thy virtuous converse, sentimental mind,
“Had early been familiar to my heart!
“Then had not conscience felt this scorpion dart.

133

“But while debauchery and riot reigns,
“And dissipation ev'ry hour employs;
“While ribald-jest each sentiment restrains,
And sensibility and sense destroys;
“And decency and cool reflection's flown,
“What wonder vice should seize lost reason's vacant throne?

‘But ah, my friend! if yet the injur'd fair
“(Oh how the doubt distracts my aching heart!)
“Breathes in this vale of tears the vital air,
“If my repentance can a joy impart,
“(For ah! till then I never can have peace)
“In these repentant arms Amanda's woes shall cease.”

No more he said, but flew towards the steed.
As when some stag, by Arethusa's side,
Slacks his fierce thirst, or grazes void of heed,
If chance by Dian and her nymphs espied,
By clamorous horns alarm'd, he, starting, flies,
Speed in his pace, and anguish in his eyes;

134

O'er myrtle hedge, briars, brakes, unprinted meads,
Vaulting, he flies, each vig'rous nerve he strains;
At ev'ry bound the less'ning stream recedes,
At ev'ry bound back fly the less'ning plains
So Damon look'd, and such his trackless speed
As swift he darted tow'rds his generous steed.

135

Canto the Third.

And now, uprearing in his stirrup high,
Damon o'erhangs the steed's proud arching mane,
And here and there he turns his roving eye,
Doubtful which track might aid them to regain
The road frequented, for around display'd
Was many a labyrinth rude that cross'd the woodland shade.

For, all unthinking of the purpos'd road,
The shady walks where bloomy hawthorns join'd
In smiling arch, through which soft zephyr flow'd,
And the awakening dawn bright spangling shin'd,
And banks, all redolent in gaudy pride,
Had led them, careless, from their journey wide.

136

Thus while suspended hung his doubtful mind,
From pipe melodious, dulcet, smooth, and clear,
Sad notes, soft warbling in the wanton wind,
Wild as mellifluent, smote his wond'ring ear.
Slow from his hand he drops the loosen'd rein,
And sinks supine and breathless on the plain.

As when some eagle, from the awful height
Of cloud-topt Teneriffe, darts his piercing eye,
Stretch'd out impatient, meditates his flight,
And dooms in thought the grazing fawn to die;
The archer views him—swift the winged dart
Twangs from the bow, and quivers in his heart;

Backward he falls upon the hollow ground,
With clenching talons, fluttering pinions spread;
No more the lightning in his eye is found,
Now darkling clos'd,—loose drops his listless head:
So, to appearance dead, with deep dismay,
Pastorus sees his friend extended lay.

137

With love assiduous, ev'ry art he tries
To rouse the fainting penitent to life,
Who soon unveils his wretched, languid eyes—
Then throbs his breast with passion's various strife:
Hope, tender pity, shame and love combin'd,
And weeping memory with contrition join'd.

Yet still supported in Pastorus' arms,
Surprise deep printed on his weeping face,
He bears in silence passion's wild alarms;
While from the distant brakes, with dulcet grace,
(As wrapt in thought, all utterance he refrains)
The poor Amanda breathes the sweet disorder'd strains.

Wildly they flow'd, as o'er Æolus' harp
Light trip the zephyrs in the shady grove:
Now quick, short movements, with an accent sharp;
Now sadly slow the mournful numbers move;
And now serene as vestal's holy fires;
Now rambling, wanton, wild, as love's uncurb'd desires.

138

The SONG.

HENCE thou silly, wanton vine!
To that maple cease to twine;
Twist no more thy tendrils round,
But, more wisely, on the ground
Thy unsupported branches spread,
Or grief shall reach thy 'spiring head.

Man is by nature like the savage train
That rav'ning thro' the dreary forests rove,
Or o'er the uplands scour, or pace the plain,
To rend with bloody fangs the bleeding drove:
With seeming love he boasts protecting aid;
Yet promises but to betray:
He grieves, he weeps.—Ah! hapless is the maid
Whose pitying hand shall wipe his tears away!

When first I saw his angel frame,
And his attention quickly drew,
Oh! how I felt the spreading flame!
What transports round my bosom flew!

139

From his eyes the sparkling fire
Woke the embers of desire;
Around my heart,
In spite of art,
Swift rush'd the blood, each pulse beat higher.

But ah he's false, and I'm undone!
I sicken at the rising sun,
And weep what time his course is done;
Trembling I view the darkling night,
And blush at pale Lucina's light.

Ah me! how my bosom is rent, when I think
Affliction from transport should spring!
That the summit of bliss is of anguish the brink,
And grief's bitterest tear hangs on joy's gayest wing!

The lovely maniac ceas'd. With troubled sighs
Then lay she on the verdant sod and mourn'd;
Then burst the sorrows copious from her eyes,
And, as they fell, serenity return'd.
The fruitful show'r extinguish'd passion's strife,
And call'd the embryo senses into life.

140

With poor distrest Amanda thus it far'd,
Who here, within embow'ring shades forlorn,
With blighted peace, and faculties impair'd,—
What time the annual sun did twice adorn,
With waxing glory and with waning sheen,
The circling seasons—poor recluse! had been.

For Thudor banish'd from his once fond home,
When time reveal'd the secret of her shame,
His hapless child, with meagre want to roam;
Of peace bereft, and reft of virgin fame;
Scorn'd by the world, abandon'd by her love,
The scoff of prudes, the snares of vice to prove.

Oh cruel pastor! when thy youngling fair,
Forlorn, deserted by her trusted guide,
Bleats on the barren wold, and needs thy care
To lead her back to virtue's fold, with pride
To bar compassion's doors, and drive away
To rav'ning wolves a trembling, helpless prey.

141

But prudent she, to shun the numerous snares
Which envious vice or passion's lawless train
To trap the wand'ring innocent prepares,
Forswore the city's throng and peopled plain:
Resolv'd, from human converse far away,
To waste the solemn night and lonely day.

A little cave—or scoop'd by art away,
Or form'd at erst by nature's wond'rous hand,
Or whilom by some rav'ning beast of prey,
(Ere yet king Edgar drove them from the land)
Unweeting I, nor does it boot to know;
But round enlabyrinth'd briars and hawthorns grow.

This little cave (what time the night's dank shade
Surcharg'd the drooping flowers with fresh'ning dew)
Eludes the sickly blast, which might invade
Her sleeping form; and at the end there grew
A mossy bank, which yields those limbs a bed
That prest the cignet's down ere peace was fled.

142

The limpid spring her maple cup supply'd;
A little garden, cultur'd by her care,
Did for her wants each wholesome root provide;
Some mountain goats she hamper'd in a snare
Yield to her hand a life-supporting food—
Her hand still guiltless of their younglings blood.

The fragrant bow'r, beneath whose wanton shade
Conviction flash'd upon her lover's mind,
For her amusement had the maniac made:
The creeping tendrils oft her hand entwin'd;
Full oft the fragrant shrub afar she sought,
And from the dingles many a wild flow'r brought.

Soon as each morn the sun's illum'ning wane
O'erpeer'd the circling verdure of her cave,
(Aurora's tears still glittering on the plain)
Amanda rose; and fondly would she rave,
As, with a slow, enfeebled, sorrowing pace,
Her bow'r she sought, to check each wand'ring grace.

143

Now mutt'ring wildly, as she rov'd along,
Faint incoherent murmurs of despair;
Anon she'd rave in unconnected song,
Or moisten with her mournful sighs the air.
Yet still on Damon all her musings hung:
His was each sigh she heav'd, each theme she sung.

At times, unfinish'd would she leave her theme,
Arrest her step, and meditating stand—
Prone would she fall beside the murmuring stream,
And cull the flow'rets with her lily hand;
Then with her tears the mingling wreath bedew,
Till, grief thus vented, calm her bosom grew.

So wails the matron dove her pillag'd nest,
And mate ensnar'd by fowler's cruel wiles;
So throbs with various pangs her aching breast,
Nor time's erasing hand her woe beguiles;
Thro' groves recluse she bends her lonely way,
Mourns by each brook, and pines on ev'ry spray.

144

And now in Damon's tortur'd fancy rove
The cruel mischiefs of his selfish lust:
The injur'd object to delirium drove,
The sire perhaps sent timeless to the dust.
Such and ten thousand thoughts his bosom tear,
Perplex his mind, and drive him to despair.

Perhaps the tender product of his loves
Now pines with want, unpitied, and forlorn;
The bitter pangs of orphan'd misery proves:
No rays of comfort glad its hopeless dawn.—
Absorb'd he stood; insensate, rooted, dumb
As Parian matrons o'er an infant's tomb.

At length, with many groans and heartfelt sighs,
Wak'd from his trance, he vents his tortur'd heart:
Then tow'rds the nymph thro' brambled brakes he flies,
With eager hope soft comfort to impart,
With love-repentant soothe her griefs to rest,
And chace the wild delirium from her breast.

145

As when some vocal tenant of the shade
With love assiduous feeds her callow care,
If chance, among the circling foliage made,
A rustling noise assails her timorous ear,
Thoughtful of plund'ring hinds, around she'll start,
With looks of terror, and with fluttering heart.

So, starting wildly, look'd the timid fair,
While thro' the rustling bushes Damon sped;
And seeing man with hasty steps repair,
She paus'd not to observe, but trembling fled:
Wing'd by vain terrors rushing on her mind,
Her feeble feet outstrip the western wind.

Thus when some thoughtless boy the nest invades
Of gay Chrysonitus with gilded plumes,
(Where shelter'd close within the brambled shades,
Where berries ripen and the wild rose blooms,
Her scarce fledg'd young, with pinions yet untried,
In hopes of swift enlargement chirping hide)

146

Struck with dismay, and studious to elude
The gripe despiteous, they with terror shake,
And trembling venture forth the feeble brood,
With doubtful pinions soaring o'er the brake;
Fear their sole guide, and all their strength despair,
With quick, short strokes they beat the yielding air.
So fares it with the feeble, frighted fair.

147

Canto the Fourth.

And now had Damon rush'd the thickets thro',
And her fleet steps pursu'd o'er smoother ground;
Cow'ring with frighted pace, the maniac flew
Thro' many a brambled alley winding round.
The trembling warbler thus affrighted flies
Before the kite, fierce tyrant of the skies!

Rapid, where'er her rapid footsteps wind,
His eager footsteps follow in the rear;
And now, not many shadows lengths behind,
These words addrest he to her listless ear:
“Ah turn, most injur'd of the lovely race!
“Turn, bless repentant Damon's fond embrace!

148

“No cruel foe with fierce intent pursues;
“No brutal force invades Amanda's peace;
“But love-repentant for thy pardon woos:
“Damon, who gave the wound, the wound would ease.”
So prays he, panting; but in vain he prays:
His pray'r she hears not, nor her speed delays.

Thus thro' the pathless wild, with equal pace,
Amanda panting flies, and he pursues:
Not clouds, when gales autumnal urge their chace,
Skim with a swifter pace their changeling hues.
Meanwhile Pastorus, on his foaming horse,
Wound round an op'ner road, Amanda's way to cross.

Just in the center of the gloomy wood,
(Where savage nature wore her wildest look)
Eastward, a tow'ring, uncouth growth there stood
(Which ne'er for ages cleaving axe had shook)
Of trees gigantic, closely interwove
With gorse, thorn, briar below, and spreading boughs above.

149

Here stood the oak majestic, doom'd to bear
Britannia's thunder o'er the raging seas;
Here the stout ash, the trembling aspen there,
Whose fine hung foliage shakes at every breeze;
The cypress, which bedecks the lover's hearse,
And laurel, meed of poets tuneful verse;

And sacred holly; maple, from whose bowl
His cup the rustic carves with art uncouth;
And birch, sad terror of the truant's soul;
And lime, and sycamore of stately growth:
And here the beech, and here the elm-tree grew,
And here the lofty pine appear'd in view.

The willow, docile to the bender's hands,
Whose boughs, entwisted, form the rustic throne;
And, white with bloom, the spreading elder stands,
Unprun'd, uncurb'd, to full luxuriance grown,
From whose ripe berries luscious bev'rage flows;
And graceful here the humid poplar grows.

150

The yew, found grateful to the bowman's trade,
And oft made tuneful to the lyrist's hand;
The weeping fir, the holm, whereof is made
The cornice gaily wrought. Here sallows stand,
And crab, whose boughs ungrateful fruits produce;
And box, whose close-wrought leaves the sunny beam refuse.

Thick clumps of hazle, interwove with briars,
Which or wild roses yield, or berries black;
Sloe-bearing thorns, and woodbine, which aspires
To clasp the beechen bough; nor was there lack
Of gorse, whose fast-succeeding blossoms blow
Thro' summer's heat, and eke thro' winter's snow.

Nor wanted broom, nor fern of secret source;
But, all confus'd, their uncouth shades display,
That not the mountain goat a path could force,
Nor stag high-bounding tread the gloomy way:
Each shrub, each tree of nature's giant birth,
Or dwarf-like sapling, hid both sky and earth.

151

To leftward this; but frowning to the right
A rugged, broken, steepy cliff arose,
With here and there a thorn,—a dreary sight,
Where never fruitage smiles, or flow'ret blows.
If browse it yielded, to reward his toil,
Scarce could the mountain goat find means to climb the steepy soil.

Here at the entrance of a sloping lane,
Which parts the cliff and gloom with rude descent,
Pastorus came in season to detain
The flying fair; her passage to prevent
To the rough wold which terminates the view;
For here with backward gaze she trembling flew.

Swift as the swallow skims the liquid lake,
She rapid pours along without one pause
To ease her wounded feet, which sorely ache
With the unceasing chace. She sees—she starts!—she draws
Her panting breath.—Then tremblingly her eyes
She rolls—thick throbs her fluttering heart with sighs!

152

So looks the hind forlorn, when baying hounds
Drive her, all trembling, o'er the printless plains,
If chance the shaggy lion furious bounds
Her way athwart, and all escape restrains.
With piteous shrieks, she rolls her tearful eye,
Then, muttering, gazes upward to the sky.

To wild delirium by her terrors wrought,
She borrow'd strength from madness and despair;
Death she determin'd in her gloomy thought;
Her frantic hands the rugged mountain tear;
With labour'd haste, with toil, with pain to climb,
Shrieking, she struggles to the hoar sublime.

Amaz'd, astonish'd at the wild intent,
To follow Damon toil'd, but toil'd in vain!—
Torn he beholds her hands, her feet sore rent;
And more than equal shares in all her pain.
—Once more he strives to follow—but again
Falls back to earth, and strives once more—in vain.

153

Say, ye deep skill'd in philosophic lore!
Why has the maniac such a wond'rous force?
Why should the frantic sally conquer more
Than yielded e'er to reason's stedfast course?—
Cool reason's strength does dread of suffering bind,
And coward thought intimidate the mind?

Or is there lodg'd within distracted hearts
Some fiend supernal, who to desp'rate deeds
Still urges on, and tenfold strength imparts,
Which neither terror checks, nor force impedes?
How else could weak Amanda upward strain,
Where Damon's strong-knit muscles strove in vain?

And now, distracted, 'gainst the rugged ground
He struck his head, and had himself destroy'd,
But that his friend restrain'd, and, looking round,
Not distant far, a winding path espy'd
Which to the mountain's top obliquely led:
Here, swift as lightning, breathless Damon fled.

154

Hawk like he mounts. Pastorus follows near.
And now, approaching to the summit brown,
The shock of boiling surges cleaves the ear,
Loud headlong tumbling many a fathom down;
Vex'd with rough rocks which broke their roaring way,
Loud froth'd their foaming tide, indignant of delay.

They see Amanda on the summit stand;
They hear her loud exclaim: “Oh friendly tide!
“Thou shalt preserve me from the spoiler's hand:
“Thy troubled surge Amanda's shame shall hide;
“Protecting death! Oh be thy shades rever'd!”—
Then, rushing downward, swift she disappear'd.

With horror stiffen'd each pursuer stood,
With hands to heav'n uprear'd, and swimming eyes;
Each pulse suspended, curdled was their blood,
Distraught at once with anguish and surprize.
Damon, at length, bounds forward in despair
To the same place whence plung'd the frantic fair.

155

Arrived, he starts, and some few steps withdraws;
With seeming transport, lifts to heav'n his eyes;
Then, rushing forwards, makes no longer pause,
But down the hoary steep impetuous flies.
His frantic friend a nearer way ascends,
Where o'er the sable tide the frowning summit bends.

The vast profound appals his aching sight,
Whose awful bed, by rocky fragments broke,
The tide obstructs. Waves roar, and frothing white
In whirlpools sweep impetuous. Down the rock
A hundred cataracts fall; then dashing flies
The wave contentious, foaming tow'rds the skies:
In cloud-like mists the spattering waters rise.

Benumb'd with grief, and stupid with surprise,
Along the cliff he roves, whose hollow space
Groans to the dashing surge, yet find his eyes
Of neither hapless lover mark nor trace.
Silent he mourns: such griefs his heart devour
That scarce to think is left the painful pow'r.

156

And now, perceiving where a slow descent
Down to the troubled waters seem'd to wind,
To tread the dangerous path his mind is bent,
The mangled body of his friend to find,
(Oh fruitless search!) and her the frantic fair;
And o'er their grave the pious marble rear.

As by the silver streams enamell'd brim
The bird domestic cowrs, with troubled breast,
And anxious walks, while on the surface swim
The web-foot denizens of her fostering nest;
Studious to save them from imagin'd ills:
Such the kind care his generous bosom fills.

So kind, so needless: for not far he went
The winding pathway down, when—strange to say!
Alive he kneeling saw, with head low bent,
His weeping friend; and close beside him lay
The injur'd fair-one, fainting, but not dead:
A reverend hermit's lap supports her head.

157

Is there in all the magick powers of verse
Terms of such rapture, that the ardent joys,
The trembling transports justly can rehearse
Which in Pastorus' friendly bosom rise?
Can words his looks of joy and wonder paint?
Ah no!—the powers of language are too faint.

But you, ye parents, friends, and lovers blest,
Who sadly drooping o'er some timeless bier,
From the child's, friend's, or lover's clay-cold breast,
Have deem'd the vital spirit fled for e'er,
And in distracting agonies have wrung
Your hands, expressive how your souls were stung;—

Ye, when the arts humane of pious men
(Oh blest Philanthropy! thy agents here)
Have wak'd the dormant spark of life again,
And chang'd to transport horrors starting tear;—
Ye, ye can guess, from what yourselves have felt,
The mingled passions in his soul which dwelt.

158

Canto the Fifth.

Sweet queen of mournful numbers! wheresoe'er,
With steps demurely slow, or frantic pace
Thou rov'st, or whether with thy falling tear
Thou troublest Castaly's translucent face,
Or stretch'd on earth, where cypress mourns around,
Thy throbbing bosom beats the humid ground!

Say, sad Melpomene! (for wide to you
Is op'd those dismal annals of distress
Recording spirits with their tears bedew)
What heav'nly arm, for sure it was no less,
Snatch'd from endeavour'd death the frantic fair?
—No arm immortal; but a father's care.

159

For on the barren cliff's stupendous brow,
Within a gloomy cave, to sorrow wed,
Sir Thudor dwelt—a weeping hermit now!—
The cell his palace, and the rock his bed.
Here mourn'd the sire his child's uncertain state,
And his own rage, which drove her to her fate.

For soon as time had sooth'd his haughty ire
Then cool Reflection (sober matron!) came,
And brought contrition to the frantic sire:
He saw his folly had expos'd his shame,
And the dishonour of his house reveal'd,—
Which kind indulgence might have kept conceal'd.

Then sickly Fancy, with her shadowy train
Of woe-born spectres, haunts his cheerless day,
Invades the morphean hour, and his brain
Renews the scene soft sleep would chace away;
Weeping he'd wake,—but only woke to weep!
She haunts him waking, who disturb'd his sleep.

160

And now, in thought, his hapless child he sees
To lust promiscuous yield her loathing charms,
The bitter pangs of pressing want to ease;
And sees her now expire in famine's arms.
Struck with the fancied horrors of her fate,
Contrition seiz'd him,—but she seiz'd too late!

Anxious enquires he, but enquires in vain,
For his Amanda: all his busy care
No trace, no tidings of her fate can gain.
Then, all abandon'd to his deep despair,
Detesting life, forswearing mortal view,
Here, to the lonely cliff, he, sad recluse, withdrew.

And here the sire, upon his arm reclin'd,
Attentive to the rough waves boist'rous roar,
To keen reflection yields his tortur'd mind,
When lost Amanda stood the cavern o'er,
And rear'd her frantic voice. He starts, he flies,
(The voice rememb'ring) trembling with surprize.

161

Before the moss-grown cavern's gloomy door
The rock projects some paces o'er the wave;
As here the maniac bounds, trembling all o'er,
He follows swift, and, just in time to save,
Caught the white garment's plaited folds behind,
Which, as she plung'd, flew fluttering in the wind.

And as some silent angler trembling sees
His rod inflected with the weighty prize,
With timid caution draws it by degrees,
While fear and transport mingle in his eyes;
In hope now sees it stretch'd upon the sand,
Now doubts his feeble line and slender wand:

So the fond sire, perplex'd 'tween hope and fear,
Drew her, all trembling, up the hanging rock.
Unconscious she of the paternal care,
Thick beats her heart with strong convulsive shock:
The wild sensation throbs thro' all her frame;—
O'er all her form a chilly moisture came.

162

As when some dove to 'scape the falcon flies,
But meets the treacherous fowler's meshy art;
From dole to dolour flown, forlorn she lies;
Against the ground quick beats her panting heart.
By fear convuls'd, thus poor Amanda lay,
Till terror snatch'd the dizzy sense away.

Thus lay she, like a lily, trodden down,
When Damon, rushing tow'rds the boiling wave,
Saw,—paus'd,—no longer to destruction prone,
Bless'd the good chance which from a watry grave
Had snatch'd the fair, and rear'd to heav'n his eyes,
With grateful looks of transport and surprize.

Then, fill'd with hope, the fearless lover sprung
To where supine the fainting fair-one lay;
Kiss'd her cold lips, and o'er her weeping hung,
And with his kerchief wip'd the dews away
That soil'd her bloodless face; her hand then prest,
Bath'd it with tears, then dried it in his breast.

163

Oft struggled he, but oft in vain, to speak;
His quivering tongue refus'd its wonted part.
Hoarse, hollow murmurs only fault'ring break
Their interrupted way. He smites his throbbing heart!
Then, frantic, strains her to his panting breast,
And bathes with flowing tears the fair distrest.

With equal anguish torn, the father strove
Her fleeting, wand'ring spirit to recal;
But long his tender offices of love
Want pow'r to wake her from the death-like thrall:
At length she feebly lifts her languid eyes;
“My father! Oh ye pow'rs!” she shrieking cries,

Then dies once more away. Then thus the sire:
“My sweet Amanda! dear, lov'd child! Oh me!
“Does then thy soul indignantly retire
“When thy sad eyes their cruel father see?—
“Yes, I deserve thy scorn! thy hatred claim,
“More, more than he who soil'd thy virgin fame.

164

“What wish had I, what passion to indulge,
“Should make me plant fresh poignards in thy breast?
“To cruel crowds thy injur'd fame divulge,
“And bar the doors of virtue, peace and rest?
“Curs'd be my haughty rage! my fury wild!
“'Tis I that kill thee, I, my child! my child!

“Yet, yet Amanda, if the wand'ring sprite
“Not yet for ever quits thy lovely frame,
“Ere yet thou seek'st the realms of blissful light,
“Return, return Amanda! (dear, lov'd name!)
“Say but you pardon my unsirelike part:
“Oh! give that comfort to my aching heart!”

Now round her breast the brisker zephyrs play;
Repentant death suspends his lifted dart;
Unveil her clouded eyes, whose tearful ray
Beam feeble hope on each afflicted heart.
So looks Aurora pale, when drizzling skies
Obscure her beamy beauties as they rise.

165

Alas! can words the tender scene display?—
Oh, had I, Opie, thy distinguish'd skill!
Could I like thee the mournful draught pourtray,
And each charm'd heart with soft compassion fill
With pictur'd scenes, where art and fancy join;
Colours so just, and postures so divine!

Then for the pencil I'd the muse forego:
In emulation of thy murder'd James,
My rival canvas should aspire to glow;
For ah! the scene an Opie's genius claims:—
Opie, who gives e'en death an envied life,
Shall triumph over time's destroying strife!

But ah, vain wish! nor am I doom'd to be
The favour'd vot'ry of Apelles' art.
Come then ye daughters nine of Castaly!
Let Opie's colours charm the gazer's heart;
The melting strain and numbers sad be mine,
Which make the list'ner's eye with pity's dew-drops shine.

166

Supine on earth the sad Amanda lay,
'Tween her supporting sire and kneeling love;
Who her sad tears alternate wip'd away,
And to suppress their own alternate strove.
But ah! 'twas fruitless strife, they gush'd amain,
And by their flow awaken'd hers again.

Her auburn ringlets flow'd dishevelled round,
With all the blooms of scented spring array'd;
Some o'er her bosom spread, some trail'd the ground;
Her heaving breast, to court the breeze display'd,
Shone thro' the parting locks which trembled there,
Shook by deep sighs, which her sad bosom tear.

Her azure eye in tearful languish strays,
Now on her father, now on Damon bent;
Her sire one arm embraces as she lays,
One trembling hand is to her Damon lent.
Such was the mournful scene, if numbers faint
The mournful beauties of the scene can paint.

167

A dismal pause of anguish held them long;
Till Damon thus: “Amanda, oh my love!
“Can can you pardon me the cruel wrong,
“Which I, barbarian, by lewd passion drove,
“To thee have done? And to these guardian arms—
“These arms repentant, yield thy injur'd charms?”

“Ah me! my Damon,” feebly she replies,
“I pardon thee; yes, from my very heart;
“And may you live to taste sincerest joys!
“Thy bliss be great as poor Amanda's smart:
“I need not wish thee more. But oh too late
“Contrition comes; I feel the stroke of fate.

“But oh, my father! how shall I obtain
“Thy kind forgiveness for the blushing woes
“My indiscretion caused thee to sustain?
“My dawning shame stains thy life's honour'd close.
“Yet, yet, Oh pardon, ere the hand of death
“Seals these cold lids, and stops this fainting breath.”

168

“Talk not of pardon from thy murd'ring sire!
“'Tis I, my child, must for forgiveness plead:
“Not Damon's treach'ry, but rash Thudor's ire
“Points the keen shaft by which you timeless bleed.
“But Oh, dear offspring of my tender love!
“These gloomy terrors from thy heart remove:

“Amanda yet may live, may bless the arms
“Of her repentant sire;—she may, she must:
“Repentant Damon shall protect thy charms;
“Love and contrition yet shall make him just.
“Thou yet shalt live for happiness, for love:
“Heav'n shall for sorrows past thy future joys improve.”

“Vain are your hopes,” she said, “alas the while!
“The idle terrors of a frantic mind
“Impell'd my feeble limbs to over toil—
“Oh had I known you when you chanc'd to find!
“Or had, my Damon, reason 'lumed my breast,
“I might have liv'd, and had perhaps been blest.”

169

Smiting his sigh-swoln breast, “Oh mighty pow'r!”
The lover cries, “is this, is this the end?
“Is this the fruit of one delighted hour?—
“Said I the fruit? Ah me, fresh tortures rend—
“Perhaps another stab behind remains:
“A helpless babe, perhaps, forlorn complains.”

“Ah no,” she sigh'd, “for grief and keen distress
“Destroy'd the embryo in my woful womb.—
“But ah farewell!—I feel some pow'r suppress
“My lab'ring breath. Let those who hear my doom
“Confess no brand of guilt should mark my name:
“Pity and love my faults, my portion grief and shame!”

She said: and strait the stiff'ning eye-lids clos'd;
The tide of life no longer warm'd her heart;
In blissful hope her franchis'd soul repos'd;
Her wearied frame obey'd the fatal dart.—
Farewel, sad maid! may none hereafter know
Such bitter pangs of undeserved woe!

170

A while, with sorrow speechless, weeping hung
The frantic mourners o'er the breathless fair;
Each tortur'd breast with keen contrition stung.
Then thus the father vents his deep despair:
“Yes, yes Amanda, 'twas my haughty ire
“Gave the keen wound by which you now expire.

“Was it for me, whose kind, indulgent love
“Should shield from slander's shrinking breath thy name,
“Thy griefs allay, thy wants, thy cares remove,
“And hide?—but hold, my tongue! no more exclaim;
“Death, death shall give me ease!—Oh world farewel!
“Yet, yet with thee, Amanda, will I dwell.”

He then, all frantic, plunging headlong down,
Sought from the gloomy surge a timeless end;
And after him himself had Damon thrown,
But that Pastorus held: “Ah me, my friend!
“Reflect a while: tho' heavy are thy woes,
“Wouldst thou fair mercy's gate for ever close?”

171

“Talk not of mercy's gate, for hell is here;
“Here, in my bosom, all its tortures glow:
“The wreathing damn'd feel nothing more severe:
“'Tis here the wild, unutterable woe.
“Unhand me then, and let me follow swift
“The murder'd Thudor down the rugged clift.

“For here, here, here,” quick smiting oft his breast,
“With wild convulsive throbs, I feel it here:
“My heart, impatient to escape to rest
“From such wild anguish, torture so severe,
“Against my heaving side enanguish'd bounds;
“Thro' all my echoing frame each throb resounds.”

“Oh talk not thus,” Pastorus weeping cries,
“But live, and let repentance wipe thy soul
“From guilt, and time from pearly griefs thy eyes.”
His hand then Damon seiz'd, his eyes wild roll:
“And what is time? and what repentance now?
“Where must I find them? or o'ertake them how?

172

“Can my fleet steps tread back their mazy flight?
“Regain the youthful hours unstain'd by crime,
“Those panther-footed hours of pure delight?
“Or can I backward force the preacher time?—
“Could I do this, contrition might repair
“My perjur'd wrongs, and banish black despair.

“But oh! thy poignard lend!—Yet there's no need.
“Ah me! my heart distends my lab'ring side!
“I feel, I feel the mangled vitals bleed.
“Here for a moment let thy hand abide.—
“Tell me, what think'st thou of this bustling heart?
“Does it not struggle furiously to part?

“Tell me, dost think 'twill not a passage find—
“A speedy passage thro' this yielding frame?—
“It comes;—aye, let it,—let it, to my mind
“It can't too soon. Pastorus hide my shame.—
“Ah no! reveal it: publish to the world:
“Teach men, what vengeance on such crimes is hurl'd.

173

“I come, Amanda! here, upon thy lip,
“To breathe my last sad fainting accents out
“In broken murmurs.—Oh the vengeful whip
“Which gorgon-frowning conscience whirls about!”
He ceas'd. Deliriums wild, & fierce convulsions seiz'd,
Till Death, in terrors clad, his body eas'd.

Fast by Amanda's injur'd corse he dies,
Grasping, in mad embrace, her murder'd charms.
The frighted Muse, in speechless horror, flies,
With eyes averted, and uplifted arms:
Forsakes the scene, to moralize a while
To those who revel gay in fortune's smile.

Thou son of dissipation, whosoe'er,
That thoughtless now, in chace of wanton joy,
Pursu'st the virgin, this sad story hear,
Nor dare the cause of all her peace destroy.
Think of the horrors that on Damon tend:
Think of Amanda, and her hapless end:

174

Think, that tho' such her end may never be
Whom now with perjur'd vows thy lust pursues,
Far, far superior anguish she may see:
Think of the horrors of the public stews;
Where health, where peace, and future hopes are sold,
A sad existence barely to uphold.

Oh to thy mind the horrid tortures bring
Of fell disease, and all her writhing train.
Think—but what boots whate'er the muse can sing?
Hast thou not read the plaintive Goldsmith's strain?
If what he sung cannot affect thy heart,
What can I hope from my inferior art?

But thou, injurious sire, or cruel dame,
Whom pride, resentment, or a stubborn mind,
Might prompt to drive thy ruin'd child to shame,
Reflect: and be the barb'rous thought resign'd:
Think, that for one offence our common Sire
Dooms not his children to eternal ire:

175

Oh think, how oft his kind indulgent care
Has warn'd, in vain, from crimes of deeper dye;
Oh think, how long with thee he deigns to bear,
And views thy wand'rings with a pitying eye;
Nor e'er, till stubborn guilt provok'd him sore,
Did his indulgent hand close mercy's door.

And wilt thou then, for one departure flight,
One slip of prudence, plunge in endless shame
The darling offspring of thy soft delight?
Oh! wilt thou bar thy breast to pity's claim?
And wilt thou let, oh frantic wretch! thy ire
The prostitution of thy child conspire?

Oh hapless child whom such a father owns!
Oh hapless child whom such a mother bore!
Where shalt thou hide from fortune's savage frowns,
If once deluded from strict honour's shore?
A cruel world thy anguish shall inflame,
And they who should preserve shall damn thy fame.

176

Lo! want appears in all her meagre forms:
Cold shivers, hunger craves, and thirst assails;
Temptation strong thy tottering virtue storms;
Strong pleads distress, and vice at last prevails.
A respite short abhorred lust obtains;
But soon destruction comes with tenfold pains.

Thus some poor dappled hind, or brindled fawn,
In barbarous chace (inhuman sport!) pursu'd,
Alarm'd by terror scours the less'ning lawn
Till it arrives at some runcaria rude,
Which its advent'rous foot durst ne'er before,
In search of foilage green for browse, explore;

Thoughtless of thorn, of gorse, of twisted brake,
Of sloughy bog, wild bri'r, high bramble bush,
The foe close pressing, knowing life at stake,
Wing'd by despair, it makes a desp'rate push;
Bounds to the centre, foils the eager chace,
Nor heeds the circling horrors of the place;

177

The dread of death once past, the little beast
Would fain return to browse on hill or lawn,
But can't, from twining brambles, get releas'd
Till by surrounding bri'rs in pieces torn,
With anguish, and with famine's double strife
The wretched fugitive resigns its life.

See in the Deserted Village a description of one of the poor wretches.

179

THE RED-BREAST; :

OR, DAMON OF THE GLADE

A SENTIMENTAL TALE. IN THREE CANTOS.

181

Canto the First.

Far shelter'd in a winding glade,
A lonely cottage stands,
Whose master lov'd the silent shade
Which peace and thought demands.

And hence, from ev'ry care retir'd,—
Save only those which love
And Phebe's cruel scorn inspir'd,—
He, musing, oft would rove.

182

Full oft beside the bushy dell,
Thro' winding alleys green,
Where thrustles, larks, and linnets dwell,
He'd wander all unseen.

And well, I wot, he lov'd the song
Of feather'd warblers free:
Yet not a bird of all the throng
Could sing so sweet as he.

And when, within some close retreat,
He heard the blackbird sing,
Or soaring lark, so loud and sweet,
Long carol on the wing,

His feeling bosom thus inspir'd,
And thus he rais'd his song:
“Ye little warblers! here retir'd,
“Secure your themes prolong.

“Here none the tangling net shall lay,
“Or fraudful horse-hair twine;
“No cruel hand shall lime the spray,
“Your pinions to confine.

183

“Ah! hard his heart, the action proves,
“Who, for a selfish joy,
“Would tear you from your feather'd loves,
“And liberty destroy.

“Ah me!—perhaps yon lonely thrush,
“Whose drooping pinions show,
“While thus she pines beneath the bush,
“Some inward cause of woe.—

“That thrush, perhaps, too late withdrawn
“To this sequester'd shade,
“May, pining thus, bewail forlorn
“Her little mate betray'd;

“While he, within some cage confin'd,
“Now, warbling, mourns his fate,
“To please some thoughtless fair-one's mind;
“—The slave of useless state!

“Perhaps the little brood his breast
“Had lately warm'd to life,
“Robb'd of his care within their nest,
“May pine with famine's strife.

184

“Poor, hapless birds! who now shall roam
“Thro' meadows far and nigh,
“And bring ye grain or insects home,
“Your cravings to supply?

“Ah, who shall now from heavy rain
“A needful shelter bring?
“Or lend, when mid-day fervours reign,
“The shadow of the wing?”

Then oft a tear his cheek bedew'd,
Or trembled in his eye,
As thus the youth his theme pursu'd,
With many a pitying sigh:

“Oh slothful pride! to pleasure thee
“Must e'en the warbling choir,
“Pent from their loves, the welkin free,
“And peaceful nest, expire?

“Oh sure like me they never strove
“To gain a fair-one's heart;—
“Oh sure like me they cannot love
“Who act this cruel part!

185

“For did they know the sweet delight
“The lov'd-one's presence gives,
“And did they know his woeful plight,
“Who for her absence grieves,

“Or had they ever felt the care
“Which rends the hopeless mind,—
“Sure they could never part the pair
“Whom mutual love had join'd.

“But ah! the court's fantastic crowd,
“And city's selfish throng,
“For sympathy and love too proud,
“Each tender virtue wrong.

“There pride and int'rest pity blight:
“E'en love is made a trade.—
“And yet for these, can Phebe slight
“My cottage in the glade.

“Ah! silly maid! the time has been
“Thy meek, thy gentle breast
“Found pleasure in this tranquil scene,
“And was with feeling blest.

186

“Then wouldst thou set, at even-tide,
“With pensive look so sweet,
“While Philomel, some dell beside,
“Was wont her woes repeat;

“And as the solemn warbler griev'd,
“And charm'd the list'ning grove,
“Thy sympathising bosom heav'd;—
“Thy soul would melt to love.

“Then too, at dawn thou'dst often stray
“Thro' fields of ripening grain,
“To hear the linnet on the spray,
“Or lark's high-soaring strain.

“And as they sung and soar'd on high,
“Secure from want or harm,
“Would sparkling pleasure gild thy eye,
“And heighten ev'ry charm.

‘Hark,’ wouldst thou say, ‘how sweet they sing!’
‘With freedom blest, and love!
‘How gaily they, with nimble wing,
‘In sportive circles rove!

187

‘And can there, Damon, can there be,
‘Who'd bid these scenes farewel,—
‘Resign these strains, these meadows flee,
‘In noisy towns to dwell?

‘And dost thou think,’ I've heard thee say,
‘Such cruel men there are,
‘Who, for their songs, or plumage gay,
‘These warblers would ensnare?’

“Then wouldst thou blame the thoughtless crowd
“Who joy'd in giving pain;
“Then wouldst thou mock the giddy proud
“Who scorn'd the peaceful plain:

“Then wouldst thou scorn the selfish town,
“And all its gay parade.—
“But now, for these, has Phebe flown
“My cottage in the glade.

“Nor wilt thou think, when bleak winds blow,
“Of him, my little guest,
“To whom you wont the crumbs bestow,
“And praise his scarlet breast.

188

“Poor bird! again, when winter frowns,
“This hand alone shall feed—
“For Phebe now the glade disowns;
“Nor thee nor me will heed.”

Such, to reflection still inclin'd,
Would oft his sonnets be:
For tender was his artless mind—
An artless swain was he:

Simple alike in life and song:
His words from guile so clear,
That of his heart, which knew not wrong,
They but an echo were.

Such was the youth who long had sigh'd,
And long had Phebe lov'd;
While she contemn'd, thro' foolish pride,
The youth her heart approv'd.

For long had Flavia, gay and proud,
Seduc'd her to the town,
Where crowding fops obsequious bow'd,
Her matchless charms to own.

189

As round the rose the insects vain
Their gilded pinions ply;
So fluttering play the courtly train
To catch the fair-one's eye:

But not a rose that decks the plain
With Phebe might compare;
Nor not a gilded fly so vain
As these her suitors were.

Ah! how unlike the tender youth
Who dwelt within the glade;
Whose vows were breath'd with artless truth,
Whose love could never fade!

In them the glowing lip and cheek
Had waked a transient fire;
In him esteem and virtue meek
Had chasten'd loose desire.

What pity that so true a swain
Should pine with hopeless love,
While selfish foplings, false and vain,
Should oft successful prove!

190

Oh silly fair! for tinsel pride
The worthy mind to fly,
And modest truth and sense deride,
To please the youthful eye.

For who'd the gaudy tulip prize,
Whose leaves no sweets exhale,
Ere, tho' it boasts no flaunting dyes,
The lily of the vale?

The one a while may please the sight,
But worthless is its bloom;
The other yields a sweet delight,
And precious its perfume.

Be wise, ye fair, let nature guide;
No more let av'rice sway:
O banish vain and thoughtless pride,
And love's behests obey.

191

Canto the Second.

And now, when winter stripp'd the grove
And mead of all its pride,
And all who social converse love
To hearths convivial hied,

A wand'ring guest, whom chance had led
Benighted to the spot,
Claim'd shelter for his hoary head
In Damon's humble cot.

His pray'r was heard—I need not say,
'Twas giv'n with welcome true:
Careless from want to turn away
Our Damon never knew.

192

Freely whate'er the cot supplied
The guest was bade to share;
With converse each alternate tried
To drown the thoughts of care.

On subjects various long they talk'd,
Each to the other new;—
The youth the sylvan scene had walk'd,
The sire the city knew.

It chanc'd the guest had Flavia serv'd,
The haughty and the vain;
And none from duty less had swerv'd
Of all the menial train.

But now, by time quite feeble grown,
For service all too weak,
He friendless on the world was thrown,
A means of life to seek.

From him did Damon understand
(Ah hapless youth was he)
That Phebe soon would give her hand
To one of high degree.

193

Then all in haste to learn the truth,
Soon as the morning broke,
Forlorn and sad the eager youth
The cot and glade forsook.

Unhappy youth! in vain he hied
To join the busy throng,
For Phebe now was full of pride,
And scorn'd his tender song.

Pity, 'tis true, did often plead
To ease her Damon's pains;
And love (but love she would not heed)
Still held her heart in chains.

To shine in courts with gay parade,
To glitter at the ball,
Preferr'd the false, the silly maid,
To love's and pity's call.

For these, to one her heart despis'd
Her hand she meant to give;
And slighted Damon, whom she priz'd
Beyond all swains who live.

194

Then back return'd he in despair,
To mourn unseen his fate,
And left the silly, cruel fair
To misery and state.

“Ah, haughty maid! thou dost not know,”
He sigh'd, “what thou must prove;
“For thou hast chang'd for splendid woe
“Contentment, peace and love.”

When now he reach'd his native shade,
His oaten pipe he took;
And, as he slowly trac'd the glade,
The dreary silence broke.

Sad as the solemn warblings flow
The nightly mourner sends,
When ev'ry heart the note of woe
With wildest cadence rends.

But Philomela, what's thy woe?
Thy plaint with morn shall cease;
But Damon's griefs no respite know;
He hopes no more for peace.

195

Thy strains, sweet bird, are fictious grief,
Thy plaints without a tear;
But Damon seeks from his relief
From sorrows too sincere:—

In vain he seeks: his dulcet strain
Affords his mind no ease;
E'en musick's charms increase his pain:
His grief can nought appease.

When round he casts his tearful eyes
On all the dreary view—
The sorrows of his bosom rise,
And either cheek bedew.

“Ye trees,” he said, “of verdure spoil'd,
“Where birds no longer dwell,
“Nor warble sweet their love notes wild,
“Ye paint my fortune well.

“To hope, to joy, to comfort lost,
“I feel a swift decay;
“And nipp'd by disappointment's frost,
“I blighted pine away.

196

“Yet, yet,” he sighing said, “one joy,
“One solace still remains:
“Thy bird shall comfort still supply,
“And cheer me with his strains.

“Tho' Phebe's false, he'll yet be true,
“And still my bosom cheer.
“I'll smile my lonely bird on you
“Each morn when you appear.

“My sweet, my sole companion thou,—
“Resemblant of my fate!
“The note will be twice welcome now
“That hails my cheerless state.

“Poor bird! like thine, my joys are flown;
“But spring shall thine restore;
“A harder fate I'm doom'd to moan:
“For mine return no more.

“When vernal gales shall fan the trees,
“And cloudy welkins clear,
“Another mate thy love shall please;
“Whose answering love shall cheer.

197

“Again shall swell thy little breast,
“Again thy transports rise;
“Again be crown'd thy little nest
“With all its social joys.

“But ah! a harder lot is mine!
“In self-consuming woe
“An endless winter doom'd to pine,
“Nor spring of hope to know.

“Yet thou, sweet bird, with tender note
“Shalt soothe my constant grief.
“My little red-breast's grateful throat
“Shall often bring relief.”

Thus sigh'd the youth, as slow he mov'd
The silent glade along;
For much the little bird he lov'd,
And much he priz'd his song.

For four succeeding winters he
His constant guest had been,
And with familiar warblings free
Had cheer'd the lonely scene.

198

From Damon's hand full oft he fed,
And oft familiar he
Hopp'd round the board, to pick the bread
Which Damon scatter'd free.

At dawn, at noon, at eve full oft
He sought his sheltering cot,
And paid his host with warblings soft,
And cheer'd his lonely lot.

Of all the winter's warbling train
Who raise the lonely note,
Was none possessed so sweet a strain,
Or tuned so clear a throat.

And oft as Damon sat to hear
His sweet, his artless lay,
Would start unbid a tender tear,
And thus he oft would say:

“Sweet, sympathising bird! but thou,
“Of all the warbling quire,
“This gloomy shade inhabit'st now;
“I here alone retire.

199

“No wonder then, with social love,
“We woo each other's aid,
“The lonely moments to improve
“In this sequester'd glade.

“Oh Sympathy! blest pow'r! from thee
“Our joys proceed alone.
“How cheerless must the bosom be
“To sympathy unknown!

“For he who makes another blest,
“Or soothes a mourner's woes,
“Gilds with reflected joy his breast,
“And feels what he bestows.”

Such was his feeling moral strain;
So tender was his mind;
Still prone to feel another's pain,
And to relieve inclin'd.

Oh grief to think so kind a heart
Distress should ever know!
Or tortur'd with affliction's dart,
Should feel unpitied woe!

200

Yet why repine, for souls like these,
Prepar'd for heav'nly joys,
By sordid thoughts unclogg'd, with ease
On swifter pinions rise.

For all, before in heav'n receiv'd,
With sympathy must glow,
As heav'n, 'twill surely be believ'd,
No selfish joys can know.

If so, the mind of sordid frame
Will much refining need
Ere it the realms of bliss can claim,
For generous souls decreed.

But blest are they, to whom below
The feeling heart is giv'n;
They, when they quit this world of woe,
Are wing'd at once for heav'n.

201

Canto the Third.

Oh Hope! how oft thy sweetest flow'rs
With swift succession fade!
What art thou, Hope, with all thy pow'rs?
Vain shadow of a shade!

A vision's vision!—for on earth
Our joys but visions are;
You—idle fancy's idlest birth,
But promise visions fair;

202

And scarce your promise e'er fulfil;
For, ere you're well believ'd,
You wake us with some real ill,
And teach us we're deceiv'd.

This hapless Damon found too true.
Oh youth by fortune crost!
Must yet more tears thy cheek bedew?
Must yet more joys be lost?

For now, as to his cot he drew,
Stretch'd lifeless on the snow
The little red-breast struck his view:
Hop'd solace of his woe.

At sight of this, increasing grief
The lover's heart inflam'd;
And first he sought from tears relief,
And, sighing, then exclaim'd:

“Poor, hapless bird! has then the frost
“Thy social blood congeal'd?
“Have I the only comfort lost
“This hated life could yield?

203

“Alas! while I, with bootless care,
“Forsook my peaceful shade,
“To soothe the vain, fantastic fair,
“You pin'd for want of aid.

“Oh had I here, more wise, remain'd,
“I had not lost thee so:
“Yet might thy note have entertain'd
“And sooth'd my bosom's woe.

“My scatter'd crumbs had cherish'd still,
“And kept from pining death:
“My roof had sav'd from breezes chill,
“Which stopp'd thy tuneful breath.

“Ah me ungrateful! thus to pay
“With negligence unkind
“The bird whose sweet, whose social lay
“Oft cheer'd my lonely mind.

“Why left I not a window wide,
“Nor strew'd with crumbs the ground?
“That so thy wants had been supply'd,
“And thou a shelter found.

204

“Alas! to self-concerns confin'd
“Was all my narrow heart
“My own misfortunes fill'd my mind—
“My red-breast had no part.

“Ah Phebe! Phebe! thine the fault.
“For I, alas! I find,
“Thy thoughtless cruelty have caught,
“And thy too selfish mind.

“Yes Phebe, yes, this warbler soft,
“Like me, by thee is slain:
“Yet thou hast heard his song full oft,
“And prais'd his gentle strain.

“And once, I can remember well,—
“'Twas when my fair was kind;
“Ere she in cities lov'd to dwell—
“She'd then a gentle mind:

“Once I remember, when the snows
“Had whiten'd o'er the ground,
“And ev'ry stream and lake was froze,
“Each rill in fetters bound,

205

“This little warbler, hopping free
“My humble board around,
“While Phebe, seated on my knee,
“Bestrew'd with crumbs the ground.

“At length upon the board he flew,
“And, lured by usage bland,
“More bold, he near, and nearer drew,
“And fed from out her hand.

“Then to a chair he hopp'd so light,
“And stretch'd, and plum'd his wing,
“Then swell'd his throat with all his might,
“His sweetest strain to sing.

‘Sweet bird!’ exclaim'd the gentle fair,
‘Full well thy notes repay.
‘Who would not for thy wants prepare,
‘To hear thy dulcet lay?

‘And, gentle Damon, kind thy heart,
‘Thy manners mild must be,
‘Who hadst the soft alluring art
‘To make this bird so free.’

206

“'Twas thus she spoke, with moisten'd eye.
“I stopp'd her with a kiss:
“Ah never more must I enjoy
“Such soft, heart-thrilling bliss!

“For Phebe now, for gaudy pride,
“Her gentle Damon scorns;
“And can this feeling breast deride,
“For one whom lace adorns.

“For one, perhaps, whose haughty door
“Was never open set
“That red-breasts from the scatter'd floor
“The wanted crumbs might get;

“And if by chance should one intrude,
“By hunger render'd bold,
“Would seize him, with oppression rude,
“And liberty withhold;

“There in some gilded cage to pine,
“And mourn his absent mate;
“His wings to droop, his head decline,
“And meet a timeless fate.

207

“For such an one, whose selfish breast
“No sympathy refines,
“Nor pities those with want opprest,
“While he in state reclines;—

“For such an one is Damon scorn'd.
“Ah Phebe, cruel maid!
“For such, with gaudy pride adorn'd,
“Is Damon's peace betray'd?

“Why didst thou praise the tender mind,
“Unless you lov'd the same?
“For ah! thy praise, so seeming kind,
“Has fann'd the tender flame.

“Why praise my sympathetic song,
“Unless the theme you lov'd?
“For sympathy grew doubly strong
“When you its force approv'd.

“But thou art chang'd; unhappy maid!
“Thou art no more the same.
“The town, with all its gay parade,
“Has deaden'd feeling's claim.

208

“Nor sympathy is lost alone;
“But ev'ry virtue fades—
“Each virtue that so brightly shone
“Within these peaceful shades:

“Simplicity, with tongue sincere,
“And bosom free from guile;
“And modesty, with bashful gear,
“And blushing cheek the while.

“Humility, in plainness drest,
“And truth, devoid of art;
“And constancy, with calmness blest;
“And sweet content of heart.

“These has she chang'd for idle toys;
“And chastity has sold:—
“For her as chaste we ne'er can prize
“Who sells her charms for gold.

“Yet shalt thou find, unhappy maid!
“And oft with tears shalt rue,
“To grief and woe thou wert betray'd
“When first thou prov'dst untrue.

209

“Soon shalt thou find the noisy town,
“And grandeur's gaudy life,
“Not long the voice of love can drown,
“Or chace domestic strife.

“The fickle heart thy beauty warms
“Thy beauty soon shall cloy;
“For love inspir'd by outward charms
“Possession will destroy.

“When sick with dissipated joys,
“When grandeur's charms shall fade,
“Then shalt thou wish thy humbler choice—
“My cottage and my glade.

“But I, alas! unpity'd here
“Must, pining, droop forlorn,
“And nought my drooping heart shall cheer
“At even, noon, or dawn.

“Alas! I hop'd, sweet bird! that thou,
“Who cheer'dst my heart so oft,
“Wouldst mitigate my anguish now
“With plaintive warblings soft.

210

“Sweet bird! who knows the bitter pains
“That rent thy little breast,
“While wand'ring o'er the snowy plains,
“With cold and want opprest?

“Perhaps each morn, with constant care,
“Thou sought'st my cottage door;
“In hopes those scatter'd crumbs to share
“Thou shar'dst so oft before.

“Perhaps thou strain'dst thy little throat,
“In hopes to reach my ear;
“Repeating ev'ry tender note
“I wont with smiles to hear.

“And while the snow was falling thick,
“And while the bleak winds blew,
“Thou cam'st my sheltering roof to seek,
“As thou wert wont to do.

“And when thou couldst no entrance gain,
“Perhaps with drooping head,
“Perch'd on the threshold, pierc'd with pain,
“Thou mourn'dst thy guardian fled;

211

“Till pinch'd by hunger, cold, and grief,
“All stiffen'd on the snow,
“No friendly care to bring relief,
“Thy bosom ceas'd to glow.

“Farewel, sweet bird! no more thy throat
“Shall cheer thy Damon's woe;
“No more, alas! thy liquid note
“In grateful thanks shall flow.

“Yet at my humble board each morn
“I'll heave for thee a sigh;
“For thee, at silent eve forlorn,
“A tear shall fill my eye.

“Thy wonted sports I then shall grieve,
“And miss thy tender song.—
“But sure, unless my mind deceive,
“I shall not miss them long:

“For ah my pained heart beats slow,
“My spirits inly faint.—
“My bird, thou shalt to Phebe go,
“And of my end acquaint.”

212

His hapless bird then took the youth,
And wash'd with many a tear;
And enter'd, whelm'd with love and ruth,
His cottage lone and drear.

And down he sat, with aching heart,
To frame a ditty neat.
Then did he all his thoughts impart
In roundelay full sweet.

At last these mournful verses came;
Which scarcely might be read,
So blotted were with tears the same,
Adown his cheek which sped.

“Then farewel Phebe, cruel maid!
“For ever and for aye.
“The heart thy faithless love betray'd
“Is melting fast away.

“Soon shall unhappy Damon be
“As this his bird so dear.
“Death soon his troubled heart shall free
“From all its pangs severe.

213

“Yet Phebe, when the timeless grave
“Shall Damon's sorrows hide,
“This last small favour let me crave—
“Nor be the boon denied:

“Beneath the turf where I am laid
“Let this poor Red-breast lay;
“And let, to all who pass the glade,
“The mournful stanza say:

“Here, underneath this verdant tomb,
“Is laid a hapless swain;
“A tenant of this peaceful gloom;
“By love untimely slain.

“The social bird, whose tender lay
“So often cheer'd his mind,
“Now moulders by his side away,
“For lack of whom he pin'd.

“Learn hence ye youths: beware of love!
“For fatal is his dart.
“Learn hence ye maids: nor faithless prove,
“Nor slight the constant heart.”

214

These mournful lines when Phebe read,
Her heart was pierc'd with grief;
And soon to Damon's cot she fled,
To give his woes relief.

But ah! too late the fair-one came;
For Damon was no more.
Then did she loud her grief proclaim,
And her false heart deplore.

She stretch'd her on his grassy grave;
She mourn'd her foolish pride,
The while her tears the ground did lave;
She groan'd full oft and sigh'd;

While sighs of anguish rent her breast,
She tore her flowing hair.
Her looks, her actions all confest
Delirium and despair.

Long did she lay, and wildly rave,
With mingled tears and sighs,
Till, stretch'd upon her Damon's grave,
Death seal'd at length her eyes.

215

The village maids and village swains
In time came flocking round.
They sung their sad funereal strains,
And laid her in the ground.

They laid her close by Damon's side,
With flow'rs of ivy strew'd.
Then thus the hoary Thenot sigh'd,
With wisdom much endu'd:

“Ye fair-ones, see what heavy woe
“Will on the maiden light,
“Whoe'er for av'rice, pride, and show
“Would break her virgin plight.

“In vain ambition, pleasure, state
“Would fond affection quell;
“The strong impression, soon or late,
“These tyrants will repel.

“Tho' love may be a while supprest,
“His empire he'll regain,
“And wound with bitter pangs the breast
“Which dar'd his sway disdain.”

END OF VOL. I.

Far in the windings of a glade------
------A humble cottage stood.

Mallet's Edwin and Emma.

In an Oratorio, the name of which I have now forgot, are the following lines:

But by far more vain than it
Is the pride of human wit;—
The shadow of a shade.

II. Vol. II.

A DRAMATIC POEM, FOUNDED ON FACTS, RECORDED IN THE REPORTS OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY.

TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY, PATRON; THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF STAMFORD, PRESIDENT; THE VICE-PRESIDENTS, TREASURER, REGISTER, AND DIRECTORS OF THE HUMANE SOCIETY, THIS FEEBLE ATTEMPT TO CELEBRATE THAT TRULY BENEVOLENT INSTITUTION IS (WITH A MIXTURE OF ADMIRATION AND RESPECT) MOST HUMBLY INSCRIBED, BY A SINCERE LOVER OF PHILANTHROPY.

Dramatis Personæ.

Sophia.
Albert, her Father.
Monimia, her Mother.
Edmund.
Roldan, the Seducer of Sophia.
Chorus of Albert's Neighbours, Messenger, Medical Assistant, &c.

Scene, before Albert's House, on the Borders of a Forest.
Time, about six Hours.

[_]

The Outline of this Story will be found by those who consult the Reports of the Humane Society for the Year 1784. Case 481. Page 110.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Albert, Sophia.
Albert.

Child of my happier years, belov'd Sophia!
Thou darling comfort of my woeful age!
Why hang of late the humid gems of grief
So frequent trembling on thy pale-grown cheek;
Like morning dews wherewith Aurora bathes
The vestal bosom of the paler rose?
Why dost thou fly of late the social joys
My hearth paternal, and my smiling bow'r
Were wont to boast? That smiling bow'r, Sophia,
(The wild luxuriance of whose woodbine sprays

'Twas once thy pride to regulate and prune)
Now, long neglected, needs thy tender care,
To check the wand'ring tendrils, raise from earth
The infant shoots, and teach the jas'mine sprays
To mingle with the smiling eglantine.

But thou, of late, more lov'st the gloomy shade
Of woods impervious to the mid-day sun.
The solemn fall of waters down the steep,
The gurgling riv'let, murmuring as it flows,
The piteous wailings of the nightingale,
And the sad cooings of the widow'd dove,
Now seem alone possessed of charms for thee.

Oft, with a trembling and unequal pace,
Slowly thou wanderest to the limpid brook,
Whose winding course among the antic roots
Of yonder ivy'd oaks obstructed mourns.
There have I mark'd thee, (for I careful oft
Pursu'd, with anxious love, thy wand'ring feet)
With sigh-swoln bosom, and with moisten'd eye,
Couch'd on the verdant sod, the flow'rets pluck;
And with a look so grave, as tho' thy mind
Knew not the childish conduct of thy hand,
Scatter the vegetative beauties o'er
The gliding surface of the dimpled stream.

Anon thou'dst rise; then on the fallen oak,
Whose ivy'd trunk athwart the streamlet lays,
Thyself extend, and, dropping many a tear,
With widening circles print the troubled stream.

Sophia.
Let not this musing fancy, tho' at times
It may assume black Melancholy's garb,
Disturb the peace of my dear father's mind.

Albert.
This antic mood at first I heeded not:
For youth I know its musing moments hath.
Nay, some there are, and those of sprightly cast,
Who, in the sportive hey-day of their bloods,
Prefer, at times, by solitary brook,
Or shade umbrageous, prudently to woo
The mournful pow'r of contemplation sage,
To all the joys of pastime's jocund reign.

Sophia.
Oh my lov'd father, (whom not ties of blood
So much endear as rev'rence for thy virtues)
Think that whatsoe'er of grief's resemblance

Hath mark'd my actions, is from thence deriv'd.
The mind which virtue fills, and sense refines,
Feels more of pleasure and substantial joy
In cool Reflection's sober haunts recluse,
Than in the bow'r where revelry abounds,
And jest, and vacant laughter shake the roof.

Albert.
'Tis wisely spoken. Yet, my gentle girl!
Thou hast indulg'd this mournful mood too far,
And almost waken'd in the doating breast
Of a fond sire who only lives in thee,
A painful doubt, that in thy tender heart
Some grief was deeply rooted. Oh, Sophia!
Since my dear boy, my Edmund, from these arms
By cold Misfortune's hand was forc'd away,
To seek new stores upon that ruthless sea
Whose greedy jaws soon swallow'd up the bark
Where rested all the treasure of our hopes—
But cease the sad remembrance! cease the tale!
The tender subject has, I see, provok'd
The floods of grief adown thy cheek to flow—
And my own soul is rushing to my eyes.

Sophia.
Oh, Sir! that dear, lov'd name within my breast
Wakes the remembrance of the woeful day
When first the dismal story pierc'd our ears
Of the wreck'd vessel, and my drowned brother;
And pained Memory, with her magic key,
Unlocks the floods of grief, and drowns my soul.

Albert.
Peace to his much lov'd ashes! Rest his soul
In everlasting peace! while we below
Drain without murmuring life's remaining cup.

Sophia.
Heav'n to my father make its remnant sweet!

Albert.

'Tis thou must sweet'n it, my soul's only joy!
Look on these hoary locks, this wrinkled brow,
And this plain garb of homely russet hue.
Once in my form were strength and beauty seen,
And silken grandeur cloth'd my youthful limbs:
Like a young oak, the forest's rising pride,

I flourish'd fair, while strength and vigour reign'd;
But when decay approach'd, the fatal blast
Of swift misfortune, like the lightning's gleam,
Seer'd all my cheerful verdure. Now alas!
I, in myself nor life nor comfort have.
Thy charms, Sophia,—thy unsullied worth
(Like mantling ivy to the leafless trunk)
Give the sole comfort to my cheerless age:
In thee I smile, I flourish, and I live;
And should some envious chance thy verdure blight,
Alone I stand, deserted, and distressed,
To ev'ry joy, to ev'ry comfort lost.

Weep'st thou, my child? Restrain thy needless tears:
Let not the pictures of desponding age
(Too often prone to look for distant woes,
And dwell on fancied evils) chill thy breast.

Sophia.
I needs must weep, to think thy joys depend
On such a frail foundation. Oh my sire!
To such transcendent virtue, heav'n methinks
Should deal its bounties with a larger hand.

Albert.
Tax not, my child, the just decrees of God!
Know that whate'er his providence ordains
Is for our good; tho' oft our headstrong wills
Defeat his kind intentions, and pervert
His proferr'd boon to an unwilling curse.

Sophia.
Thy just rebuke, my father, speaks at once
The piety and wisdom of thy mind.
But heav'n's paternal goodness sure'll forgive
The rash arraignment of its high decrees
Which filial love extorted from my lips.

Albert.

But say, what shadow for complaint have we?
'Tis true, of all our rich possessions stripp'd,
Here in a humble solitude we live.
But what of that? Still thro' our azure veins
The ennobled blood of our high ancestry
Flows undefil'd by folly or by guilt.
And tho' perhaps to narrow-minded pride
We shine less awful, to enlighten'd souls
Our lowly station gives us double worth.

The diamond virtue needs no painted foil,
No tinsel ornament, to set it off;
But in its native lustre still the same,
Sparkles as brightly in the trampled dust
As on the golden circle of a crown.

Then think, Sophia, that the greatest wealth
Which our proud ancestry could ever boast,
Still, still remains, and in thy tender charge—
I need not tell thee 'tis a spotless name.

But child, farewel. I go t'invite those neighbours
Our friendly cares have tutor'd and refin'd:
These shall to day our humble banquet share.
In celebration of thy natal hour,
Our roof, Sophia, shall with joy resound:
With harmless joy that leaves no sting behind.

SCENE II.

Sophia,
solus. [After a pause.]

“In thee I smile, I flourish, and I live;
“And should some envious chance thy verdure blight,

“Alone I stand, deserted, and distress'd:
“To ev'ry joy to ev'ry comfort lost.”

Almighty Pow'r! in pity to my sire,
Launch thy destroying lightnings at this head.
Oh let me die, ere yet my shame be known!

“A spotless name!”—Distraction to reflect!
That name, he deems so spotless, and so pure,
Shall soon be branded with a harlot's shame.
Oh Roldan! Roldan! wherefore didst thou thus
My peace destroy, and then to branded Scorn,
To Grief, to Anguish yield me up a prey?

The shorten'd shades these spreading beeches yield
Declare the long-expected season past
When the dear traitor promis'd to be here.
Alas the while! how is he alter'd now!
The time has been when, with impatient step,
And mind distract with thousand hopes and fears,
He, full an hour before the appointed clock,
Would to the spot repair, and chide the sun,
Whose envious chariot, he would swear, stood still,
To intercept the season of delight.

But ah! among the brambles, flow'ret-clad,
Which skirt on either side yon narrow walk,
Methinks I hear—'Tis so. My Roldan comes.

—But oh! how slow!—Where are the eagle wings,
With which Impatience us'd to aid his feet?—
Alas! this coldness doubles ev'ry pang.
Oh anguish! cruel Roldan! Oh despair!

[Leans in a disconsolate attitude against the scene.]

SCENE III.

Sophia, Roldan.
Roldan.
In tears, Sophia, wilt thou still defile
The gentle lustre of thy matchless charms
With such unpleasant vices? Grief and Care
At once are odious, in their foolish selves,
And mar the lovely workmanship of heav'n.

Sophia.
Oh Roldan, if these tears, these silly crimes,
Offend thy sight, 'tis in thy pow'r alone
To dry my cheek, and terminate my guilt.

Roldan,
(aside.)

Lewson, I thank thee; thou hast warn'd me well.
But I have steel'd my soul by thy advice,

And now am proof 'gainst all her artifice.

I come, Sophia, as thy summons bade,
And should be happy thy commands to hear:
But brief, I pray, for I am hence engag'd.

Sophia.
There was a time, Oh Roldan! well thou know'st,
When no engagement could have drawn away
Or Roldan, or a thought of Roldan's mind,
While the now slighted, the forlorn Sophia
Would deign her converse. Yet my Roldan say,
How am I alter'd? Has this hapless face—
Where thou wert wont to swear the rival flow'rs
(The factious blooms of York and Lancaster)
Fought o'er again their long disputed right,
And strove for mastery with such lovely grace
As made Rebellion seem the child of heav'n—
Say, has it lost its wonted vermile blush?
Oh think, dear youth! the tears, which love of thee
Has caus'd so oft to lave this pale-grown cheek,
Have damp'd the fires of youth and cheerful health.
The tender languish thou wert wont to praise,
Now reigns perhaps no longer in these eyes.
Alas! if now dim sadness there pervades,

Think 'twas thy conduct cast the woful veil
Which dulls their once-lov'd azure.

Roldan.
You wrong yourself. I mean not to dispraise
The matchless beauty of the fair Sophia.
But, to the purpose of this invitation.

Sophia.

Oh Roldan! that cool air—that frigid tone
Freeze on my tongue the purpose of my mind.

Think, Roldan, think: ere this fond, foolish heart
(By love of thee, and thoughtless youth betray'd)
Drew me unheedful from strict Honour's shore,
How many joys encircled me around:
How many comforts in my bosom reign'd.
But now where are they?—

Think when time shall come,
When all the secret of our love's reveal'd—
What then must be the lost Sophia's lot?
O think thou see'st me, by my father curs'd,
Deserted by the venerable dame
Whose tender paps my infant food supply'd,
Driv'n to distraction, with a frantic hand

Cut the black thread of vital misery;
And—Oh! where roves my madd'ning fancy now?

Thou can'st not, Roldan, cast me off to Shame;
Justice will surely prompt thy tender heart
To a poor, hapless female to restore
The peace and honour you have robb'd her of.

Roldan.
I have no time, Sophia, now to talk
Upon so stale a subject. So farewel.

(Going.)
Sophia.
Yet stay, my Roldan—dear barbarian! stay.
Oh hear me yet. Thus prostrate at thy feet,
(A suppliant now to one whose docile form
Once thought no posture meek enough to shew
The humble ardour of his boasted love)
The poor distress'd Sophia lowly begs
Thou yet wilt pity an unhappy sire,
The social pleasures of whose cheerful board
Thou hast so oft with seeming friendship shar'd.

Roldan,
(aside.)

A curse upon my weakness! Still I find
The lovely syren clings around my heart;

And, but for friendly Lewson's warning lore,
I soon should melt to pity.

Fair-one, cease,
Nor waste such dulcet sounds in bootless pray'rs.

Sophia.
Not for myself I beg: my conscious soul
Rests in such firm security that thou
(If God's commands are to his creatures law)
Art in the eye of Reason, and of Heav'n,
In strictest truth my husband, that I'd scorn
To stoop so lowly for a worldly name
Which thy inhuman bosom had refus'd.
But oh my parents!—Think, Oh Roldan, think
Thou see'st my father, by Affliction stung,
Sink down dishonour'd to a timeless grave;
While a poor mother, feeble and forlorn,
Pursues, with broken heart, his hapless shade.

Roldan.
Fair damsel cease; nor waste thy words in vain.
Think'st thou that I, for all the humid pearls
Which thy fair eyes so copiously can show'r,

Will sell the sparkling gems of Titled Wealth
Which Fortune offers.

Sophia.
Oh you oft have sworn
That you preferr'd the poor Sophia's love
To all the affluent gewgaws of a court.

Roldan.
When thus I swore, I swore but what I thought:
'Twas then the dream of love. But, lady, thanks;
The vision's charm thy kind indulgence broke;
And now I plainly see, that love's a toy,
Too light to be preferr'd to honour, wealth,
And grandeur. So farewel.

Sophia.
Inhuman! stay.
Recal to mind, I had a brother once,
Tho' buried now beneath the whelming wave,
To whom thy youthful heart appear'd conjoin'd
By sacred Friendship's adamantine chains.
Wilt thou then stain thy Edmund's memory thus?

Roldan.
Pardon me, Madam; but I mean to act
As I suppose that haughty brother would,
Were he alive to hear Sophia's tale.
Farewel, for ever.

SCENE IV.

Sophia; Chorus.
Chorus.
Did you mark, my friends,
How the false wretch the weeping fair-one spurn'd?
Alas the while! to jest and sportive glee
Our neighbour bade us welcome; but I fear
To grief and anguish will his joys be turn'd.

Sophia,
(not seeing them.)

Inhuman monster! What withholds my tongue
From breathing curses on his perjur'd soul?
Why do I not upon the lightnings call
To blast his impious head? Oh me, my heart!
Spite of his cruelty, and perjur'd crimes,
Still, still I find the dear destroyer reigns
Sole lord and monarch of this foolish breast.

Oh grief of heart! where, whither shall I fly?
Say, black Despair, hast thou no pathless wild;
No forest to the cheerful eye of day
Impervious, where dark Horror reigns alone,
And where no single ray, no feeble beam
E'er interrupts the terrors of thy sway?
There would I fly, and from the world conceal
My shame and woes. Alas! my hapless sire!
My tender mother too! Ah, break my heart!

Chorus.
Say, neighbours, shall I soothe with comfort's voice
This child of Misery? Or shall we stand,
Yet unobserved, and let the hapless fair
Give, unrestrain'd, her bitter sorrows vent?
But see again she rears her woful head,
And to heav'n's high tribunal lifts her eyes,
With tears envelop'd. Pretty soul! alas!
Hard is his heart who could such tears resist.
Now see, with what a frantic attitude,
With what a glare of madness in her eye,
She to the thickest of the wood retires.
Let us not follow; for such heavy griefs
Need much of Solitude's composing calm,

Ere the sad soul is suited to receive
The healing balm of Comfort's soothing lore.

SCENE V.

Chorus.

STROPHE I.

Oh Solitude, ordain'd to be
The nurse of thought, and Reason's friend,
How many virtues join in thee!
How many rare endowments blend!
By thee the philosophic mind,
O Science! tow'ring on thy wing,
And leaving Error's train behind,
And Prejudice, and Custom blind,
Has dar'd of awful truths sublime to sing.

ANTISTROPHE I.

Oh Solitude! by heav'n design'd
Reflection's sober pow'r to wake;
To soften the obdurate mind,
And Vice's firm fix'd throne to shake!
How often has the ribald lewd,

Conducted thro' thy awful bow'r,
With trembling soul, Conviction view'd,
And loth'd the path so long pursu'd,
And weeping own'd Contrition's pious pow'r!

EPODE I.

Then comes Repentance, cloth'd in sable stole,
And with her leads fair Peace, and Virtue bright,
Who gently soothe the agonizing soul,
And chacing Guilt's tempestuous night,
The bosom cheer with heav'nly light;
And fair Religion fills the breast with pure, serene delight.

STROPHE II.

Oh Solitude! by heav'n endow'd
With pow'r to lull the stormy train
Of passions, furious, wild, or proud,
And bow them all to Reason's reign!
How oft Revenge his bloody spite
Has thrown away, and quench'd his brand,
When, riding on the wings of Night,
(All active bustle put to flight)
Thou hover'dst whispering o'er with influence bland!

ANTISTROPHE II.

Oh Solitude! by heav'n endu'd
With pow'r to soothe the stormy breast,
By Grief, Despair, or Anguish rude,
Or fickle Fortune's frown opprest!
Whose lenient pow'r can charm the heart,
Can stop Affliction's bitter tear;
And, by thy shame-concealing art,
Can lessen Disappointment's smart,
And blunt Ingratitude's fell dart severe.

EPODE II.

Oh! if beside some gurgling runnel laid,
Beneath the pendant willow's weeping sprays,
Or in some grotto's more sequester'd shade
The poor forlorn Sophia stays,
While on her cheek keen Anguish preys,
Each torturing fancy, nymph divine! from her sad breast erase.

ACT II.

[SCENE I.]

Chorus; Albert.
Chorus.
Behold, my friends, with pleasure in his looks,
Where our good, venerable host approaches;
Vigorous in age. Alas! how soon those locks,
Which deck with hoary dignity his brow,
Torn by his wretched hands, shall strew the earth!
Into whose bowels he, with broken heart,
Will soon I fear descend.

Albert.
How now, my friends!
What sunk in sullen and desponding thought!
Does this our once glad mansion yield no cheer
To rouse the sluggard sparks of sprightly glee
Within your drooping bosoms?

Chorus.
Wretched man!

Albert.
What can this mean?

Chorus.
Oh man, to misery born!

Albert.
Almighty Pow'r! confounded and amaz'd
I stand. Oh friends, relieve my tortur'd mind!
Has any sad calamity befall'n
My aged wife? or she, the tender maid,
Whose dawning virtues are the only joy,
The only comfort of my wintry years?

Chorus.
The daughter whom you mention, if aright
These aged eyes discern, now bends this way.

SCENE II.

Albert; Chorus; Sophia.
Albert.
What can this mean? Those loose, dishevell'd locks,
Those antic braided flow'rets, and those eyes

Rolling with restless glare, and gazing oft,
With varying passions, on the traceless void,
Are tokens strong of a disorder'd mind.
How now, Sophia!

Sophia.
Said'st thou not, my friend,
Roldan, my love, would instantly be here,
To end my woes, my honour to restore,
And snatch my soul from Shame? See, see, how gay,
And yet how simple is my bridal dress?
Do not these red and purple flow'rets smile,
Among their verdant foliage, doubly sweet
Upon this vestal robe?—But ah! I fear
Roldan, my love, is false, and will not come.
They say Possession damps the flames of Love.
And, now I think me, he's grown cool of late.—
Oh I'm undone for ever.

(Weeps.)
Albert.
Out, alas!
Where does Conjecture lead? Alas, Sophia!
Dost thou not know thy father?

Sophia.
Oh forgive!
My wilder'd fancy, by this briny show'r
Now almost back to Reason's rule reclaim'd,
Perceives its wild mistake.

Albert.
But speak, my child;
For on the rack of doubt thy rambling words
Have stretch'd my tortur'd soul—Of Roldan what?
Thou hast not, surely, dar'd to plunge thy sire,
Thy hoary mother, and thy spotless race,
Thyself, and all into the pit obscene
Of Guilt and Shame.

Sophia,
(aside.)
Now am I curs'd indeed.
Oh break my heart!

Albert.
Ha! dost thou tremble, wretch?
And does the harlot blood forsake thy lip?
Oh guilt! guilt! guilt!—Thou stigma to my blood!

Chorus.
Oh be more gentle! See, thy harsh rebuke
Has chac'd the fainting spirit from her lip;
And deadly Terror seals her hapless eyes.

Albert.
Oh that these pale-grown lids had long been seal'd
For ever!

Chorus.
Oh be calm! Thy child revives.

Sophia.
Oh me! my sire, disarm thy bending brow;
And pity thy poor, wretched, injur'd child,
Whom Love and Treachery at once have spoil'd
Of peace and honour.

Albert.
Torture! Say no more.
Let loose my hand, lest I should dash thee off,
And bruise thy wanton form to—

Sophia.
Oh have mercy!
Yet, yet oh hear!

Albert.
No, not a word, by heav'n!
Hence, from my sight, and never see me more.

Chorus.
Rash man, forbear! Cast not thy hapless child,
More by Misfortune than by Guilt betray'd,
To public Shame and Misery a prey.

Sophia.

Oh mercy! mercy! aid my pray'rs, oh Heav'n!
Let not a hapless wretch, whose feeling heart
(Too much to sensibility attun'd)
Owes all its woes to Tenderness and Love,
Now fail within a parent's breast to wake
The soft emotions of relenting grief;
By the excess of which alone she fell.

Oh my lov'd, cruel father! had my heart,
Like thine, been barr'd to Pity's tearful plaint,
Could I, like thee, have turn'd a careless ear

To all the pray'rs, the sighs, tear-broken moans,
And moving arts of prostrate Tenderness,
I had not fall'n—I had not now become
Thus, in sad turn, a supplicant myself.
Oh then, if Pity has not fled to heav'n,
And left this sublunary world for e'er,
Chace this obdurate vengeance from thy mind,
And let Compassion soothe the rankling wounds
Compassion caus'd.

Albert.
Vile strumpet! hence, be gone.

Sophia.
My father! Oh, in pity—

Albert.

Hence, I say!
If thou but let me hear one accent more,
Or tarry longer in my blasted sight,
I'll breathe such curses on thy hated head—

Oh heaven and earth! where is the haughty boast
I made so lately of a spotless name!

SCENE III.

Albert; Chorus.
Chorus.
See, with what feeble and distracted steps
The wretched offspring of thy tender loves
Slowly withdraws. Ah yet thy rage restrain;
And let me back recal the trembling wretch:
For sure enough of anguish must she feel
From the base treachery of a perjur'd lover,
Without the sad addition of thy hate.

Albert.
Oh cursed Fortune! Is it come to this?
Is this the fruit of all my tender hopes?
Is this the end of all my boasted joys?
Is this—Oh wanton! murderess of my fame!
Curs'd be my hoary locks, for they no more
Shall claim respect and reverence from the crowd.
Curs'd be the hour that gave the harlot birth!
And curs'd be Roldan!—damned, impious fiend!
Oh that I had the treacherous villain here!
Old as I am, and feeble with my woes,

These wither'd hands should strew his mangled limbs,
For crows to feed on, and for flies to taint.

Chorus.
Oh calm these boisterous passions! Ill befit
The frantic bellowings of ungovern'd Rage
With those white locks. List then to Reason's voice,
And calm the raging tempest of thy ire.

Albert.
He who has always sail'd on glassy seas
May mock the storm-toss'd sailor for his fears.

Chorus.
The prudent sailor, in the worst of storms,
Leaves not his bark to mercy of the waves,
Ply then the compass of unbiass'd Right;
And where that points thee steer by Reason's helm.
This would assur'dly teach thee to restore
Thy wretched daughter once more to thy love.

Albert.

Oh name it not; for never from this hour
Shall the ungrateful strumpet blast my sight.

Has she not plung'd me deep in endless shame?
Has she not turn'd the sole surviving hope,
The only comfort of my hapless age,
To grief and anguish? Oh ye cruel pow'rs!
Is this the meed of all my tender care?
Were all my sage instructions then too weak
To guard her honour? Was it, say, for this,
That from the earliest birth of infant thought
I careful strove her tender mind to form?

How have I hung delighted o'er her charms,
Pouring the prudent counsels of my soul,
With ev'ry soft, insinuating art,
Which youth is ever pleas'd with, in her ear!
How has she oft with seeming rapture stood,
And mark'd, attentive, each instructive tale.
Then with the sweetest blandishments of love
Which infant fondness to a parent e'er
Could offer, would she pay my tender care;
Hang on my arm, and fondly kiss those lips
Whose honied lore she said her heart refin'd,
Lifted her soul to Virtue, and her breast
From ev'ry narrow sentiment sublim'd.
And now, when flattering Fancy painted all
The wish'd for virtues budding in her mind,—

The deadly weeds of Shame and wanton Guilt
Deform the scene, blast all my tender hopes,
And mar the promis'd harvest. Base Sophia!
Bane of my soul! polluter of my blood!
Never, oh never will I view her more.—
Oh hapless wretch! where shall I comfort find?
Where, where are Hope and Consolation flown?

SCENE IV.

Chorus.

Oh cruel sire! who, in thy frantic rage,
Canst cast away thy lost, thy injur'd child,
A prey to Want, to Anguish, and Despair.
For, in my thought, more guilty is the sire
Who thus abandons his deluded child
Than is the youth whose passion was her bane.

You see, my friends, how haughty rage transports
To impious actions e'en the worthiest minds,
And makes us deaf to Reason and to Truth.

STROPHE I.

Oh Rage! of all the fiends of hell
Who rule the wretched mortal's mind,

And prompt to actions base and fell,
Most stubborn, inconsistent, blind!
How curs'd are they
Who own thy sway?
How doubly curs'd the wretched thralls
On whom thy prompted vengeance falls!

ANTISTROPHE I.

'Tis thou, who, doubly furious made
By lofty Pride's imperious flame,
Hast hoary Albert's soul betray'd
To barbarous Guilt and public Shame.
Oh wretched child!
By Passion wild
Excluded from the shores of Peace;
Where shall thy growing sorrows cease?

EPODE I.

Oh Pity, on whose cheek divine,
Like gems, the trembling dew-drops shine;
Whose humid lustre soothes the heart
Impierc'd by keen Misfortune's dart;

Descend, sweet maid! and with a sigh
Chace from the furious Albert's mind
Each passion, and each thought unkind,
And let his fierce resentment quickly die.

STROPHE II.

Yes, Pity, as the furious train,
Who prowling hunt their midnight prey,
Retreating shun the peopled plain,
When fair Aurora's humid ray
Benignly gilds
The cheerful fields;
So, where thy mournful beauty shines,
Resentment flies, and Rage resigns.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Oh! if at some fair virgin's ear,
Who, coyly cruel, slights the swain,
Nor answers to his love sincere,
Thou weeping pleadest, not in vain;
Forsake a while
The tender toil;
And oh! exert thy gentlest art
To soften Albert's cruel heart.

EPODE II.

Or if, some forfeit life to spare,
You now, with soft, persuasive pray'r,
With sigh-swoln breast and loosen'd zone,
And 'shevell'd locks approach the throne;
Oh hither haste! thy care forego—
Thy needless care, for Brunswick's breast,
Already with each virtue blest,
Spontaneous melts at real woe.
No need of Pity's melting pray'r,
For George and Mercy are the same:
And Envy must herself proclaim,
“Compassion's not more prone to plead than he is prone to spare!”

ACT III.

[SCENE I.]

Chorus; Roldan.
Chorus.
Neighbours, is not yon same, with folded arms,
With head low bent, and pace dejected, slow,
And intermitted, the inhuman wretch
Whose selfish lust the heavy sorrows caus'd,
Beneath whose weight the child of Albert bends
Distracted? 'Tis the same. The graceful locks,
In curls Hesperient negligently dress'd,
The bloomy peach which ripens on his cheek,
The graceful limbs, and brow, where manly Grace
Commanding sits, I can remember well.

Roldan.

Inhuman wretch! What, was it not enough
To cast her off to Misery and Shame?
But must I, barbarous! to Injustice add
The unmanly insult of a mean reproach?—
Reproach for what?—For confidence in me.
Be Lewson curst, and curst the prudent lore

He pour'd so copious in this open ear!

Say, reverend stranger, hast thou lately seen
A weeping maid, disconsolate, and fair,
In humble robes of spotless white array'd,
Among the winding lab'rinths of this wood
Unguarded stray?

Chorus.
Mean'st thou the hapless child
Of hoary Albert, who yon mansion owns?

Roldan.
The same.

Chorus.
Driv'n from her sire, with curses loud,
Some short time since, distracted and forlorn,
The wretched outcast left the spot we tread.

Roldan.
And whither went she?

Chorus.
Where a frantic mind,
Thy treacherous cruelty, and a father's rage

Might drive the wretched lunatic, as yet
I have no power to guess.

Roldan.
Distracting thought!
What if the wretched fair, to madness stung,
Should perpetrate what she did more than hint!

Chorus.
Tell me, base libertine! dost thou suppose
That the hot vengeance of th'Almighty Pow'r
(Whose potent word the forked lightning forms,
And sends it hissing at the guilty head)
Will sleep for ever o'er thy impious crimes?

Roldan.
Oh me!

Chorus.
Thou guilty wretch! who, with pretended love,
Didst win the heart of the deluded fair,
And, for a short-liv'd transport, plunge her down
At once to Shame, and Guilt—perhaps to Death—
The worst of deaths—to suicide.

Roldan.
Alas!
Now glares my guilt in all its proper hues!
Yet let us hope—.

SCENE II.

Roldan; Chorus; Messenger.
Messenger.
Oh horror! Oh my friends!
Sophia!

Roldan.
Ha!

Messenger.
The sweet Sophia! She,
The loveliest flow'r of all Salopia's plains!—

Roldan.
Speak. What of her? Oh torture! Oh my fears!

Messenger.
She's dead! she's dead!

Roldan.
Oh God!

Chorus.
Where? where? and how?

Messenger.

As, even now, her sad, repentant sire,
By me accompanied, the forest rang'd,
To seek, and bring her back, we found the fair
Suspended to a bough; a cruel cord—

But see, the wretched man, and in his arms
His breathless child.

Chorus.
This instant fly to where,
Beside the hill, Pharmacinus resides:
The pupil he of sage Humanicus,
'Tis like the hapless female may restore.

The Lecturer on Suspended Animation.

SCENE III.

Roldan; Chorus.
Albert, with the body in his arms.
Roldan.
Oh agony! Oh horror! Sweet Sophia!
Oh let me—.

Albert.
Monster hence! nor howling thus
Disturb the torpor of my dumb despair.

Roldan.
Oh kill me! kill me!

Albert.

Prithee, wretch, be gone.
My heart's too full of anguish; I've no time
For vengeance now. Th'Almighty settle 'counts
'Tween thee and me.

Oh GOD! my child! my child!
Alas the sad effects of haughty Rage!
See, in my aged arms, the mighty curse,
The deadly fruit of ill-advised Ire,—
Of guilty Ire, which kin with nearest kin
At variance sets, and the paternal hand
Bathes in the heart's blood of his dear-lov'd child.

Oh blossom early cropp'd! dead, dead art thou!
Not by thyself, but by thy father slain.

Chorus.
Oh grief of heart! now dost thou see, too late,
The just resentment of offended Heav'n.

Albert.
Oh torture! anguish! Groaning, yes, I feel
GOD in his anger (on my furious head
Heaping his pond'rous vengeance) weighs me down.
Oh poignant thoughts of Horror and Remorse!
Oh scorpions gender'd of ill-grounded Wrath!
Oh grief of heart! Stript of my only joy!—
Alas, the anguish of a wretched man!

Chorus.
When she, the wretched partner of thy bed,
Shall view her breathless, and self-murder'd child;
How will her agonies thy pangs encrease?

Albert.
Oh Death, grim tyrant! thou hast swallow'd up
The dearest treasure of my bankrupt heart:
Then, in compassion, ope thy friendly port,
And let this shatter'd, storm-toss'd vessel in.

Chorus.

Waste not in fruitless tears the precious time;
But bear thy seeming lifeless daughter hence,
And on a couch, her head with pillows rear'd,

Let her extended lay: for I have sent
For one hard by, who, by th'instruction sage
Of good Humanicus, has haply learn'd
The life-restoring art—an art long time
To Pharmacy unknown; till, of late years,
Philanthropy, of Christian virtues first,
Some generous sons of Æsculapius urg'd
To institute, that honour of their tribe,
That glory of the happy age which gave
Such worthies and such worthy schemes a birth,
The bless'd HUMANE SOCIETY, design'd
To snatch the frantic suicide from hell,
As he seem'd rushing thro' its inmost gates;
To warm once more the breast which whelming tides,
Which cold intense, or suffocating fumes,
Or vivid lightning's desolating flash
Had robb'd of vital functions. Should I tell
The wond'rous triumphs of Resuscitation,
Thou'dst think I dealt in legends far more wild
Than Monmouth, or than Baker ever wrote.

But bear her in; for soon you may expect
The wish'd assistance here.

Albert.
Hopeless, and sad,
I will obey. Oh that the shaft of Death
Would pierce my cruel heart; for I, alas!
Never, no never shall, I fear, behold
These lov'd, these beauteous eyes unclos'd again.

SCENE IV.

Roldan; Chorus.
Chorus.
Rise from the earth, thou poor, distracted wretch!
While I the comfort-giving words of Hope
Pour in thy frantic ear.

Roldan.

Ah me, a wretch!
No, here, for ever, on the earth I'll sit,
Tearing the locks from this detested head,
And weeping till these guilty eyes, dissolv'd
Themselves to tears, no longer—Oh Despair!—
—What was I saying?—Whither rove my thoughts?

Sophia! yes,
Clos'd are thy eyes, and livid are thy lips.—

Yet will I kiss those eyes, those lips will press
Till warmth and animation shall return.

Chorus.
Why hold'st thou converse with the senseless earth? The Messenger and Medical Assistant cross the stage.

Skilful Pharmacinus, beneath that roof
The hapless female lays. O enter quick;
And Heav'n thy efforts crown with kind success.

Roldan.
Alas! no ray of Hope illumes my soul.
Oh! is there none whose hand compassionate
Will plunge a poignard in this aching heart?
For I, a wretch in sorrow overwhelm'd,
Loath the bright glories of the splendid sun.

Chorus.
Take comfort, wretched man! resign not Hope.

Roldan.
Talk not of Hope or Comfort, 'tis in vain:
Despair's cold gripe my aching heart benumbs.

Sophia! oh Sophia! murder'd fair!
Close on me, earth, for I am now no more.

Chorus.
Wilt thou not suffer Hope's soft, soothing voice
Thy anguish to suspend?

Roldan.
There is no hope.
Let this black day of horrors and of guilt
Close the short period of my wretched life—
Wretched thro' sin. Oh strike me, vengeful Heav'n,
Nor let the setting sun behold my woes.

Chorus.
Hear, wretched youth, and learn from thence to hope,
What wonders the resuscitating art
Has oft perform'd.

Roldan.
Sophia! oh Sophia!
Monster that I am! whither shall I turn?
Heav'n on all sides is up in arms against me.

Oh ye deep, gloomy caverns of Despair!
Open and receive me.

(Throws himself along on the ground.)
Chorus.
A guilty mind
Has render'd him to Consolation deaf.
Yet let us soothe him with such sounds as may
Most tend to 'waken Hope and chace Despair.
Relate the youth whose frost-suspended life
On Thames's peopled strand was late restor'd.

Semichorus.
Let not Despair possess thy soul: but mark
The triumphs of Resuscitation's arts.
Ere yet the feeble, distant sun
His second monthly course had run,
A friendless boy, whom cruel Fate
Compell'd with early toil and late
To ply on wintry tides the cheerless oar,
Sunk from his seat of vital pow'rs forlore.
Full bleak the frigid Erus blew;
The chilling fleeces gleaming flew,

Obscur'd the earth and hid the sky,
And scarcely could the clouded eye
The ice-clogg'd stream from the white shore descry;
Thus, till the distant port was gain'd,
Unaided the poor youth remain'd.
When now the boat arriv'd at last;
The tempest bleak, and stormy blast,
Had curv'd the stiffen'd breathless form.
No pulses beat; no part was warm:
The marbled corse no sign of life retain'd.
Clench'd at each ear a shrivell'd hand remain'd,
Nor all the strength which man could lend
The arms contraction could unbend.
Entire the sanguine blush was fled;
A livid pale each limb o'erspread;
Each limb appear'd irremediably dead.
On the left breast the chin reclin'd,
There seem'd indissolubly join'd.
Lock'd was the jaw; the features all
Distorted, shrivell'd, shrunk, and small.
The neck's contracted muscles felt like stone;
His open eyes with no bright lustre shone;
But, in the head retreated far,
The lessen'd balls were fix'd in horrid stare.

But when the kind assistance came,
And on the frost-contracted frame
Each art resuscitating tried,
The corse, at length, with warmth supplied,
Groan'd death-like; while by slow degrees
Spasms the rousing body seize.
With shrieks full loud, and bitter moan,
And limbs in writhes convulsive thrown,
Expressive of excessive pains,
Life her wonted seat regains.

Chorus.
Say, thou despairing wretch! who, prostrate still,
Seem'st to be digging for thyself a grave,
Reap'st thou no comfortable hope from this?

Roldan.

Oh no! 'tis different far. Tho' pinching frost,
Or deep emersion in the 'whelming wave,
May lock the soul within the cold-grown corpse,
And, life suspended, still keep Death at bay,
This cannot give in other cases hope.

Thus, thus I scatter to the vagrant winds
These hated locks; sad emblems of my hopes,

My joys, and comforts, which by anguish keen
Are torn and scatter'd from my wretched soul.

Chorus.

Forbear, rash youth, these acts of desperation:
Patient submit to Heav'n's supreme decree.
Meanwhile once more we'll try to quell Despair
Within thy wretched bosom. Thou shalt learn
There is no case, how desperate so e'er,
That is not gilded with a ray of Hope.

STROPHE

Despair! of Guilt thou frantic child,
In storms and dreadful lightnings got
By fierce Disease, Affliction wild,
Or keen Misfortune's swift embrace,
And in tempestuous whirlwinds born.
How wretched is his lot
Who trembling views thy frantic face,
And owns thy sway with heart forlorn!
Oh Roldan! lift thy pale, desponding head,
And hear how Heav'n's high grace before,
When ev'ry sign of life was fled,
Has deign'd lost Animation to restore.

ANTISTROPHE.

Returning from the banquet gay,
As late a son of Bacchus came,
The forked lightnings cross'd his way;
The awful thunders roll'd on high,
The tempest rag'd on ev'ry side.
And now the gleaming flame
Did round his black'ning temples fly,
And stretch'd him senseless on the ground.
Trembling, aghast, his pale companions stood:
No succour, no relief was near.
The breathless corse, with curdled blood,
They, homeward bearing, drew with many a tear.

EPODE.

Yet even he, tho' many hours he laid
Ere could be got the wonted aid,
Was to his wond'ring friends restor'd:
The blest resuscitating art
The soul-secreting caves explor'd,

And sat the captive spirit free:
Vibrates again the panting heart.
And now, renew'd in second life,
Restor'd to a delighted wife,
An aged mother and a wrinkled sire,
To tender relatives, and loving friends,
Among the social tribe he blends.

Then let not Hope, sad youth, expire;
But to that Power thy fervent pray'rs express,
Who crowns the toils of Charity with such unhop'd success.

Vide Reports for the Year 1783. Case 411. page 15.

This instance of restoring animation to a body struck with lightning was related by Dr. Hawes, in his last course of lectures on the subject of Suspended Animation. Imparted to me by a Pupil.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

Roldan; Chorus; Edmund.
Edmund.

Lay still, my bounding heart! a while lay still,
Nor burst, thro' eagerness, thy swelling side!—
It will not be; the transports unrestrain'd,
Now as I nearer to the spot approach,
Grow doubly great. Oh agony of joy!
Oh bliss too great! Now, after four long years
Of tedious absence, thus to be restor'd
To a lov'd father and a doting mother.

But oh! how bounds my heart to thee, Sophia!
Thou dear-lov'd playmate of my infant years—
My lovely sister! And my bosom friend,
My Roldan too! him shall I see once more.
What joy to dart impatient to their arms,
Ris'n as it were from death! My dear Sophia!
How will thy tender bosom bound like mine!
How will thy lovely eyes with transport shine!
How will delight run thrilling thro' each vein,

When, with excess of fondness, thou shalt clasp
Thy long-lost brother once more to thy breast!

Roldan.
Oh wretch! wretch! wretch!

Edmund.
Alas! what moan is that?
Almighty Pow'r! he bears my Roldan's form;—
But Heav'n preserve him from such bitter woe!
For ah! his griefs would blight my budding joys.
Poor wretch! who, stretch'd all frantic on the ground,
Breath'st forth thy dolours to the public day,
What art thou? What thy plaint? Reveal and—Ha!

Roldan.
Shield! shield me, Heav'n! Have then my horrid crimes,
From the deep bottom of the briny tide,
Recall'd the ghost of my much injur'd friend?

Edmund.
What mean'st thou, Roldan?

Roldan.
Yes; I know thou com'st
To scourge and torture the detested wretch
Who dar'd, in violation of all laws
Of Friendship, and of Truth, of God, and man,
Despoil the sweet Sophia, hapless fair!
Of the rich treasure of her virgin fame;
And—

Edmund.
Ha! her virgin fame? Infernal villain!—
But thou shalt find in me no lifeless ghost,
Sent from the dreary mansions of the grave
To scare thy scoundrel soul with idle shrieks;
But one, oh monster! still possess'd of strength
To send thy howling soul to shades below;
There, in the ever-flaming depths of hell,
To mix with spirits of congenial stamp,
And clank thy burning chains, oh thou detested!—
With such devils as thyself.—Oh torture!
My sister, oh!

Chorus.
Alas! fresh woes remain.

Edmund.
Say'st thou fresh woes? What in the book of Fate
Can still so black be found as to increase
The more than Stygian horrors of my mind?

Roldan.
Oh wretch accurst, and impious as I am!
My cruel treatment drove the frantic fair
With desperate hand to terminate her woes.
Oh fatal cord!

Edmund.

Dead? Dead? Sophia dead?
My much-lov'd sister self-destroy'd? Alas!
Is this the fruit of all my springing hopes?
Do thus my transports end?

My sister dead?
Plung'd, all uncall'd for, in the awful realms
Of dark Eternity? Oh horrid thought!
Oh my tormented soul!—And thou the cause?
What damned fiend could steel thy barb'rous breast
To such accursed deeds?—But words are wind;
And bosoms hard as thine are not empierc'd
With unsubstantial weapons: therefore rise,

And, like a man (if manly feeling dwell
In breasts like thine) oppose my injur'd arm:
For die thou shalt, or to his sister's ghost
Dispatch young Albert's.

Chorus.
Ah brave youth, forbear!

Roldan.
Restrain him not. Oh my dear, injur'd friend!
Let loose thy rage. Here prostrate at thy knees
I bare my bosom, and entreat thy arm
To expedite the blow. Yes, kill the wretch
Whose damned arts, and cruelty have robb'd
Thy fair, accomplish'd, tender, lovely sister,
Of peace, of virgin honour, and of life.

Chorus.
Ah youth, forbear! Sheathe, sheathe thy furious sword!
See'st not the tear repentant down his cheek
Enanguish'd rolls, and speaks a tortur'd mind?

Edmund.

No, live, thou impious wretch! I will not blot
The name of Christian, which I boast to bear,
By taking vengeance of a prostrate foe,
Whose keen contrition's in his conduct seen.

But oh ye pow'rs, how cruel is my lot!
Wreck'd, and by cruel miracle preserv'd,
For four long years in distant climes I rov'd;
Long time a hapless vagabond, and poor;
Rent from the arms of ev'ry tender tie,
Of parents, sister, and of bosom friend,
Forlorn I griev'd. At length when sudden wealth
Had blest my toils, and winds and waves combin'd
To waft me rapid o'er the parting waves,—
Then when, of hope and expectation full,
I dart impatient to the much-lov'd arms
Of tender relatives, my cruel stars
Blast all my hopes, and plunge me headlong down
To the black abyss of Despair. I find
The dearest source of all my promis'd bliss
Destroy'd and ruin'd by a villain's hand;—
I find that villain in the bosom friend
Whose lov'd idea, thro' each distant clime,
I bore about, delighted, in my heart.

Chorus.
Have patience, noble youth, a while, and hear.—

Edmund.
What should I hear? What is't thou canst relate?
Canst thou describe with what a frantic look,
What tones of anguish, and what actions wild,
My wretched father tore the silver hairs,
With palsied hand, from off his hoary head?
Canst thou the shrieking agonies relate
Wherewith my mother view'd her breathless child?
This would'st thou tell me? This? For nothing sure
But sounds of horror and relations dire
Shall e'er again assail these wretched ears!

Chorus.
No, I would give thee comfort; give thee hope.

Edmund.
Away! What comfort can there be for me?
Oh sweet Sophia! dear, dear murder'd sister!—
But I will go, and (breathless as she is)
Strain her, distracted, to my sorrowing breast.

Chorus.
Not for the world. Thou must not enter now.
Tarry and hear: tho' late a breathless corpse
Thy sister was, yet is there hope she may,
In full possession of each vital pow'r,
Be to thy arms restor'd.

Edmund.
Ah, how! declare.

Chorus.
Of the HUMANE SOCIETY hast thou
As yet not heard? whose honours and rewards
Have to perfection brought the godlike art
Of rousing into life the dormant sparks
Of animation, and the latent fire
Rekindling with resuscitating breath
Of Medical Benevolence.

Edmund.
Before
The British coast I left, I oft have heard

The noble acts to which their civic crowns
Had urg'd the students of the healing art.

Chorus.
Now to perfection rais'd, the Institution,
Beneath the guardian patronage and care
Of our benevolent and pious King,
(Whose philanthropic principles, and zeal
For patriot works in lustre far exceed
The brightest jewels in the radiant wreath
That binds his royal brow) diffuses wide
The streams of its benevolence. The while
The noble Stamford's care and warm support,
(Assisted by the generous, the humane,
And worthy Beauchamp, Willoughby de Brook,
Pusey, and Andrews, valiant Oglethorpe,
And many others, whom the ardent glow
Of pure Benevolence has thus inspir'd)
Shelters its progress, and its pow'rs extends.

The while Humanicus, with annual toil,
Extends the useful knowledge of the means
By which the great Resuscitating Art
May be improv'd, and by Perfection crown'd.

Edmund.
This could I joy to hear, if grief of heart,
And poignant anguish for my private woes,
Each thought did not absorb. But what of this?

Chorus.
E'en now a pupil of this godlike art,
By good Humanicus instructed well
In all the useful knowledge of the science,
Essays thy sister's spirit to recal
From the dread portals of Eternity.

Edmund.
Assist him, Heav'n, and all ye heav'nly pow'rs!

Roldan.
And if a wretch so plung'd in guilt may dare
To Heav'n's bright throne uplift his suppliant eyes,
Oh crown with swift success the pious toil.

Edmund.
But wherefore stand I here, when I, perhaps,
Might to my dear-lov'd sister aid impart?
I'll haste and—.

Chorus.
—Hold! forbear! Dost thou not think
Thy unexpected presence must retard
Their needful care? Or say, can it be fit,
Should thy poor sister yet again respire,
Thou, who so long wert number'd with the dead,
Shouldst meet her op'ning eyes?

Edmund.
I yield, my friend.
But tell me: Dost thou think there's ground to hope?

Chorus.

If numerous instances of such success
As, if not vouch'd by witnesses of worth,
Would rank them with the idle tales of old
Of witchcraft and of magic, can suffice
As a foundation for so bold a hope,
Then will I say we ought not to despair.

For not long since a father and a son,
Whom cold and poverty impell'd to sleep
Within a potter's smokehouse, by the fumes
Were suffocated, and each vital pow'r,
Suspended, pent within their senseless breasts.
These did the Art Humane to life restore.
And, stranger still, when o'er the silver Trent
Destructive Winter spread her icy arms,
A little female, whom the semblance smooth
Beguil'd, with step advent'rous cross the stream
To bend her course, sunk thro', and by the tide
Swept far away, for half a dismal hour
Whelm'd in the aqueous element remain'd.
Yet even she was by the wonted means
To life restor'd, and to her frantic friends.

But should I ev'ry wond'rous case recite
Of those who from apparent death (produc'd

Or by emersion in the whelming tide,
By suffocation of unwholesome fumes,
By cord, by poison, or by other means)
Have rescued been, and to their friends restor'd,
Revolving Seasons to th'unfinish'd tale
Would pass all list'ning by.

Edmund.
Thy soothing words
On my benighted heart, reviving, pour
The cheerful lustre of fair dawning hope.

Roldan.
For me, a wretch! so far has coward Guilt
My soul unmann'd, I do not dare to hope.

Chorus.

Such the advantage virtue has o'er vice.

STROPHE I.

Wretched mortals! would ye know
Joy in weal, relief in woe,
Still to Virtue's sacred law
All your thoughts and actions square;
Then shall never black Despair
Your souls pervade with gloomy awe.

ANTISTROPHE I.

Hope—a virgin, chaste and pure,
Never, never will endure
To leave her blest ethereal seat,
To dwell with monsters guilt-defil'd;
But she loves, with influence mild,
To gild fair Virtue's sad retreat.

STROPHE II.

Thus in Edmund's guiltless mind
Dark Despondence cannot find
Gloomy space where she may rest;
Nor will Hope, with lightsome train,
Golden-tressed goddess! deign
To 'lumine Roldan's guilty breast.

ANTISTROPHE II.

Potent Pow'r, who rul'st on high!
Lord of earth, of sea, and sky!
Who disposest by thy word
All events, our griefs remove;
Nor let our hopes vain phantoms prove.
Oh be the fair to life restor'd!

EPODE.

And oh! with ev'ry joy those worthies crown,
Whom Christian Charity did first inspire
To fan in clay-cold breasts the dormant fire!
And kindly show'r each blessing down
On ev'ry pious head,
Who from the seeming dead
Has snatch'd the wretch, whom deep Despair
Impell'd Life's half-spun thread to tear,
Or whom some unforeseen event
To Death's half-open'd portals sent!

See the Honorary Medal given by the society to those who have restored Suspended Animation,

The reverse of the medal.

The Right Honourable the Earl of Stamford, President.

Lord Beauchamp, Lord Willoughby de Brooke, the Honourable Philip Pusey, Sir Joseph Andrews, Baronet, General Oglethorpe, &c. Vice-Presidents.

Reports for 1784. Case 480. page 107.

This is, I fear, not the only instance in which I have failed to make these facts appear tolerably in a poetical dress; perhaps it is not possible so to do. But it was my particular wish, by instancing various cases, to shew the public that the Humane Society did not confine their benevolent efforts to apparent deaths occasioned by one kind of accident only.

Case 482. page 111.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Roldan; Edmund; Chorus.
Edmund.

How long in expectation must we pine?
How long upon our eager hearts must Doubt
And keen Suspense with baneful influence prey?

Ye light-wing'd messengers of Heav'n! descend:
Let me no longer on the rack of Doubt
Be stretch'd impatient; but to instant Joy
Exalt at once, or headlong to Despair
Precipitate me down.

Chorus.

Impatient youth!
Curb the wild passions of thy headstrong mind,
And humbly wait th'Omnipotent decree.

Behold, my son, where down yon broken steep,
(With many an aged beech, and sapless elm,
Romantic, interspers'd) the foaming stream
Tumultuous rolls its way; and, as it rolls,

Breaks ever and anon the stony earth
With its impatient wave, and sweeps away
Its verdant boundaries, and its bed deforms.
Such is, within the human breast, the stream
Of Petulance, which, scorning all restraint,
Impairs the bounds of Reason, and deforms
The heart it flows thro' with unruly force.

Edmund.
Hark! hear'st thou not some busy noise within?
'Tis so. The door uncloses. Oh my heart!
With what a strong convulsion does each throb
Against my breast resound! What news? what news?
Hope glances from thy eye.

SCENE II.

Roldan; Edmund; Chorus; Messenger.
Messenger.
Sophia breathes.
Once more her eyes unclos'd, glad—.

Roldan.
—What say'st thou?
Did I thy accents rightly understand?

Or did unsettled Reason, to increase
To tenfold fierceness all my present pangs,
The fond delusion frame? Lives the sweet fair?
Does lov'd Sophia live?

Messenger.
She does.

Edmund.
Oh Heav'n!
My heart, too full of joy, prevents my tongue
Its gratitude to speak.

Roldan.
And shall I yet
Call sweet Sophia mine? Gaze once again
Upon her blooming charms, and ardent clasp
Her panting bosom to my bounding heart?

Chorus.
Thou messenger of happy tidings, say,
How waken'd first the dormant spark of life?

Messenger.
Long ev'ry quick'ning method we essay'd
Ere the most feeble gleam of distant Hope

Our arduous efforts cheer'd. In vain the lance
With keen incision the swoln vein unlock'd;
Two black coagulated drops alone
The orifice discharg'd. All hopeless we
Each art reanimating still applied,
While pale Despondence on each clouded brow
Disheartening sat. At length a feeble pulse,
Irregular and slow, Pharmacinus
Imagin'd he could feel. Inspir'd by Hope,
We doubled ev'ry effort, till in time
She faintly breath'd.

Edmund.
Oh sweeter sounds thy tale
Than the love carols of the matin lark
To the lorn ears of his night-sever'd mate.

Messenger.
And now the livid skin a purer hue
Began to wear; the while the trembling lids
Convulsions shook, as shake the misty clouds
On the green summit of some eastern hill,
Ere fair Aurora opes her radiant eyes
To glad the weeping plains with beaming light.

Then with a heartfelt sigh (while o'er her form
Auspicious moisture spread) her hand she mov'd.
And now her forehead glow'd; the coral blush
Chac'd from her trembling lips the inky dye.
The heart, once more, with slow vibration heaves;
The swelling sides distend; the pulses beat;
And the white panting bosom feebly swells.

Roldan.
Thou speakest transport to my list'ning soul!

Messenger.
Oh! had you seen her, when her languid eyes
Beam'd weeping forth between her opening lids;
As 'tween dispersing clouds the watry sun
Darts his enfeebled beams, while fertile show'rs
Fatten the vernal meadows, and restore
Their wonted beauty to the wither'd plains!
Such was her look, and such the kind effect
Her falling tears produc'd; for as they fell
Her fainted charms reviv'd, and to her mind
Her reas'ning pow'rs return'd.

Roldan.
Indulgent Heav'n!

Chorus.
These are the blessings, good Humanicus!
Thy pious industry on Britain show'rs!
'Tis not for nought that with incessant toil
And medical exertions thou hast sought
Afflicting pangs to change to springing joys,
And Grief's black stole, to Pleasure's varied robe.
The gloomy torch, the sad funereal pile
Design'd to light, thro' thee has oft been chang'd
To flames Hymeneal. Generous sage, proceed!
Exulting, Britain owns with grateful joy
How much to thy unwearied application
(Which the HUMANE SOCIETY has brought
From small beginnings to its present height)
She stands indebted. She with truth declares
That he whose efforts save a subject's life,
Deserves more honour than the hardy chief

Whose valiant daring in th'embattled field
The blood-stain'd laurel reaps. What then dost thou
(Oh good in private as in public life!)
Of grateful Britain claim!

Edmund.
On him and all
The pious founders of this Institution,
Be Heav'n's choice blessings show'r'd!

Chorus.

Amen! Nor be
Its Royal Patron, or Supporter kind
Without reward regarded.

STROPHE.

Benevolence, thou pow'r divine!
Whose radiant charms so brightly shine,
That not the thick'ning clouds impure
Of Guilt, who stalks with giant stride,
With Levity, and thoughtless Pride
Attendant on each wanton side,
Thy glorious influence can obscure!

Whatever vices curse this age,
Whatever thoughtless follies rage,
Yet thou, bright cherub! still, with influence bland,
Gild'st with thy smiles divine this favour'd land.

ANTISTROPHE.

Lo Charity! how many a shrine
To thee is rear'd, thou pow'r divine!
If Lust laments her life of shame,—
Compell'd by Anguish to deplore
The hour she launch'd from Honour's shore,
Thou open throw'st th'inviting door,
And dost the wand'ring fair reclaim.
For ev'ry various kind of woe
Thy gracious streams abundant flow.
Thy stewards sit at rich Augusta's gate
T'invite Distress to share a happier fate!

EPODE.

But far conspicuous o'er the rest
Of Charity's resplendent works,
That Institution shines confest,
Whose generous efforts to the human breast
The long suspended life restore;

And fan the spark that lurks
Within the senseless corse supprest.
Oh Albion! thy thrice favour'd shore
May Heav'n's peculiar favour boast:
For say, can any foreign coast
Such charities extensive show?
Or did one kingdom ever know,
And in one happy age,
So many worthies truly great,
So prompt to stem Affliction's rage,
To blunt the shafts of frowning Fate.—

Sophia,
(within.)
Oh let me taste again the vernal gale.

Roldan.
Ah cease, my friends! for hark what sweeter sounds
Warble harmonious in my ravish'd ear,
And bear my raptur'd soul aloft to Heav'n.

Sophia,
(within.)
Oh lead me friends, I pray, where the sweet flow
Of unobstructed breezes may regale
The feeble spirit fluttering in my breast.

Chorus.
Lo! this way comes thy sister. Youth, retire.
Till she of thy arrival shall be warn'd,
Prudence forbids the wish'd for interview.

I am credibly informed that several females whom the cruelty of our sex have driven to attempt the crime of suicide, have not only been restored to life by the exertions of the Humane Society, but have been honourably united to the objects of their affections.

The Magdalen Hospital.

SCENE III.

Roldan; Messenger; Chorus; Sophia; Albert; Monimia; Medical Assistant.
Monimia.
Oh my dear child! and do these aged eyes,
Once more with doting fondness gazing o'er
Thy animated limbs, admire the glow
Of matchless beauty which pervades thy form?

Albert.
My dear Sophia! my soul's better part!
And shall I yet, yet once again attend
With silent rapture to thy tuneful tongue?
Shall I once more admire th'enchanting flow
Of wisdom and of softness, sweetly join'd
In unison by thy attractive tongue?

Edmund,
(at a distance.)
Oh cruel Fate! must I thus gaze aloof,
Nor dare to be partaker of their joys?

Roldan,
(kneeling)
Oh thou dear injur'd fair-one! at thy feet
A wretch, who dares not to thy injur'd face
Uplift his guilty eyes, submissive begs
Thy pardon and thy pity.

Sophia.
Roldan rise,
Nor by that posture to my mind recal
Those fatal moments I must blush to think of.
Oh leave me, leave me!

Roldan.
Ah! in mercy yet,
If thou wouldst not to desperation drive
A poor repentant wretch, Sophia hear.

Sophia.
Oh my poor drooping heart! What wouldst thou have?

Roldan.
Thy pardon, sweet Sophia!

Sophia.
I could not,
If in my nature I were so inclin'd,
Refuse my pardon to a suppliant now;
When I so lately at the hand of Heav'n
Such favours have receiv'd.

Roldan.
And wilt thou, then,
At Hymen's altar crown my life with joy?

Sophia.
No, Roldan; no. Can I suppose that thou,
Who couldst insult my weakness, wouldst not still
Of thy untimely triumph mind me oft?
What then but anguish could our union bring?

Roldan.
Oh never, never, by high Heav'n I swear—.

Sophia.

Peace, Roldan; peace! High Heav'n's eternal throne,
And all the sacred attributes of God,
Thy faithless vows already have blasphem'd.
Oh do not wake the memory of thy crimes,
By repetition of those sacred oaths
Which could not bind thy wavering heart before.

But oh farewel! my feeble spirits faint.
This conflict of contending passions shakes
My frame too much. Farewel!

Roldan.
Ah stay, Sophia!
Oh didst thou know the pangs which gnaw my breast!
And didst thou know with how sincere an ardour—

Sophia.
—Urge me not. I will not think so harshly,
As, that thou didst not from thy soul intend
Whate'er the ardour of thy early love
So frequent swore. But if thy changeling mind
Was so unstable once, what hold secure
Can I at present have? Therefore farewel.

Roldan.

Oh torture! Oh my friends! Ye who have seen
My keen sensations of sincere remorse,
Will none, in pity, plead a wretch's cause?

Where shall I wander, desperate and alone,
And spend in bootless penitence my days?
Some silent, dark, sequester'd gloom I'll find,
Where lazy zephyrs thro' close woven sprays
Scarce whispering creep, nor with their feeble wings
Disturb the surface of the sleeping lake;
Where living thing as yet was never seen,
Save when the widow'd dove retir'd to mourn;
Where tread of foot ne'er press'd the unshorn grass,
Unless the spirits (if such things there are)
Which fill with troubled dreams the dormant brain,
Might there withdraw, to gather gloomy thoughts.
There will I ponder on Sophia's charms,
And sigh away my soul in pray'rs for her.

Haply Sophia, when I am no more,
Thou'lt to my memory drop a tender tear,
And sigh a pray'r for my departed soul.

Sophia.
Oh Roldan!

Chorus.
Youth, behold the fair-one melts,
And soft consenting in her azure eyes
Appears to languish bland.

Roldan.
Oh my Sophia!
Can then thy heart, in pity to my woes,
Accept the incense of repentant sighs,
And melt compassionate at these my tears?

Sophia.
Alas! Sophia's heart was never form'd
To hear her Roldan sigh, and hear unmov'd.
Then, if indeed this hand can make thee bless'd,
Accept it. Well thou know'st my heart is thine.

Roldan.
Oh bliss too great!

Chorus.
Hear me, thou gentle fair,
And you, ye happy parents, Yet in store
There is increase of happiness.—Your son—.

Albert
Ha! What of him?

Chorus.
Oh fortify your hearts
With firm philosophy; for I shall tell
What else with joy your reason might o'erturn.
Your Edmund still survives.

Sophia.
Oh Heav'n!

Chorus.
And soon he will be here.

Edmund
comes forward.
Yes, here he is.
Oh my dear sister! fondling of my heart!
Do I then clasp thee in my arms once more
Alive and breathing, rescu'd from the grave?
Oh transport! oh delight!

(Embraces her.)
Sophia.
My brother, oh!

Edmund.
Oh my lov'd parents!

(Embrace.)

Chorus.
While with transports they,
Too great for utterance, weep their sudden joys,
Say does thy heart, Pharmacinus, not feel
A conscious glow of intellectual pleasure,
Beyond the vulgar joys of appetite?

Medical Assistant.
It does, my friend. But be it not forgot
That first to Heav'n, which warm'd the generous breasts
Of those who spread Resuscitation's art,
And next, to that society belongs
The grateful tribute of sincere applause.

Chorus.
'Tis spoken well. And ye, most happy friends!
Let not the pleasures of your future lives
Drive from your hearts the memory of this day;
But ever, with true gratitude inspir'd,
Confess the mercies which ye have receiv'd,
With several thousand fellow creatures more,
From Heav'n and the HUMANE SOCIETY.

Exeunt Omnes.

ELEGIES, PASTORALS, AND OTHER RURAL POEMS.

ELEGIES.

ELEGY I. The ROSE.

Sure there are hours when the most joyous heart,
If from Reflection's pow'r not wholly clear,
Would from the banquet's noisy mirth depart,
To gurgling streams to lend a pensive ear;

And social souls relinquish for a while
(If trembling Conscience shrink not from the choice)
E'en Friendship's joys, or even Beauty's smile,
For silent Solitude's instructive voice.

For, where Reflection sways the feeling mind,
Or Fancy revels in luxuriant pow'r,
Articulation in each rill we find,
And gather morals from each budding flow'r.

Thus while I gaze upon that op'ning rose,
(In no embroider'd vestment proudly gay)
Which by the gaudy tulip sidelong grows,
The blushing blossom thus appears to say:

“Judge not, fond shepherd, by thy eye alone,
“Fix thy affections on intrinsic worth;
“Tho' other flow'rs more gaudy vestments own,
“No bud so sweet perfumes the teeming earth.

“Perennial charms 'tis only I can boast;
“From cankering age, and time, charm-blighting, free;
“My scent continues when my hue is lost.
“In me the emblem of fair Delia see.”

Yes, Delia's mind excels each outward grace—
Yet ne'er was virgin form more sweetly fair:
In her combine each charm of mien and face.
No sweeter bud perfumes the vernal air!

Yet Delia's mind excels each outward charm,
And, like thy scent, sweet blossom, shall remain:
The hand of Time shall polish, and not harm
The wit that rivets Cupid's roseate chain.

ELEGY II. The INVALID.

Tho' scarce I breathe (or breathe with toil and pain)
Intemp'rate pulses all unequal beat;
And tho' my fainting lungs can scarce sustain
Their wonted task, oppress'd with inward heat.

At sultry eve I court no fanning breeze,
Upon no river's cooling margin stray;
Nor seek refreshing shelter from the trees,
When bright Meridian darts his scorching ray.

Can Zephyr breathing thro' the poplar shade,
Can all the water in the Naiad's urns
Efface the image of my dearest maid?
Or quench Love's flame that in my bosom burns?

Yet let me strive to heal my bleeding heart.—
My waining health, ah! how shall I regain?
Verse may have pow'r to draw Love's venom'd dart;
And musick's charms may ease this feverish pain.

To rosy Health I'll tune my sober lyre,
Invoke her presence with a sprightly strain,
Till kindly she my bosom reinspire.—
Love mocks my toil, and says, “That toil were vain!”

With black Despair the Goddess scorns to dwell;
She seeks the breasts that jolly pastimes fire.—
My heart, alas! can by experience tell,
'Tis only Delia's smiles can Health inspire.

And why can Delia never, never smile?
Or with one distant hope relieve my care?
Why will she not my wretchedness beguile,
And banish, with responsive Love, Despair?

Content whole years I'll wear the servile chain,
And deem an age in sighs and tears well past,
If Delia'll pity my long-during pain,
And pay my sufferings with her love at last.

Oh shew me, then, one distant, cheerful ray,
And well contented I'll my course pursue:
The gleam of Hope shall 'luminate my way,
And bear me up Life's tedious journey thro'.

ELEGY III. DESPONDENCY.

Why sit I thus, to listless Grief a prey,
Nor lop my orchard's boughs, nor prune my vine?
While, chok'd with weeds, my promis'd crops decay,
And with'ring flow'rs, thro' lack of tending, pine.

No more my kids I gather from the rocks,
Or teach my lambs in verdant meads to roam;
But, quite neglectful of my pining flocks,
Within my dreary cottage sigh at home.

Pan yields no fleeces to my idle hand;
Gay Flora scorns to bless my slighted bow'r;
Ceres nor visits my uncultur'd land,
Nor feel my trees Pomona's fruitful pow'r.

Farewel, Oh Life! to all thy prudent cares;—
Let happier youths those busy cares employ;
Love, hopeless Love, my cheerless bosom tears.—
Why must I live forlorn of ev'ry joy?

Oh rouse me, Delia, with responsive Love!
Oh chace this langour with a gentle smile!
Rough Labour's active life o'erjoy'd I'll prove,
If Delia'll share the guerdon of my toil.

My goats I'll gather from unshelter'd rocks,
When scorching Leo fries the gaping ground;
While, in some water'd vale, the bleating flocks
My Delia tends, by poplars shaded round.

But when from heav'n unwholesome rains descend,
Or frigid blasts Earth's hoary bosom freeze,
Myself both goats and fleecy flocks will tend,
At home while Delia tastes indulgent ease.

For thee I'll gladly rise at early dawn,
To delve the glebe, or do the oxen's toil;
If thou'lt but cheer my heart at my return,
And pay my labours with a gracious smile.

The cow I'll milk, the brimming pale bring home,
And gather faggots from the neighb'ring wood,
And, numb'd and cramp'd with cold, when back I come
Thy fond concern shall warm my frozen blood.

ELEGY IV. The MUSE.

Farewel the transports of harmonious verse!
No more I sing of shepherds' happy loves;
No more each blossom's virtues I rehearse,
Or cull gay wreath's in Fancy's fertile groves.

Farewel the transports of the tuneful Muse!
My woes appear in ev'ry drooping lay:
If other subjects for my verse I chuse,
A love-lorn sigh wafts ev'ry thought away.

Awake, my Muse! shake off desponding Care;
On high Parnassus seek immortal fame:
In epic verse a lasting work prepare,
May place with Maro's my yet humble name!

Let trumpets sonorous bellow in the strain!
Let sanguine War in all its horrors rage!
Cleave heav'n's scar'd vault, and drench the thirsty plain,
While spreading Discord thunders thro' the page.

Sing mighty battles and great derring-does!
Let valiant Henry's conquests be thy choice!
—The vain attempt is blasted by my woes:
Love breathes a sigh dispels the trumpet's voice.

To livelier themes I'll turn my wanton song;
With rosy wreaths luxuriant grapes I'll twine:
To Bacchus' praise my lyricks shall belong;
With Bacchus buxom Venus shall combine.

Tune, tune, my lyre! I'll sing of drunken Mirth!
Let many a cup of mantling wine be quafft!—
—Ah vain essay! my spirits sink to earth:
Love drops a tear, and sours the wanton draught.

Why do my thoughts, their own tormenting foes,
Still turn to thee, my anguish to inflame?
Why does my Muse still ruminate my woes,
Still paint thy charms, still dwell on Delia's name?

Why, when I slumber, does she haunt me still?
Why, when I wake, is Delia still my theme?—
Has not Despair the pow'r Desire to kill?
Or does presumptuous Hope still fan my flame?

Dear cause of my all anguish! yes, my heart
Shall treasure up thy lov'd memorial still:
Tho' ev'ry tender line inflame my smart,
Thy virtuous charms the mournful page shall fill.

ELEGY V. The PERSON.

Come, Delia, come, and heal my bleeding heart!
Come, with sweet smiles, and banish fell Despair!
Why wilt thou heedless view thy lover's smart?
Ah, why reject his tender, faithful pray'r?

What tho' no orient blushes tinge my cheek,
Nor shine my eyes with wit's enliv'ning ray;
No curls Hesperient wanton in my neck,
Nor glossy lips the currant's hue display?

100

What tho' I've felt Misfortune's blighting hand,
And no far-grazing cattle call me lord;
No numerous fleeces whiten o'er the land,
Nor hives luxuriant honied sweets afford?

Yet want of wealth my fondness shall repay,
And cheerful toil shall multiply my store:
For thee thro' storms I'd plow my dang'rous way,
Or delve in gloomy mines for sordid ore.

Pleas'd o'er Numidia's burning sands I'd fly,
To chace the furious lion with my spear;
Or hunt hyænas 'neath the frigid sky,
The toil-bought guerdon would my Delia share.

Then come, my love, nor slight my lowly state;
Nor yet the plainness of my person scorn:
My ceaseless toil shall force a boon from Fate,
And cheerful health my person shall adorn.

101

ELEGY VI. The LARK.

The hapless youth who feels a real flame,
(So cruel Love, capricious god! decrees)
Long mourns, neglected by the lovely dame,
And long, enanguish'd, seeks in vain to please.

The fading langour of his mournful eye,
The faultering accent, trembling on his tongue;
The bosom heaving with the painful sigh,
The head propended as he droops along:

The dress neglected, and the slighted air,
(The faithful indicates of fervent love)
Disgust the fancy of the thoughtless fair,
And the preventions of his fortune prove.

While the false youth, with bless'd indifference gay,
(Who insincerely boasts bright Beauty's pow'r)
Oft bears the virgin's captive heart away,
And on her soft affections steals each hour.

102

His sprightly converse wins the list'ning ear;
Thoughts unimpassion'd point the happy way
T'improve each chance with brisk, assiduous care,
And the unguarded, flatter'd heart betray.

For me, the strong emotions of my mind,
My fond affection, my respectful fears,
Perplex my fancy, and my judgment blind:
Confus'd, I tremble when my love appears.

Thus I, perhaps, oppress'd by fear and grief,
Neglect each pleasing, softly soothing art;
With fruitless sighs, thus vainly seek relief,
And vainly strive to gain my Delia's heart.

Yet think, my Delia (thou, of all the fair,
With sensibility and sense adorn'd
In blest extreme, like Heav'n's peculiar care!)
You cause the grief for which your lover's scorn'd.

Oh then, thy lovely face with smiles array!
Think not my sadness speaks a sullen heart,
Or mournful words a peevish mind display:
I sink, alas! beneath Love's hopeless dart!

103

What tho' no sprightly wit adorns my tongue,
To bandy jocund laughter round the room?
What tho' I gaily chaunt no mirthful song;
But o'er my converse wear a sadd'ning gloom?

I once was cheerful as the new-born day,
Emerging gaily from the laughing east;
As blithe and sportive as the frolic May,
With choral birds and gaudy flow'rets drest.

Yon captur'd Lark, whose waining life decays,
Thro' the blue welkin while he wont to rove,
With dulcet pipe would hail Aurora's rays
With hymns of gratitude, and songs of love.

But darkling now, in close confinement pent,
His head he droops, and hangs his fainting wings:
His bosom pierc'd with dreary Discontent,
No more, alas! the mattin warbler sings.

My spirits thus, encag'd by black Despair,
Sink, inly fainting, in my love-lorn heart.
Give me but Hope, no lev'rock shall compare
With me, in gaiety or tuneful art.

104

For thee I'll fondly pen the tender lay,
And, while 'tis warbled by thy dulcet voice,
No feather'd tenant of the blooming spray
Shall with more perfect gratitude rejoice.

ELEGY VII. The CONSOLATION.

Did tuneful Hammond, skill'd in classic lore,
Sigh in soft verse, in vain, for love's return?
Did he, in vain, in softest strains deplore,
Condemn'd unpitied to a timeless urn?

And did his Delia listen while his strain
Made all the charms of Tibullus his own?
And was his learning and his genius vain
To chace from Delia's brow th'obdurate frown

Then ah what hope, what distant hope have I
To woo my lovelier Delia to these arms,
With verse expressive of the heaving sigh,
Which speaks my pains and her transcendent charms?

105

To me the deathless classics never taught
To breathe in artful notes the love-lorn care.
To me no aid laborious science brought:
Love and the Muse my only tutors are!

Thro' academic groves I never rov'd;
Meonides for me ne'er tun'd his shell;
Anacreon, Sappho, ne'er my verse improv'd;
Nor he who knew the arts of love so well.

Simple my thoughts, my language void of art,
And, like my person, rude and unrefin'd:
More fit to seek some rustic damsel's heart,
Than woo fair Delia's all-accomplish'd mind.

Then cease fond verse, nor seek again her ear:
In pensive silence I'll my pipe forego.—
Yet no, the Muse my drooping heart shall cheer,
And balmy verse shall lull the poignant woe.

Bless'd be the hour when first the love of song
Stole on my heart, and fir'd my youthful mind:
For verse can soothe whom Love and Fortune wrong,
And Passion's force in friendly fetters bind.

106

Then tho' blind Fortune, deity unkind!
Nor my more cruel fair, their frowns abate;
Yet will I still retain a grateful mind,
Nor Heav'n accuse, nor murmur at my fate.

For when, to hear some runnel bubble soft,
Pensive I stretch'd upon the verdant plain,
Me, yet a boy, the Muse would tutor oft,
And Love instruct and meliorate the strain.

Ovid.

ELEGY VIII. The EXECRATION.

TO A FRIEND.

1786.

Curs'd be the Muse! and curs'd the fatal hour
When first I listen'd to her syren tongue!
Resign'd my bosom to her pleasing pow'r,
And by her tuneful influence was undone.

107

Curs'd be the love of Science, which pervades,
With wild, enthusiast ardour, all my heart!
Oh happier they whom torpid Dulness shades,
Who plodding ply some low mechanic art!

Oh had the fates, low mould'ring in the dust
Untimely laid me, ere th'aspiring flame
Of ambient Fancy o'er me shining first,
Inspir'd and fill'd me with the love of fame!

Happy is he whose servile, grov'ling mind,
Nor sensibility nor spirit knows!
Who, all joys to appetite confin'd,
With pity throbs not, nor refinement glows!

But ah! ere yet ten sportive years had run—
Oh years of bliss!—swift o'er my youthful head,
With rhimes uncouth, ambitious, I begun
To shew the flame which late so widely spread.

E'en then sequester'd oft would I retire,
With mimick pencil or instructive book,
And to refining arts, e'en then, aspire;—
My sports neglected, and my mates forsook.

108

Tho' arts unfriendly long the flame supprest;
Tho' cold Misfortune chill'd my progress long,
And damp'd the ardour of my youthful breast,
Nought could destroy the sacred love of song.

Still as I grew, I nurs'd the embrio fire,
Which prompts the soul to knowledge and to fame;
Which to refinement makes us still aspire,
Expands the heart, and doubles feeling's claim.

Oh foolish man! What is Refinement? say.
Or what is Science? Fame and Knowledge what?
That thus you throw soft peace and rest away,
And, for Opinion, blast your tranquil lot?

—Yes, grov'ling joys contented I resign;—
For Sensibility and Fame forego
Low-thoughted transports: be the bosom mine
That feels from Sympathy redoubled woe!

Be mine the heart that beats for high renown,—
Tho' nights of sleepless care the wish attend!
And my warm'd fancy, oh ye Muses! crown,—
Tho' in unpitied want the vision end!

109

Let careful Study quit her cobweb'd cell,
With me the page instructive to explore,
Unheedful of the midnight tolling bell,—
Tho' aching heads succeed the 'laborate lore!

Still let me mourn, neglected, poor, despis'd,
From noisy Mirth and greedy Wealth estrang'd,
Ere all the feelings I so long have priz'd,
With Muse and Fancy, for such bliss be chang'd.

For still I hold 'twere better far to be
(And generous souls the choice must better suit)
A man, oppress'd with grief and misery,
Than the most happy, grov'ling, sensual brute.

And sure the keener feelings we possess,
The more of Science does the bosom fire;
We bear resemblance to the brutes the less,
And tow'ring rise in dignity the high'r.

110

ELEGY IX. TWELFTH DAY.

To Mrs. H.

1785.

The time has been (but ah! farewel those days—
Those cheerful days of innocence and mirth!)
I bless'd the wained sun's convivial rays
That gave this day of joyous pastime birth.

Around the social hearth, at night, we throng'd,
Where humour much, but more good-nature shin'd;
While joke and song the cheerful feast prolong'd
Far past the usual hour for rest assign'd.

Full oft our sire'd the youthful train provoke;
Full oft incite to pastimes gay and bland;
Full oft himself revive the flagging joke,
And in the comrade loose the sire's command.

Good gentle soul! fulfill'd with sober cheer,
Of morals blameless, as of manners gay;
He scorn'd the stoick frown and tone severe,
And rather chose by love than fear to sway.

111

But Death's keen axe has long embrac'd the root
Of all our joys. Yet not within his tomb
Was bliss interr'd; for many a tender shoot
Sprung budding forth, and blush'd with hopeful bloom.

Grief's season past, gay Mirth return'd again,
(Now flown perhaps to visit me no more).
The blazing faggot cheer'd the social train,
While Ease and Plenty show'r'd their lavish store.

Around the hat impatient were we seen,
And eager wrestled for our transient fate.
If I suppos'd gay Stella was the queen,
Eager I panted for the kingly state.

The prize obtain'd, I claim'd th'accustom'd kiss,
And thought no real Monarch was so blest:
This crown'd my transport; was my warmest wish:—
Love, now my torture, then was but my jest.

Thus was I wont this festive eve to spend,
In mirth outshining all my childish peers,
With spirits, health, and fortune to befriend—
What sad reverse attends my ripening years!

112

Grim Penury, with unremitting care,
And friendless solitude, my peace destroys;
And love, all hopeless, drives me to despair;
And hell-born Ate my sad heart annoys.

Ye cheerful hours, unhurt by gnawing Care!
Ye social days of plenty, joy, and peace!
Say will ye hither, once again, repair?
Will e'er the frowns of adverse Fortune cease?

Pale Melancholy's first-born daughter, Spleen,
To my sick fancy paints a thousand ills:
Upholds her shadowy, woe depictur'd screen,
And thus her hope-destroying lore instils:

Perhaps, while here in solitude I set—
My playful cat, my only company,
Who seems to pity my dejected state,
And, purring, fondly sports upon my knee.

Perhaps, while here in solitude I pine,
And doating think on lovely Delia's charms—
Those charms, alas! which never must be mine:
Ah how the teasing thought my heart alarms!

113

Perhaps while I in solitude reflect,
And sing in mournful verse my hapless plight,
The regal name my Delia may elect,
And some pert beau (the monarch of the night)

E'en now, perhaps, upon her coral lips
Imprints the kiss, his three-hours consort hails;—
Careless the balmy nectar'd breath he sips,
Nor knows how rare a flow'r his sense regales.

Or else, perhaps, (thus moping Spleen inspires)
Some favour'd lover gains the peerless prize;
The pleasing kiss inflames their mutual fires,
And mutual pleasure melts in either's eyes.

—Ah why to all the real woes of life
Should sick Imagination add her store?
Ideal, blending with substantial strife,
Oppress the feeble wretch surcharg'd before?

Hence caitiff Spleen, with thy chimera train!
Swell not with fancied woes my real grief,
Nor forge conceits to double ev'ry pain!—
But come, kind Hope, and bring my mind relief.

114

Full many a turn has Fortune's giddy wheel,
And I, who long have mourn'd her cruel spite,
In time her warm benevolence may feel:—
Aurora's rays succeed the darkest night.

ELEGY X. NEW YEAR'S NIGHT

MDCCLXXXVII.

Now silence reigns, and thro' the misty cloud
The plaintive Moon displays her yellow face:
Her light diminish'd by the humid shrowd,
Which wimples o'er the wonted azure space.

Now thro' the leafless trees, her feeble rays
Illume my window with a dappled light,
And, fix'd in sober thought, my eye surveys
The dun appearance of the cheerless night.

Reflection whispers to my brooding thought,
“Thou pensive bard, survey thy shadow'd fate!
“Yon low'ring sky with serious truth is wrought:
“Strong emblem, youth, of thy untoward state.

115

“See all the sky a slaty cloud o'ershade;
“No spot is cheer'd with azure's splendid hue,
“Yet sullen darkness no where is display'd:
“In this thy state of mind distinctly view.

“No festive joys, no revels, no delights,
“No cheerful friends, no nymphs of form divine
“Thy days consume, or cheer thy lonely nights;
“No rays of Fortune on thy efforts shine.

“Yet may'st thou say, and 'tis no little boast,
“Tho' sportive joys thy mind but rarely bless,
“Yet art thou not in black Despondence lost:
“Few feel the gloom of Melancholy less.

“The moon whose palid rays so feebly beam,
“Dispelling darkness, yet scarce yielding light,
“Shews how thy feeble hopes just faintly gleam,
“To keep thy soul from Fear's desponding night.”

Hark! thro' the silent void the solemn bell
Tolls forth the knell of a departed day!
Ah, who that hears the awful sound can tell
That he shall hear another toll'd away?

116

How many now, with social glee who met
To hail with festal joy the new-born year,
Prolong the cheerful hour, and jocund yet
Push round the glass, while songs and pastimes cheer?

And I, who now the serious Muses woo,
And waste in pensive thought the sleepless night,
Have hail'd this gay, this sportive season too,
The social harbinger of loud delight.

Then pastimes bland, and songs of cheerful glee
Gave wings to time, and roll'd the hours away;
While sportive cranks, and harmless gambols free
Were interspers'd with flash of Humour gay.

But now has thrice revolv'd the various year,
Thrice has return'd the time of sport and glee—
—But ah! in vain the circling times appear,
Revolving seasons bring no joys to me.

The hapless sons of Penury and Care,
Alone, neglected and deserted pine;
No hours convivial they in revels share,
Where wit, where beauty, and where affluence shine.

117

For who so dull, in this sagacious age—
This age of worldly prudence and of pride—
To court the humble, or the youth engage,
Who, saving Genius, has no wealth beside?

Yet thus neglected by the proud and gay,
Repine I will not at my stars unkind,
But rather far my gratitude display
For inward wealth, which gilds my tranquil mind.

Does not the Muse my raptur'd bosom fill?
Does not gay Fancy bless my lonely hours?
Does not Content her soothing lore instil,
And Health come tripping from her roseate bow'rs?

Bless'd is the youth who boasts a Poet's name!
He, independent, Fortune may despise:
Others their bliss from outward objects claim;
He, in his bosom bears the source of joys.

Ye gilded sons of Grandeur, vainly great!
Ye painted flies, who glitter at the ball!
Ye feather'd fops, who vaunt in tinsel state!
Know I, vain things! am richer than ye all!

118

Can all the wealth of both the Indies join'd,
And all the stores thro' fertile Nilus sent,
Procure such rich enjoyment for the mind
As Muse, as Fancy, Health, and young Content?

“It is the knell of my departed hours.” Young.

ELEGY XI. The DEPARTED FRIEND.

MDCCLXXXV.

I grieve to think how quick each blossom fades
That decorates the thorny road of life—
How oft Grief's worm the tender bud invades,
How oft 'tis blighted by Misfortune's strife!

I grieve to think how Disappointment's breath
Shrinks the young foliage of our budding hopes!
How oft the sudden hand of cruel Death
The sweetest branch of our enjoyment lops!

I had a friend—Oh Philip, ever dear!
Still shall thy memory in my bosom live.
Thy virtues bloom in recollection there;
To emulate those virtues will I strive.

119

I had a friend—tho' heav'n had snatch'd away
Each other comfort in my tender age;
In him it seem'd my losses to repay—
My sweet companion on life's toilsome stage!

How fraught with tender feelings was his mind!
O'erflowing fount of Sensibility!
To friends how true, to relatives how kind,
And how belov'd of ev'ry one was he!

Witness the tender sorrows which he felt,
Witness the mutual sorrows she return'd,
While both in tears of fond affection melt,
When he a sister's transient parting mourn'd!

I saw their tears, and heav'd a tender sigh;
I wish'd I could the cause of grief remove;
But vain that wish—I then resolv'd to try
With tuneful verse my Philip's breast to soothe.

And truth to say, of Muse no need was there:
For friendship's flame that glow'd within my breast
Inspir'd my thoughts, all artless as they were,
And thus the lay, well-meaning, I addrest:

120

“Accept, dear Phil, this rude, unskilful verse,
“Tho' nor by Muse inspir'd, nor Grace refin'd,
“Which I, in loose alternate rhime rehearse,
“To soothe the sorrows of thy gentle mind.

“What, tho' no polish'd lines, like Pope's, appear,
“No boldly-splendid thoughts my theme refine,
“—Such as in Spenser's nobler page appear,
“Or Collins, in thy strains majestic shine?

“I court not now the laurel'd wreath of Fame,
“Or various praise of nervous, smooth, and clear.
“Enough my honour, all I wish and claim,
“If with my verse thy bosom I may cheer.

“Fair Friendship's voice shall breathe in ev'ry line
“The faithful dictates of an honest heart:
“Friendship alone inspir'd the fair design
“To thee, these soothing verses to impart.

“No need is there of lofty Spenser's fire;
“No need of tuneful Pope's energic art,
“To strike, with trembling hand, a humble lyre,
“And sing the genuine feelings of the heart.

121

“But if my numbers should offend thy ear,
“Oh think they flow from an uneasy heart:
“The voice of Anguish never can be clear,
“And Melancholy mars the tuneful art.

“My lonely time no fond relations cheer;
“'Mongst gay compeers no social hours I spend;
“But oft in silence shed the bitter tear,
“And darkling sighs full oft my bosom rend.

“At times, indeed, a friendly Muse appears,
“And my sad breast inspires with soothing rhimes;
“And Fancy for a while my bosom cheers,
“With promis'd bliss and joy in future times.

“And sometimes (more than Muse or Fancy's dream)
“Thy friendly converse glads my drooping heart;
“Relieves my sorrows with the cheerful gleam
“Of gay delight, and blunts Misfortune's dart.

“As thy sweet converse oft has sooth'd my mind,
“So shall my Muse to comfort thee essay:
“Thus from the stream the flow'rets nurture find,
“And in return her verdant banks array.

122

“Thrice happy Phil! to thee indulgent Heav'n,
“Thy heart for ev'ry social tie who form'd,
“The best of all terrestrial gifts hath giv'n,—
“A friend with feelings like thy own adorn'd.

“One rich in Nature's gifts, and Virtue's lore,
“By ev'ry soft accomplishment refin'd;
“Who pays thy generous love with equal store,
“And in affections like as like in mind.

“Yet happier still a friend so lov'd to find
“In warm fraternal bonds combin'd with thee:
“To meet at home a friend so good, so kind:
“In thy fair sister all these charms to see.

“No wonder then that down each kindred cheek
“The pearly drops in moist succession fell;—
“No wonder that with fault'ring tongues ye speak,
“And blend with tears the bitter word, “Farewel.”

“Yet think, my friend, and let it cheer thy heart,
“How small's the distance that your love divides:
“No snow-crown'd Alps your neighb'ring dwellings part,
“No roaring oceans 'tween ye roll their tides.

123

“Oft will ye meet, and meet with double joy;
“For by short absence love is but increas'd,
“And pleasure's sweeter after pain's annoy:
“Who ne'er knew trouble Heav'n but half has bless'd.

“Thus some sweet lark, while absent from his love,
“In silence droops, of ev'ry joy forlorn;
“But with his voice makes vocal all the grove
“When his heart's gladden'd by her wish'd return.

“Thus a pure stream adown some sloping hill
“Rolls limpid on, and smoothly babbling glides,
“Till some rude crag obstructs the tranquil rill,
“And in two wand'ring brooks its course divides.

“The sister streams, as o'er th'unlevel grounds
“Unbless'd they wander, shed sad, troubled tears,
“And mourn their parting in low murm'ring sounds,
“Till pitying nature their lamenting hears.

“For now, to vales convey'd, each troubled stream
“Rushes delighted to the other's breast:
“Thus reunited, far more pleas'd they seem
“Than ere division's anxious cares opprest.

124

“With dimples deck'd they gambol thro' the fields,
“Their breast reflecting nature's various dyes:
“Flocks, shrubs, and flow'rs, which earth or feeds or yields,
“There mix confus'dly with the tinctur'd skies.”

Thus dictates Friendship to my artless quill,
When—oh! how transient, how unstable's life!
How vain is hope! How unexpected ill,
Instead of promis'd peace, brings unthought strife!

Scarce had I finish'd, when—oh grief of griefs!
My bleeding memory mourns the painful thought!
That friend, for whom my verse design'd relief,
By swift disease t'his early grave was brought.

Now who shall soothe my sorrow-clouded mind?
Who now my sad reflections shall relieve?
Where shall my heart consoling friendship find?—
Misfortune's children all unpitied grieve!

If the carnation, rich in gaudy dyes,
Droops on the earth, the florist views with pain
His garden's glory fall'n, each method tries
With props to rear it, and with art sustain;

125

But if some hedge-row flow'ret, cast to earth
By raging Erus, in the dust lays prone,
No trav'ller thinks it his assistance worth,
But each indignant treads its blossoms down.

Not so didst thou, my heart's elected friend!
You kindly courted when the world grew coy;—
When bland civility was at an end,
And cold-grown kindred turn'd th'inverted eye.

But oh thou image of the generous youth!
Thou other Philip, in a softer frame!
What can the anguish of thy bosom soothe?
What pangs excessive must thy breast enflame!

Did sorrow's gems empearl thy lovely cheek,
When in short absence ye were doom'd to pine?
What floods of woe will now that channel seek,
Since thou for e'er thy Philip must resign?

As fragrant lilies, overcharg'd with dew,
Their beauteous heads upon the earth recline,
So thy sad beauties drooping shrink from view;—
Oh when once more shall comfort's sunbeams shine?

Lilies of the Valley.

126

ELEGY XII. The SWALLOWS.

[_]

WHILE the author was, one summer's evening, sitting among the branches of a young, but antic-twisted oak, which hangs over a favourite and most romantic dell, (the scenery of which is equally heightened by the bubbling and unequal stream which runs through it, and by the corn-fields, precipices, dingles and bushes, trees, and flowers which adorn its winding brink, and add a beautiful and wild variety to the prospect) two swallows settled on the boughs of the same tree. The noise the first made before he was joined by his companion, together with the romantic scene, suggested to his mind the ideas he has endeavoured to convey in the following Elegy.

Here, 'mongst the branches of this spreading oak,
(Where Philomela's wont to build her bow'r)
Which wreathes fantastic o'er the babbling brook,
To mournful thought I'll dedicate an hour.

The blushing West, with glowing zone unbrac'd,
To her bright bosom takes the panting Sun;
Who journeys down, behind yon hill, in haste
Obtruding eyes of prying man to shun.

127

Now 'gins the mournful nightingale to sing,
And with her pipe salute departing day;
Each feather'd songster baits his tired wing,
And calls his partlet to the wonted spray.

The verdant tenants of the dewy fields
With wonted vespers make each meadow ring;
With sweets surcharg'd, which gaudy Flora yields,
The bee, soft murmuring, homeward bends his wing.

And see where Phrogne steers her fearless flight,
And, perching near me, from the distant spray
Thus seems her tim'rous partner to invite:
“Oh guide, my love! thy purple wing this way.

“Oh come, my love! devoid of Fear's alarm:
“It is no foe invades our peaceful bow'r;
“But Strephon 'tis, who scorns a bird to harm,
“But ever guards them with his utmost pow'r.

“Forlorn he loves to seek the dimpled rills
“Which thro' the winding dells meanders stray;
“For here the Muse his throbbing bosom fills,
“And Fairies drive his pensive thoughts away.

128

“One night I saw him by this bushy dell,
“Which shone reflecting mild Lucina's sheen;
“I stretch'd the wing, to bid my bow'r farewel,
“When strait before me stood the Fairy Queen.

‘Restrain thy flight, sweet chatterer!’ she cried,
‘Thy fluttering heart divest of needless fear:
‘By no unfeeling swain thou art espied:—
‘The friend and lover of our haunts is here.

‘He never climb'd the tree at midnight hours
‘To rob the stock-dove of her callow young;
‘Nor stole the eggs from out the linnet's bow'rs;
‘Nor cag'd the sky-lark for his dulcet song.

‘The fairies love him, and his steps attend,
‘From damps protect him, and his sorrows soothe:
‘For ever they the love-lorn swain befriend,
‘And ever pity unrewarded truth.

‘Full oft the youth, the anxious hours to kill,
‘Will, with no skilless toil, our haunts improve;
‘Encrease the murmurs of each babbling rill
‘With stone-built falls, and grots which fairies love.

129

‘Then fear not him, but tranquil keep thy bow'r;
‘For love his feeling bosom has refin'd;
‘To ev'ry tender passion added pow'r,
‘And wak'd each chord of pity in his mind.

‘Oh that that love which prompts each gen'rous deed,
‘Which harmonizes, humanizes life,
‘Should make the lover's inward bosom bleed!
‘Give peace to others, but to him give strife!

‘Thus scorching flames on Ætna's bowels prey,
‘And with convulsions rend her tortur'd womb,
‘While the heat makes surrounding vallies gay,
‘And decorates them with each brighter bloom.

“So spoke the Queen; then gliding light away,
“Her mystic train she sought beside the stream,
“Where to the tinkling rill they sportive play,
“And bask and frolick in the yellow beam.

“Then come, my love, nor let his presence chace
“Our trembling pinions from the wonted bow'r;
“But, side by side, we'll keep our tranquil place,
“And to delight him try our skilless pow'r.

130

“Tho' with the lark's shrill pipe we can't compare,
“Nor can we match the tuneful linnet's throat,
“Yet our rude lays may mitigate his care,
“And tho' unskilful, friendly is our note.

131

PASTORALS.

ECLOGUE I. THE TEARS OF HOBBINOL.

To the Memory of Mr. PHILIP BONAFOUS.

MDCCLXXXV.

[_]

In this eclogue the author is introduced under the name of Hobbinol, lamenting the death of his friend Lubin.

Hobbinol; Cuddy.

Hard by a bushy dell was Hobbin seen
In bitter stour, and shent with doleful teen;
(Hobbin, the youth who whilom blithe and gay
As mattin lark or linnet on the spray,
Was wont to sing the jocund roundelay.)
Unheeded now upon the dewy grass
His bagpipe lay, and eke untun'd it was.

132

Blent were his eyen with sorwe's bitter flood,
His tear-stain'd cheeks forlorn of youthly blood;
In ropy tangles hung his unkempt hair,
Like one whose heart's yclouded by despair.
Full many were the heavy singulphs sent
From his riv'n breast, in sorwe all ydrent.

Him blithesome Cuddy, tripping o'er the lea,
All in this dreary guise enchanc'd to see,
And to him yeod to weet what deal of woe
Ycaus'd his bitter tears so fast to flow.

Cuddy.
Why what's the hap? Why, Hobbinol, my lad!
Thee art bewitch'd I trow, or ganging mad.
I met thy sheep o'ersprinting yonder mead,
Where they have stray'd for lack of better heed.
Up shepherd, up, thy scatterlings restrain,
Ere pilfering lossels filch them from the plain.

Hobbinol.
Let blithsome swains of flocks take proper keep,
Here will I lay, and eke for ever weep.

133

Cuddy.
Thou witless herd-groom! hast forlorn thy wits?
How ill thy plaining with this season fits?
For now light Zephyr ling'ring Spring awakes
From her long slumber, and behold she breaks
Thro' frigid nature; sham'd that Boreas rude
Should on her wonted reign so long obtrude:
A verdant blush enclothes her gladsome frame.
D'ofte dolour then, eke 'gin some joyous game:
Tune up thy jolly pipe, which now forlore
Lies all unheeded on the greensward floor;
Herry the buxom season, as 'tis meet,
With hymnials loud and lovelays gaily sweet.

Hobbinol.
Ah Cuddy! seek thee out some happier swain:
Of me thou seek'st for joysomness in vain.
But ill bestead is that unhappy bard
Blithe madrigals to sing, whom Fortune hard
Doth doom in bitter stour his days to spill;
Whose gladsome fancy anguish keen doth kill.
For roundels brag to unshent shepherds wend,
Whiletime the welkin I with dolours rend.

134

What boots it me, that Phœbus once again
Makes lightsome nature with his jolly waine?
What boots it me, that Boreas, blust'ring bleak,
His reign foregoes for Zephyr bland and meek?
That gay Vertumnus spreads him o'er the meads,
And by the hand the bloomy Flora leads?
That Naids no more their frore-bound fountains mourn,
But pour in gambolment the crystal urn?
From the warm'd stream that sheen-scal'd fishes leap?
That browsing lambkins merry gambols keep?
That on each spray birds maken melody,
And cooing doves speak their felicity?
To make me mirth in vain the sun essays;
In vain 'mongst budding trees light Zephyr plays:
Phœbus ne warms, ne Zephyr glads my heart;
Despair's breeme winter works me baneful smart.
In vain embraved meads look fresh and gay,
While lambs and fishes bragly sport and play:
They nor my eyen delight, ne ease my care,
Forthy my heart's yclouded by despair.
In vain the Naids in silver murmurs flow,
Birds sootly sing, and doves enamour'd coo;
Their melody no joyaunce can impart,
Sorwe's harsh discord grateth in my heart.

135

With dolourous teen my heart is so bestead
The landscape's pleasaunce cannot make me glad;
Nor songs mine ear delight, ne flow'rs mine eye,
The stream's soote murmurs pass unheeded by.

Cuddy.
Thou witless groom! what means this moody care?
What glauncing eye, or love-bereaving air
Hath trapp'd thy heart in Cupid's wimble snare?
Cheer up thou fon, thy jolly bagpipe tune;
With mirth and glee thou'lt lose thy passion soon.

Hobbinol.
Ah Cuddy, Cuddy, you my plight misdeem;
My drearyment is heavier than you ween.
Not Love's light arrow, but Death's heavy dart,
Bestirs this mortal teen within my heart.
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
All joy I've lost, for I have lost my friend.
Oh Death! of Sin the greedy tyrant son!
As round the world for ravin thou dost run;
Could'st thou no wight to glut thy craving find
But him alone in whom at once combin'd
Each gifting rare of heart, and eke of mind?

136

Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
Joy is no more, for I have lost my friend.
Ah life what art thou? Tenure of an hour!
Of joy how scant? how full of dolourous stour?
A brere, whereon, in spring, few blosmes appear,
But muchel noyous thorns thro' all the year.
Ah, woe's my heart! how rear my blossoms fade?
How scant they open'd, and how soon decay'd?
Just budded forth, and, as that were too much,
Like sensitives yshrink'd they from my touch.
One flow'ret only blossom'd sootly forth,
And that I dempt of sick a peerless worth,
That, tho' I saw each other hope decay'd,
I counted this a rich amendment made.
But wele away! 'tis nip'd by deablly frost:
The only pleasaunce of my life is lost.
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
All joy I've lost; for I have lost my friend.
My Lubin dearn! the glory of the plain,
Love of each nymph! delight of ev'ry swain!
Lubin (on whom befriending heav'n bestow'd
A pleasant fancy, curb'd by judgment good,
A heart to Virtue's good beheasts inclin'd,
By Sensibility's soft touch refin'd,)

137

Thy friendship 'twas wherein I took such joy.
Ah, cruel Death! why did'st my bliss destroy?
Weep, weep my eyne! ye scalding tears descend!
Joy is no more; for I have lost my friend.

Cuddy.
Is Lubin dead?—Ye birds that fill each spray
Your sonnets cease, and be no longer gay.
Ah, blent thy face, bright sun, in mirky tears;—
How ill thy sheen at sick a time appears?—
Surcease ye babbling rills, or as ye flow,
Contrive to sing of drearyment and woe.
Be hush'd, ye zephyrs, if ye n'ill inspire
With woeful dirges some Æolian lyre.
Lambkins no more your pleasant pastimes keep,
But pining learn of us to wail and weep.
Weep, weep ye swains! for peerless Lubin's dead,
And cause of joyaunce from the plain is fled.
Ye buckthorns cease your budding leaves to show;—
Let nothing thrive but cypress, sign of woe.
Let daffodils their golden semblance lack,
And eke the primrose dight in sooty black;
Let crocusses no various colours know,
But them b'dight in livery of woe.

138

From glens and groves is rural joyaunce fled:
Mourn, mourn ye sylvan scenes! for Lubin's dead.

Hobbinol.
Ah, me! each various object pains my heart;
Each wonted pastime wakes my dol'rous smart.
Farewel to books that wont to glad my mind;
No pleasaunce now in rural songs I find.
Yet, whilom, when I wont to pine and grieve,
Would Colin's lovelays eft my mind relieve;
But now no lovelays can my grief assuage:
My Lubin's form's depeinten on each page.
Each rustic lay, which erst with joy I read,
Now but reminds me that my friend is dead.
How eft his converse would my taste refine?
How eft explain the beauties of each line;
And with soote praise inspire me to rehearse
My artless lays, and copy Colin's verse?
But now farewel to pipe and artless lays;
For he is gone who wont my skill to praise.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend!
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.

139

Groves, bourns, and rivers but my dole renew,
For there the image of my friend I view.
In dreary cot, or o'er embraved glennes,
Where'er I won still, still the tender scenes,
And eke blithe hours in friendly pleasaunce spent,
My woeful mind loves all to represent.
How eft times would we rise at early dawn,
Whiles glitterand dews besprint the humid lawn,
And to some rivers cooling marge ystray,
With pleasing talk aye glad'ning all the way:
Thus was I wont a double good to find,
The walk my health improv'd, his lore my mind.
But, ah! such pleasaunce I must ken ne more
Sithence with Lubin I each joy forlore.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
Farewel the joys of valley, grove, and spring,
Desporting lambkins, birds that sootly sing:
Ne more, ne more your vernal charms invite;
Ne more, alas! your merry makes delight.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Joyaunce is flown; for we have lost our friend.
Farewel to rustic verse and music sweet,
Ne more the loves of shepherds I repeat:

140

But thus my erst-lov'd bagpipe throw away
Sithence he's dead for whom I wont to play.
Weep, Cuddy, weep! let scalding tears descend:
Music is harsh; for we have lost our friend.
Yet hold, and let us stint our selfish tears;
For not our friendship in our grief appears:
Forthy, he 'as left this vale of dole below
For heav'nly realms, where never yet was woe.
Death's dart, that shent us with such sore annoy,
Exalted Lubin to sublimer joy.
Then stint ye impious tears, ne more descend;
Heav'n gain'd a cherub when we lost a friend.

Spenser.

141

ECLOGUE II. THE WEEPING LYRE.

[_]

In this eclogue the author is again introduced, under the character of Hobbinol, lamenting the death of Lubin; while a friend, under the name of Argol, is also introduced lamenting the death of Stella; by whom is meant a young lady who died about the same time.

Argol; Hobbinol.

I tell the dreary ditties of two swains,
Who 'neath a poplar sung their doleful strains.
Death, ugsome death! had both their joyaunce crost;
Hobbin his friend, his love had Argol lost.
And now, their daily rural business done,
Each one began his nightly task—to moan:
The silver moon, yshining o'er their heads,
Her glitterand beams upon the streamlet sheds,
Whose doleful murmurings o'er the pebbled ground
Invite the mourners by their plaintive sound.

142

The yellow'd dews bewet the hawthorn spray,
And in the west did wained Phœbus' ray
Dapple with fainty red eve's dusky grey.

Wilt thou, oh T---, lend my lays an ear,
And with my sorwe's mingle eke thy tear?
Thou wilt I wot; tho' artless been my verse,
Thou'lt feel the tender subject I rehearse;
The tear adown thy manly cheek will steal—
Oh hide it not, for it becomes thee wele.
I'll mingle mine, and echo groan for groan,
Mourning thy loss whiles I waiment my own.
Each ones I pine, each ones at once I grieve;
Their memories both in Doric verse shall live.
Both I esteem'd, albe it is confest,
Lubin my friend was dearnest to my breast.
Albeit for him my heart is most forlorn,
Stella naith'less with unfeign'd dole I mourn;
And had ne Lubin drain'd the bitter tear,
My waiments sad had wetted Stella's bier.

Begin my Muse, b'dight in sable 'weed,
The joy-lorn shepherds' mournful tales aread.

143

Hobbinol.
Argol, our flocks are in their cootes ypent,
And day's illum'ning waine in ocean blent;
The happier herd-grooms been all lull'd in sleep,
But we by sorwe kept awake to weep.
Better I trow we hail the sheen-clad moon
With woeful dirges, and our minstrels tune
To dreariment beside this murmuring stream
Than pining press the restless bed I deem.
Here set we down, our mutual teen rehearse:
For sorwe's oft reliev'd by mournful verse.

Argol.
Thy council, Hobbin, I arread is good:
Then let us here indulge the dreary mood.
I have a dirge, which ones erewhile I wrote,
Wherein my teen for Stella's death I note;
Thilk same I'll sing, and tune my sorweing tale
To the sad wailings of the nightingale.

Hobbinol.
And I last night, ystretch'd upon the ground,
Whiles pastime slept, and sadness reign'd around,

144

Where weeping willows darkling shade the stream,
That murmuring flows these delved banks between,
Her voice to dole where Philomel attunes,
And mate-lorn doves yspill the night in moans,
To Lubin's praise compos'd a doleful verse:
The same if tears permit I will rehearse.
And eke I've made of maple ware a lyre,
Deftly attun'd with various sounding wire;
At top whereof's encarved a hollow shell;
From whence, like tears, adown the chordings well
Slow drops of water, and the whiles they flow
They give each note a sooter sound of woe.
Amuling this, mine Elegy I'll sing,
Touching with all my art each thrillant string.

Argol.
Eftsoons then Hobbinol begin thy tale,
And, after thee, I will my hap bewail.

Hobbinol.

Adown the wires while tears melodious rain,
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.
Ah woe is me! how mickle is the smart
The heart of Sensibility doth rend,

145

When we, deep shent by Mis'ry's trenchant dart,
Our dearnest joyaunce lose, a bosom friend.
Nought to the feeling bosom been so dear
As the elected brother of the heart:
That dearnest blessing I enjoy'd while-ere,
But now bereaved am by Death's fell dart.
Ah, me! that dearnest friends so soon must part!

Adown the wires, while tears melodious rain,
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.

Oh Friendship! passion of celestial birth!
Oh hailey flame! oh joyaunce most divine!
How eft profess'd? how scantly met on earth!
Thou wont to glad this drooping heart of mine.
But friendship's joysomness been now all o'er,
And ah! for aye with dearnest Lubin fled;
I'm doom'd to taste of joyaunce now no more,
But hang in pining dole my drooping head;
For social pastime is with Lubin dead.

Adown the wires while tears melodious rain,
Awake elegiac lyre the plaintive strain.

Ne more the hautboy shall my bosom cheer;
'Mongst blithesome louts ne more my time I'll spend;

146

In lonely silence eft the darkling tear
Shall swell my eyne, and sighs my heart yrend.
Oh come, ye Muses, help me now to weep,
Help me to tell my Lubin's peerless worth.
Shall Lubin's virtues with his ashes sleep?
Sicker thilk gems been not of mould'ring earth:
Then letten verse ygive them second birth.

Adown the wires while tears melodious rain,
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.

The social virtues fram'd his youthly heart,
And modell'd eke each movement of his soul;
And dulcet graces deftly did their part,
With lovely manners cloathing soote the whole:
Philanthropy, and eke her sister fair,
Hight Sensibility, the parent-queen
Of generous passions, eachones did repair
To dwell my Lubin's tender heart within.
But mean Self-love there ne'er found place I ween.

Adown the wires, while tears melodious rain,
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.

147

Love, of his neighbour's deeds yjudging kind;
And Justice, only to himself severe,
By Mercy made to other's failings blind;
And Prudence als, whose lorings all revere;
And Pity, from whose dawn-resembling eye
Distils for aye a teen-appeasing balm,
Before whose face all shents and dolours flee—
Of sick a mickle potence been her charm:
These virtues did and more his bosom warm.

Adown the wires, while tears melodious rain,
Awake my lyre, and Lubin's worth explain.

Deep Sapience, with mirthsome Wit combin'd,
Free from all surquedry, and eke from pride;
And manly strength of philosophic mind
Shone in his lore, did o'er his tongue preside.
Then sicker all have cause to weep and wail,
And eke, like me, to hang in drearyment,
That death has wrought so soon my Lubin's bale,
So soon this lamp of virtue is yblent.
Ah me! with dark despair I'm overhent.
Here cease my lyre, here cease the plaintive strain,
'Tis past thy art his virtues to explain!

148

Vain been the efforts of the tuneful Nine
To paint such peerless worth in plaintive lays
In tears, alas! my Lubin's praise shall shine;
For all who konn'd him speak in tears his praise.
A sister's sorwes and a mother's moans,
Aread his praise as brother and as son.
His pheers deep sighs, his friends heart-rending groans
Aread how true in Friendship's race he run:
Ah me! a virtuous race too soon foredone.
Then cease my lyre, then cease thy plaintive strain;
Cease down the wires melodious tears to rain.

With much of tears thus wail'd the gentle wight,
Then Argol 'gan his ditty to recite.

Argol.

Ah, Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Ah me! my heart is overhent with woe,
To think how thou wert ravish'd from my arms:
Sweet bud of beauty! ah how short thy date!
Must Death's fell worm devour thy youthly charms?
Descend ye tears, ye floods of sorwe flow!

149

For Death hath blent soft Hymen's joyous fire,
Hath seiz'd his amorous torch to light the fun'ral pyre.
Sad Philomela, from the humid spray,
Thy trembling notes awhile prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge my love-lorn lay.

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
Mourn, Venus, mourn thy earthly image dead;
And Love waiment thy daintiest darling lost;
Great been your woe, but mine been far more great:
How is each hope of tender pleasaunce crost!
Bright Pleasure's bow'r in fogs of anguish fled!
My saffron robe ychang'd to sable stole,
My madrigals to dirges turn'd, my glee to dole!
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes awhile prolong
To make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?

150

That eye, where wit and pleasaunce wont to play,
Ah woe's my heart! shall pleasure me no more:
That vermil'd cheek, b'dight with dimpled state
The rose and lily eke I did adore,
All, all, alas! are sunk in sad decay.
The flow'ry garlands cull'd to grace each brow
Must be ychang'd to wreaths of baneful cypress now.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes a while prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
The virgins meant to chaunt the amorous hymn,
To herryings soote to dance the heighdregue,
Must now their sportive merry-makes abate;
Must tear their chaplets on thy grave to strew;
Their sonnets chang'd to dirgeous waimentings,
Must d'off their snowy robes for weeds of woe;
Changing their wimble steps to traces sad and slow.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
Thy trembling notes a while prolong,
And make the dolourous undersong
To my waimenteous dirge, my love-lorn lay.

151

Ah Stella! Stella! how shall I relate
My dolourous teen at thy untimely fate?
But oh my Stella! tho' Death's cruel dart
Hath snatch'd from me so rear thy bloomy form,
Thy virtues, all for utterance too great,
Which more than beauty's waste did thee adorn,
Shall live for aye depeincted on each heart
That kenn'd thy worth. Tho' ah! what wont to joy
Their minds, must now, alas! fulfil them with annoy.
Sad Philomela! from the humid spray
No more thy trembling notes prolong,
Here cease thy dolourous undersong,
Here ends my solemn dirge, my love-lorn lay:
For ah my grief is all for speech too great,
Nor can my feeble wit's device relate
My dolourous teen at Stella's timeless fate.

Thus wail'd the youths their deep-wrought drearyment,
Till bright Aurora o'er the mountains sent
Her changeling beams (besprinting o'er the plain
With spangleous sheen) forerunning Phœbus waine.
Then rose the woeful swains to loose their sheep
From the pent folds, where they them nightly keep;
The whiles all heedy of their dreary dole
Adown each cheek the floods of sorwe roll.

155

RURAL POEMS.

A NOSEGAY.

When Flora wore her gayest vest,
Each meadow breath'd perfume,
In gaudiest flow'rs each hedge-briar drest,
Each hawthorn white with bloom,

I wander'd thro' each mead and grove,
The fairest flow'rs to cull,
And visited my gay alcove,
Each sweetest bud to pull.

The posie gather'd home I brought,
To grace my fair-one's breast.
Then thus, as teeming Fancy taught,
Each flow'r its worth exprest—

For Fancy, who in clouded skies
Pourtrays the varying tale,
Can give each flow'r a voice whose dyes
Enrich the scented vale.

156

The ROSE.

See, ye maidens, what a bloom
O'er my healthy cheek's diffus'd!
Smell, ye nymphs, what sweet perfume
From my blushing mouth's produc'd!

For the Zephyrs here that blow
Free exert their fresh'ning pow'r;
And the brooks that babbling flow
Nourish ev'ry smiling flow'r.

Here the sun darts forth his rays,
From all sulph'rous vapours clear;
Here Contentment ever strays;
Tranquil virtues flourish here.

But were I to town convey'd,
Stately domes to render gay,
Soon my blushing charms would fade,
And my breathing sweets decay.

157

Ye who health and beauty prize,
Quick to rural shades retire:
Never hope that artful dyes
Can to rival mine aspire.

Never fancy artful gales,
Civet, Marechalle, Otter rare,
To the sweets gay health exhales
In the smallest can compare.

The SPRIG of HAWTHORN.

HERE on my spray the various blossoms view,
Some wide display'd, some clos'd, some op'ning new.
For admiration each prefers her plea;
Hear the pretensions then of all the three.

The FULL-BLOWN BLOSSOM.

ALL my beauties display'd to the bright beaming sun,
I court ev'ry gazer's regard;
Nor Zephyr's soft kiss e'er attempt I to shun,
Nor my sweets from the bee do I ward.

158

Thus open and free, from all bashfulness clear,
My cheeks by no blushes are stain'd:
I scorn the cold prude, with her maxims severe,
And her looks so demurely restrain'd.

The BUD.

WANTON, loose, imprudent flow'r,
Thus to tempt loud Scandal's pow'r!
Will beholders ever prize
Charms thus offer'd to their eyes?

Silly blossom, I advise
More thy tender beauties prize;
And, like me, demurely grave,
Close thy sweets enfolded save.

All my virgin form, behold,
Robes of vestal white enfold:
Not the sun's far piercing ray
Can my modest charms survey.

159

Beauties that are most conceal'd
In the most esteem are held:
Admiration then to gain,
Observation's eye restrain.

The HALF-OPENED BLOSSOM.

LET the broad expanded bloom,
Like a rifled, widow'd flow'r,
On her full-blown charms presume;
Wide display her beauty's pow'r.

Let the tender infant's pride
Close her prudish beauties fold;
Immature, her graces hide,
Lest the sun her charms behold.

Who will wanton beauty prize?
Who admire what's quite conceal'd?
What when clos'd are brightest eyes?
What is wish'd if all's reveal'd?

160

I nor shun the gazer's sight,
Nor yet court with aspect bold;
On my charms, thus op'ning bright,
Modesty's pure blush behold.

Half my dawning beauties seen,
Make those hid the more desir'd;
Half conceal'd behind the screen,
Make those view'd the more admir'd.

The WOODBINES.

CONSCIOUS that we want supporting,
Round the hazle's stems we 'twine;
And, the sun's warm influence courting,
O'er their waving tops recline.

Thus our blossoms far displaying,
O'er the babbling streams are arch'd;
Where the fish, beneath us straying,
By our shades are kept unparch'd.

161

Different powers, when thus uniting,
Tend to benefit mankind;
Which, in solitude delighting,
Neither use nor pleasure find.

The VIOLET.

BY the bramble-clad dyke from the sun's scorching ray
Protected, I bloom on the soft mossy bank,
And the thick foliag'd arms of the hawthorn display
O'er my head their protection from winds bleak and dank.
Thus my sweets all protected, I scent ev'ry gale
That strays thro' the woodlands, or freshens the vale;
And my beauties, thus shelter'd, repay with their smiles
The care of my guardian, and crown all his toils.

Ye fair virgin blossoms, who gladden the plain,
Whose sweets are on mountains or meadows display'd,
Nor longer unsocial, unguarded remain,
But seek from love's union a durable shade.
Can your soft-smiling beauties resist or elude
The sun's with'ring heat, or the storm sharp and rude?
See yon king-cups unshelter'd, how swift they decay!
While my beauties defended look smiling and gay.

162

The COWSLIP.

O'ER the verdant mead reclining,
With the morning's dew-drops shining,
I the fertile moisture sip,
Sweet as fair Melissa's lip.

Or the purling streamlet courting,
As adown some valley sporting,
Humid treasures it supplies,
Sparkling like Melissa's eyes.

Nature's bounties thus collected,
Those that want are ne'er rejected;
But my sweets are ever free,
To reward the toilsome bee.

The LILY of the VALLEY.

IN the humid verdant valley,
By a dingle's bushy side,
Unambitiously I dally,
Free from Envy, free from Pride.

163

Ne'er could Vanity come near me;
Shame ne'er ting'd my cheek with red;
Meek and modestly I bear me,
Bowing still my humble head.

In the rustic shade contented,
I to grandeur ne'er aspir'd;
Ne'er my humble lot repented;
With ambition ne'er was fir'd.

Yet from all mishaps to ward me
Prudence lends a constant screen,
Which from envious blights will guard me,
And the sun's too powerful sheen.

[THUS to Reflection's sober train]

THUS to Reflection's sober train
Each flow'r a lesson gives:
A moralizer on the plain
Each turf and blossom lives.

164

But ah! while from each smiling flow'r
I draw the moral lay,
They droop, they feel the withering pow'r;
They sicken and decay!

Each various bloom, so sweet, so bright,
Shall, ere to-morrow's dawn,
Appear a charmless, shrivell'd sight,
And, scentless, droop forlorn!

Yet fair Melissa, gentle friend!
Should you approve my lays,
On them will second life attend—
A life that ne'er decays!

Your smile each beauty can restore,
Revive each drooping sweet—
Nay, make them lovelier than before,
Their perfume more complete.

At least, should you my sonnets praise,
To me it will appear;
The flow'rs, surviving in my lays,
A double value bear.

165

The TURTLES NEST.

“Serena, in this peaceful grove
“A temple's built to purest Love;
“Where his chaste rights are duly paid,
“Where his full pow'r's at large display'd,
“Where burn those fires that never fade.

“'Tis here, to all who wish to know,
“He condescends at large to show
“The means by which Connubial Love
“We may obtain, we may improve,
“Nor fear a change, nor wish to rove.”

Serena sought the grove around—
But temple none, nor shrine she found.
When the fond partner of her breast
His secret meaning thus exprest:
“See here, my love, the Turtles Nest!

“Whene'er, within this close retreat,
“My eyes the feather'd partners meet,
“Or when, as thro' the grove I stray,
“They fondly pour the mutual lay,
“'Tis thus methinks I hear them say:

166

‘In tender years of ductile youth
‘Our mates we choose, for love and truth,
‘And thus our yet unfashion'd hearts,
‘Each to the other still imparts
‘Its tempers, inclinations, arts.

‘We never seek the busy town,
‘Where plodding Care, with stupid frown,
‘Where Simulation's treacherous art,
‘Where Pleasure's lure, Detraction's dart,
‘And Vanity corrupt the heart;

‘But to embow'ring shades repair,
‘To rear our young our only care.
‘Thus seeking bliss, thus hoping rest
‘But in each other's tranquil breast,
‘Joy hovers round the Turtles Nest.

‘Thus time ne'er shakes our constant love,
‘Nor jars, nor cold distrusts we prove;
‘Not Fate himself our loves can part,
‘But when he points the barbed dart
‘At once it pierces either's heart.’

167

Serena heard her lover's tale,—
Nor did it of its moral fail.
Old Clodio, whom her friends approv'd,
By titles and by grandeur mov'd,
She spurn'd, to bless the youth she lov'd.

Retir'd within the peaceful grove,
They taste uncloying sweets of love;
And, leaning on her lover's breast,
Full oft has fond Serena blest
The day she saw the Turtles Nest.

EXTEMPORE.

On seeing a Bird perched on the Summit of a Poplar while it was shaking with the Breeze.

See, on yon poplar's topmast spray,
The little warbler stands;
And, fearless, while he pours the lay,
The distant view commands.

168

The spray that shakes with ev'ry breeze
That fans the vernal air,
Shakes not his bosom's tranquil ease,
Nor gives one trembling care.

No weight of guilt to press him down,
No stores his heart to 'thrall;
Should he from yonder spray be thrown,
He fears no dang'rous fall.

If shaken from the fickle spray,
He'll claim his native skies,
And sweetly pour his sprightly lay,
As thro' the air he flies.

So 'tis with him whose tranquil soul
With pious ardour glows;
No cares his steady joys controul,
He fears no threat'ning woes.

Secure on Danger's brink he stands,
And laughs at Fortune's spite:
Prepar'd, when Fate or Chance commands,
To seek the Realms of Light.

169

SONG.

The BEST AIR.

They talk of Montp'lier,
And the soft-breathing air
Which blows in the southward of France,
Conducive to health,
Which, far more than wealth,
All the blessings of life can enhance.

Of Lisbon they preach,
And of Italy teach;
But I, in Old England have found
A far better air
Waining health to repair,
Than did e'er on the Cont'nent abound.

Not Zephyrs that play
'Mong the flow'rets of May,
Have so pleasant an influence to cheer!
The air that I mean
Flows forth from between
The bright rosy lips of my dear.

170

But, alas! the sweet breath
Can also give death,
As sure as from sickness can save!
At will can destroy,
Or fill me with joy,
And build me a bow'r or a grave!

Then Chloe be kind—
More pleasure you'll find,
If tender and gentle's your breast,
To heal the heart's wound,
Than to deal death around;
And in blessing yourself will be blest!

AMBITION AND HUMILITY.

When first this infant rose I spied,
Just op'ning to the laughing day,
In all her gaudy vestments gay,
And bright in blushing pride,

171

Exalted on her stem she shin'd,
To public notice far display'd;
While this, as of the sun afraid,
In shelter low reclin'd.

Then thus I sung, in thoughtless strain:
“If charms or merit are not shown,
“What boots it that we either own?
“They're idle gifts and vain!

“This rose, close shrouded by the briar,
“And hanging humbly near the ground,
“To rival this, which shines around,
“For beauty might aspire.

“But thus obscur'd, alas! how few
“Her glowing beauties shall survey,
“Which if aloft she would display
“Would charm each trav'ller's view.”

But ah! behold a blighting wind
Has cropt the lofty flow'ret short;
To earth its flaunting beauties brought,
Where fading 'tis reclin'd!

172

While, shelter'd by its humble choice,
The prudent blossom safe remains,
And thus, to the surrounding plains
“Exerts her modest voice:

“Let not ambition fire your hearts,
“Ah pant not for a lofty state;
“For sudden dangers wait the great,
“And many fatal arts.

“There Envy, Calumny await,
“Misfortune rides on ev'ry gale;
“While, in Contentment's humble vale,
“We shun the storms of Fate.”

173

SONNET.

To the MOON.

Thou Moon, whose yellow beams are seen
Just darting thro' this poplar shade,
And mingling dappled light between
The dusky umbrage round display'd,

Shew'st of my mind an emblem true;
Where smiling Hope, with feeble ray,
Pierces the thick'ning shadows through
Which Love and Fortune's frown display.

Mount higher, Moon, and let thy beams
No more obstructed meet the ground!
Mount higher, Hope, and pour thy streams
Of light more full my heart around!
Ah may no fears thy smile confound,
But Joy thy offspring blest, gay thro' my bosom bound!

174

MISCELLANIES.

CONTENT.

A. D. 1785.

Happy the man, and only he,
Who, from repining ever free,
Enjoys the little he has got,
Unenvious of his neighbour's lot;
Who never sighs for empty state,
Nor impiously repines at Fate
Because it has not made him great.
What tho' compell'd to work and toil;
To wield the quill, or turn the soil?
O'er Coke to kill his tedious hours,
Or range in shrubberies, fruits and flowers?
Or, on the small or greater stage,
Act the feign'd king or real page?
'Tis from the heart that peace must flow:
Content is ever free from woe.
And he, who in a cottage lies,
Finds sleep as fond to kiss his eyes,
Enjoys a slumber as profound
(And sweeter far 'tis often found)

175

As he who, lull'd in downy state,
Sleeps in the chambers of the great.
For not the pompous room nor bed
Kills care, or cures the aching head,
When virtue from the heart is fled.
Nor, when the conscience is at rest,
Can Poverty disturb the breast;
Unless indeed, with frown severe,
Captivity and Want appear.
For if the plain and frugal board
A simple, wholesome joint afford,
Hunger will better sauce provide
Than for luxurious, pamper'd pride,
In China or much injur'd Ind',
The sons of commerce ere could find;
And sparkling amber can impart
More pleasure to the tranquil heart,
Than, to the care-fill'd wealthy man,
Or Burgundy or claret can.
Then to my pray'r good Heav'n be kind,
And grant me—a contented mind,
A grateful and an honest heart:
And riches where thou wilt impart;
I ask them not: for rich or poor,
If happy, what can man have more?

176

MODERN VIRTUE CONTRASTED WITH ANCIENT IMPIETY.

Occasioned by a Coach being stopped by a Highwayman, who refused to take the Purse from one of the Ladies.

It has by pedants been insisted long
(For pedants will insist, or right or wrong)
“That modern times with ancient can't compare
“For active Virtue, or for Genius rare.”
They will pretend, “that Courage is no more;
“That Justice, Wisdom on no modern shore,
“Or godlike Fortitude presumes to tread.”
But chief they say “that Piety is fled.”
Why should I, vainly, tire the sacred Muse,
Examples of our valour to produce?
For sure no Briton warm'd with vital blood
Has yet forgot the great and glorious Hood;
Whose naval thunder, in just vengeance, hurl'd
The foes of Britain to the Stygian world.

177

For Justice, Wisdom, Fortitude of mind,
What need the Muses more examples find?
Has it not long to all the world been known,
That each conspicuous shines on Britain's throne?
In the Third George, in whom we see combin'd,
Ah, mix'd but seldom in one godlike mind!
The private virtues and the ruling art,
The patriot's feelings and the hero's heart.
For Piety, to prove that we excel,
What need I more than two short stories tell?

'Tis said by Homer, (and there's none so bold,
I hope, will dare deny what Homer told)
When the bright goddess of the sportive eye
Rush'd from the heav'ns to save the Chief of Troy,
The great Æneas, her much honour'd boy!
Bold Diomed (for ancient virtue fam'd!)
With sacrilegious hand the goddess maim'd;
His thirsty falchion drank celestial blood,
And stain'd the field with an immortal flood.
In vain her silver skin his eye detains,
And the bright azure of her mantling veins;
In vain her eyes the tender languish shed;
In vain her panting bosom heaving spread;

178

In vain her ringlets flow'd with graceful ease;
Vain was she form'd to captivate and please;
Nor charms nor yet divinity could save.
Insensate ruffian! to his rage a slave!
Nor sex, nor sanctity his ire withstand;
He plung'd his sword within her lily hand.

But when of late the goddess deign'd to grace
Sophronia's wedding with her smiling face,
As in the car triumphant back she roll'd,
(Oh happy car, her heav'nly form to hold!)
And sought in Croydon's shade her calm retreat,
A practis'd robber chanc'd her way to meet.
On plunder bent, and eager to despoil,
The startled ruffian own'd the heav'nly smile.
The sprightly lustre of her sparkling eye,
The locks where thousand loves in ambush lie,
The soft smooth skin, as downy cygnets white,
The sanguine blush, than damask rose more bright,
The coral lips, whence sweets ambrosial stray,
The winning graces that around her play,
The smile celestial, and the mien divine;—
When all these charms upon the caitiff shine,
The proffer'd spoils his conscious hands reject,
O'er-aw'd and soften'd by divine respect.

179

Then pedants say, are old or modern times
More fam'd for daring and for impious crimes?
The Queen of Love an ancient hero wounds,
That with her anguish heav'n's high roof resounds;
A modern plund'rer owns the sacred smile,
Trembling o'er-aw'd, nor even dares to spoil.

On a Dog laying his Head in the Lap of a Lady, while she was playing on an Harpsichord, and singing.

Orpheus no more unrivall'd reigns:
Melissa claims an equal praise;
Like his, her art e'en brutes detains
In fix'd attention while she plays.

See where the fawning creature stands,
His head upon her lap reclin'd;
The minstrel warbling to her hands,
Her tuneful breath perfumes the wind.

When harmony and beauty join,
What can resist the potent spell?
E'en brutal Instinct must resign;
E'en Reason ceases to rebel.

180

THE SHRINE OF HOWARD.

Oh Howard! Thou whose philanthropic mind,
From every prejudice of pride refin'd,
Show'rs like the God whose agent here thou art,
The balm of comfort on each aching heart!
Whose hand incessant, toils with lenient joy,
To wipe each trembling tear from every eye!
Thou, who not only bear'st a Christian's name,
But glow'st with Christian Love's unbounded flame!
Thou, sent by heav'n, to shew the wond'ring earth
How near of parents frail the mortal birth
May, in the glorious attribute of love,
In emulation of the Saviour move!
How shall my humble lays approach thy ear?
How shall I sing those virtues I revere?

Hark! tuneful Hayley strikes the warbling lyre,
And list'ning cherubim the strain admire:

181

For sure, when HOWARD wakes the sacred strain,
Heav'n will attend, and all the heav'nly train;
Heav'n's list'ning choir awhile the hymn will cease
While mortals sing of charity and peace.
HOWARD and HAYLEY!—Oh most justly pair'd!
The truest hero and the greatest bard!
While HOWARD's actions fill the hearer's soul
With feelings that each selfish thought controul;
And more than all the names her records hold,
(Henries or Edwards, the great boasts of old,)
Give deathless lustre to Britannia's fame,
And add fresh glory to the Christian name;
Thy strains enchanting Hayley shall impart
Unrival'd bliss to each enlighten'd heart,
Which joys can feel above the vulgar throng,
From dulcet verse, and Fancy's raptur'd song.

And hark! again resounds the tuneful wire.
What skilful bard now wakes the patriot lyre,
And, while his fingers o'er the cordings rove,
Tunes the sweet airs of Charity and Love?
While charm'd Benevolence, delighted, hears
With generous rapture, the descending spheres

182

Her triumphs sing, and spread her glorious reign:—
Self-love, abash'd, retiring, shuns the strain;
While 'sham'd Ambition from her temples tears
The blood-stain'd wreath—sole fruit of endless wars!

Ah! how shall I with vent'rous wing aspire,
Their heights to soar, or emulate their fire?
When bards like these have rais'd the favour'd strain,
Vain is my praise, my feeble efforts vain.
Wilt thou, Britannia, from their songs divine,
A while thy ear to meaner strains incline,
Nor scorn a theme so unadorn'd as mine?
Rude is my music, uninform'd my mind;
By classic lore nor lumin'd nor refin'd.
Yet let not HOWARD scorn the humble verse
Which love of virtue prompts me to rehearse.
Virtue like thine, must ev'ry soul inspire;
All, all must praise thee, or to praise aspire.
Expiring Age, all silver'd o'er with years,
Whose wrinkled front, death's livid signet bears,
With the last effort of the vital flame,
Shall breathe, enraptur'd, HOWARD's pious name;
While lisping Infancy the couch beside,
Shall catch the fainting sound; with honest pride

183

Shall glow, transported, at thy virtuous fame,
And prattling, echo HOWARD's pious name.
From shore to shore, from pole to distant pole,
Thy fame, Oh HOWARD! shall perennial roll:
Nor earth shall bound it; heav'n! high heav'n shall ring!
And the bright seraph sound it on the wing.
When shrines decay and moulder into dust,
The Parian statue, urn, and sculptur'd bust.—
Nay, when Creation bursts her bounding chain,
And Night and Chaos re-assume their reign;
Then shall thy tow'ring fame transcendent rise,
And “HOWARD” ring with raptures thro' the skies.
Well may'st thou scorn, of fame like this secure,
The fragile statue and its records poor.
Well may thy Christian fortitude deride
The short-liv'd monuments of earthly pride;
Resign the praise by wond'ring mortals giv'n,
And all rewards despise but those of heav'n.

And ah! what great, what glorious visions rise?
I leave the earth; I tow'r into the skies;
And heav'n's bright conclave opens to my eyes.

184

Seraphic forms, and Cherubim of fire,
And angels warbling to the speaking lyre!
Round the immortal throne they glorying stand,
The radiant beams stream forth on either hand.
With glowing rapture, all their voices raise;
The full choir'd anthem speaks the Maker's praise.
Their hallelujahs ring thro' all the skies,
And hallelujah heav'n's high vault replies.

Now the loud anthems cease. To softer notes
They string their harps, and tune their dulcet throats;
And thus they sing; “Oh HOWARD! sage divine!
“Whose pious deeds all other deeds outshine;
“With holy raptures, heav'nly spirits see
“Unfeign'd benevolence shine forth in thee;
“See Christian meekness ev'ry action guide,
“And see thee spurn the pomps of earthly pride:
“The sculptor's art, the fair inscribing verse,
“Which would to distant times thy worth rehearse.
“These honours all, philanthropist divine!
“Well pleas'd we see thee piously resign.

“Mortals behold! and while ye gaze admire,
“Let bright example Christian love inspire!

185

“In HOWARD's actions ye at large may see,
“From worldly pride and affectation free,
“The brightest rays of pure philanthropy.

“Who now, deep skill'd in theory, shall dare,
“With arrogant presumption, to declare,
“The love of fame, by Nature's hand imprest,
“Reigns sov'reign monarch of each human breast?
“Who now shall say, that ev'ry noble deed
“Does from this great infirmity proceed?
“Lo! HOWARD's actions, past all question, prove
“A stronger impulse still—in Christian love.
“For who in chace of fame was ever led
“To tread the dangerous paths he loves to tread?
“Did ever love of fame the foot impel
“To tread infected shores, or tainted cell?
“Plagues, and infections; the polluted breath
“Of pestilential caverns, breathing death;
“And all the bloated horrors which abide
“In cells of anguish, who would brave for pride?
“Yet these did HOWARD: these, gaunt ills and more,
“In many a land, on many a distant shore,

186

“Prompted alone by truly Christian zeal,
“Which teaches all for all mankind to feel.
“And when his native land, with honest pride
“Would sacred to his fame a pile provide;
“Jealous lest foreign climes his birth should claim,
“Would, while he yet survives, assert her fame,
“The matchless fame of giving HOWARD birth—
“HOWARD, who deals a blessing o'er the earth!
“Who, like the sun, attach'd to no one soil,
“Explores the varied globe with ceaseless toil,
“Where'er he meets with Anguish and Distress,
“To dart the Beams of Comfort, and to Bless.—
“And when his Country would, with sculptur'd fame,
“Reward his virtues, and assert her claim,
“With modest, meek, and disint'rested zeal,
“Which unfeign'd piety alone can feel,
“He, all humility, the fane resigns,
“And public plaudits (what he can) declines;
“Striving from man—admiring man! to hide
“The gen'rous deeds his labours scatter wide.
“But all in vain: for Virtue's ray divine,—
“Virtue like his, will still transcendent shine:

187

“No cloud so thick which Modesty can spread,
“Or humble Meekness, round the radiant head
“Of such transcendent worth, can dim its ray:
“It needs no lustre from the garish day;
“But like the Gem , in native lustre bright,
“Shines most conspicuous when it shuns the light.
“The little virtues of a camp or crown
“May need to court it, to obtain renown;
“But pure Benevolence! so bright thy charms,
“That Fame, enamour'd, woos thee to her arms.
“In vain to secret shades you bashful fly;
“For she'll pursue more swift than thou canst fly;
“Where'er thou turn'st, enraptur'd bend her way,
“And force thee, blushing, to admiring day.

“Yes, HOWARD, yes, tho' still thou shouldst refuse
“The sculptur'd honours, and recording muse;
“Tho' thou wouldst still the praise deserv'd decline,
“Yet still thy virtues shall not want their shrine.
“While language lasts, and hearing shall remain,
“To list'ning youth the parent shall explain:
“How virtuous Howard plough'd the dang'rous sea,
“To cure infections, set the captive free,

188

“Relieve the wretched, soften each distress,
“Bewail the guilty, and the wrong'd redress.
“Thus age to age thy virtue's shall impart;
“And HOWARD's SHRINE be rais'd in every heart.”

From ev'ry eye he wipes off ev'ry tear. Pope's Messiah.

Ode inscribed to John Howard, Esq; by Mr. Hayley.

Triumph of Benevolence. Supposed to be written by Pratt.

Milton calls Fame, “The last infirmity of noble minds.”

The diamond.

189

THE TEARS OF THE GENII

On the DEATH of JONAS HANWAY, Esq.

I

What pow'r supernal strengthens thus my sight?
Why do these sadly beauteous visions rise?
Beatific forms! the heirs of heav'nly light!—
Yet swell with pearly drops their beamy eyes.
Their charge neglected, and their mystic joys,
The drooping Genii 'neath the murky shade
Which yonder thick-grown woodland round supplies,
Sigh in sad concert, all supinely laid;
Careless of sunny hill, cool stream, or winding glade.
Thro' all the echoing wood the note of sorrow dies.

190

II

Lo, sadly murmuring winds each troubled stream!
Their charge translucent, lo, the nymphiads slight!
Lo, they who wont to cool the solar beam,
With wing unmov'd, forget their airy flight!
While feather'd warblers, all in doleful plight,
Hang low the wing, and stint their dulcet note:
The awful stilness fills them with affright,
And melody no longer swells the throat,
Tho' late thro' air it wont with pleasing rapture float,
And fill the list'ning soul with sweetly calm delight.

III

Wherefore they droopen thus I fain would learn.
Come then, my Muse, of chaste and sober mien,
Lead thy rapt votary where he may discern
Why thus they mournful seek yon sylvan scene.
Can heav'nly agents feel a pang so keen?
Can holy Genii shed the sorrowing tear?
Full sad to know, must be the cause, I ween,
To man portending some misfortune drear—
But lead me, gentle Muse, where I their plaints may hear:
E'en 'mong the bow'ry valves of yonder verdant screen.

191

IV

Meet place I deem these spreading elms behind,
Where, antic-twisted, many a thick-wrought brere
Tempteth yon sprite to wail, beneath reclin'd,
Who of them all the chiefest doth appear.
Ah! if it be for woe, or if for fear,
The blushing blossoms seem to fade away,
As they his heart-empiercing accents hear:
Those blooms that shone erewhile so smiling gay.
But peace. My verse record what sadly he doth say,
As thus his mournful plaint steals on the list'ning ear:

V

“Ah Spirit gentle! tho' so frequent toss'd,
“In early life on rude Misfortune's wave;
“By Danger sieg'd, by Disappointment cross'd:
“Ah evils borne with resolution brave!)
“Thee, never form'd for Passion's fickle slave,
“Nor Danger's frown, nor sad Misfortune's woe
“The tender feelings from thy bosom drave,
“Nor made thee mild Benevolence forego.
“Yet HANWAY art thou dead—oh tale of heavy woe!
“Ah must such worth as thine sink in the senseless grave!

192

VI

“Ah Spirit meek! whom not the gaudy beams
“Of giddy Fortune e'er could tempt away
“To thoughtless Pride or Passion's wide extremes—
“Ah much too apt frail mortals to betray!
“But Charity did rule thy breast for aye;
“And, busy e'er to bring the wretch relief,
“No time had'st thou for thoughtless follies gay,
“Which promise pleasure, but which end in grief.
“Oh Britain mourn thy loss, nor be thy mourning brief;
“For roll may many years ere thou his like survey.

VII

“Ah Spirit patriotic! who didst toil
“To save the wretch forlorn from Guilt and Shame,
“And make the youth a guardian of this isle
“Who else, perhaps, had stigmatiz'd her name
“With crimes of blackest dye, which who proclaim
“With shuddering horror shed the gloomy tear.
“Full oft thro' him, I ween, the trump of Fame
“Hath bade us worthily some name revere
“Which else in guilt had sunk, and fall'n by doom severe.
“Yet dead is he, alas! who well such praise might claim!

193

VIII

“Ah Spirit pious! in whose moral lines
“Is kindly pictur'd to the lowly mind
“How bright in vale obscure fair Virtue shines;
“And teachest how true bliss that wight may find,
“Who, to calm dale of Humbleness confin'd,
“Far from the pompous blaze of gilded Joy—
(“False Joy, external, of the baser kind!)
“Doom'd in the sylvan scene the axe to ply,
“Might for luxurious Ease and fickle Honour sigh.
“Ah few like him I ween hath HANWAY left behind!

IX

“Ah Spirit kind! his name ye females bless!
“To ye the Sage I deem the best of friends:
“When traitor man has plung'd ye in distress,
“When guilty Woe your tortur'd bosoms rends,
“And ghastly Want her sad assistance lends;—
“Then, when ye seek that refuge from despair
“Which Peace restores, and tort'ring anguish ends,
“Then, then remember well, ye weeping fair,
“To him the boon ye owe which may your state repair,
“And make those comforts yours to which repentance tends.

194

X

“Nor you, ye fair, who o'er the waves of life
“With fav'ring gales of smiling honour sail,
“Who boast the name of Virgin, or of Wife,
“Treat with false pride your hapless sisters frail:
“E'en you, yourselves, perchance the self-same bale
“Experienc'd had, had ye so tempten been:
“Who vaunt the most themselves do easiest fail.
“With different eyes their fate hath Hanway seen,
“And to reclaim them sought, and from new dangers screen;
“But dead is he, alas! whose toils did oft avail.

XI

“How oft, invited by his gen'rous care,
“Sad wretches, trembling with disease and want,
“From Guilt's vile shed, and Misery's horrid fare,
“Have crawl'd with haggard eye, and visage gaunt,
“Paler than midnight Ghosts, who church-yards haunt!
“Him have they crawl'd to bless, whose voice so sweet
“Bade black Despair their hearts no longer daunt,
“For he had kindly founded a retreat,
“Where, by Repentance led, they Happiness might meet:
“Yet is he dead, alas! weep, weep to think upon't.

195

XII

“Now will we weep and wail in drearyment,
“And all unheeded each one leave his charge:
“Ye gentle Breezes cease your merryment;
“No longer ply the sportive wing at large;
“Ye watry Nymphiads quit the babbling marge,
“And ye who wont to tend the spreading bow'r,
“And all unwholesome blights from thence discharge,
“And ye who fed with sweets each fragrant flow'r,
“And health reviving dews thro' ev'ry vale did show'r,
“Here flock, with dismal notes my wailings to enlarge.

XIII

“For ah! how little boots the gentle gale,
“That freshens vales, and wakes the warbling throat?
“The babbling streams, how little they avail,
“That fertilize the valley as they float?
“How little merit bow'rs or blossoms note,
“Which shade afford, or render nature gay?
“Or rich perfumes, which scent fair Nature's coat,
“To what we in Benevolence survey,
“Which cheers the human breast and drives all care away?
“Ah then for HANWAY's death let Sorrow swell the note!

196

XIV

“See round his tomb the heav'n-rob'd forms attend!
“Lo Charity, with ever open hand;
“Sweet Sensibility, fair Virtue's friend,
“And kind Benevolence, with aspect bland,
“Whose bounteous smilings with a soft command
“Chace blank Affliction from Misfortune's face:
“And close beside doth tender Pity stand—
“Her azure eyes the pearls of Sorrow grace:
“Yet from each other cheek she Sorrow's pearls doth chace.
“These water with their tears the newly delved land.

XV

“Since then of three who bless'd the present age,
“Humane and generous, Howard, Hanway, Hawes,
“Too soon, tho' late, one quits life's busy stage,
“Ah loud let us lament, for we have cause—
“We who are doom'd by Heav'n's all-sapient laws
“Man's woes to mitigate, and guard his joys.
“But see, yon sable cloud aloft withdraws;
“A glorious vision opens to my eyes:
“Array'd in glory's beams, lo HANWAY mounts the skies,
“While hymning angels give his virtues due applause!

197

XVI

“Yes, pious sage! 'tis just that thou at last,
“After so many years of virtuous toil,
“Shouldst be rewarded for thy labours past
“In that blest realm where joys perennial smile.
“Yet drooping Nature must lament awhile
“For her own loss, not thy imagin'd woe:
“Lamentings sad her anguish must beguile;
“For who could e'er thy worth, oh Hanway! know,
“Nor weep when sadly forc'd such virtue to forego?
“Then pardon these our tears, thou boast of Britain's isle!”

XVII

Thus wail'd the Genii 'neath the verdant screen,
Whose thick'ning lab'rinths cast an awful gloom,
All listless stretch'd on mossy couches green,
While tears celestial wet each op'ning bloom.
Then, lowly couching 'mongst the flow'ry broom,
Did Philomela sad, with drooping wing,
Near where was newly made lost Hanway's tomb,
From dulcet pipe his mournful requiem sing,
'Till round the Genii flock'd to hear her in a ring:
Tho' sooth'd she, sad, their woe for Fate's malignant doom.

The Magdalen Hospital.

198

ODE TO FANCY.

Formerly intended as an Introduction to a Poem on the Pleasures of a warm Imagination.

STROPHE I.

Oh Nymph divine, of heav'nly race,
Who erst by Avon's favour'd side,
Array'd in all thy splendid pride,
Adorn'd with every varying grace,
Came lightly tripping in the vernal wind,
While Shakespeare on the flow'ry bank reclin'd,
And call'd the destin'd bard from slumber's soft embrace!

ANTISTROPHE I.

Oh veil thee in thy splendid vest,
Ting'd by the sun's immortal rays,
Where every hue alternate plays,
Where every image is imprest—
I see thee now; thy orient zone unbound,
Thy dazzling robe flits in light's folds around,
Now hides now shews the graces of thy heaving breast.

199

EPODE I.

And as the vernal am'rous gale
Lightly 'mong the foldings plays,
In antic postures curves the veil,
And o'er its dancing surface strays,
See how many various dyes
O'er the splendid habit rise:
Here the rose's blush is spread,
Here the violet seems to blow,
Yonder glares the rubies red,
Here the gold appears to glow;
Here the silver's glossy white,
And em'ralds there, and sapphires bright.
But ah what boots the quickest numbers pride?
For all so swift the fleeting shadows glide,
That ere the lute's mellifluous note
Can in the yielding æther float,
Or ere the panther's rapid pace
Can o'er the sands a cubit trace,
Each various hue forsakes its transient place,
And other dyes the varying vestment grace:
Now gay, now sad, now simple, now sublime,
The glow-worm tints in swift succession shine.

200

STROPHE II.

Here, Goddess! bend thy antic step;
Now dancing to the cymbal's noise,
Now to the flute's complaining voice,
In solemn sadness slowly sweep:
Be all thy pow'rs vicissitudes imprest
Deep on the tablet of thy suppliant's breast:
With fictions make me smile, at fictions make me weep.

ANTISTROPHE II.

What dazzling glories dart around,
Where waving o'er thy sprightly head
The rainbow's various beams are spread,
And by a zone thy temple's crown'd:—
An azure zone with chrystal stars inlaid,
Whose beaming radiance is afar display'd;
Thy splendent tresses waving by no fillets bound.

EPODE II.

Thus nimbly while you pace along,
Nature's freshest verdure wakes;
The thrush and linnet's gayest song
From groves and smiling hedge-briars breaks;

201

Zephyr's breath more sweetly blows,
And the Naiad clearer flows.
Touch'd by thee the violet shines
With a deeper, clearer blue;
'Neath thy hand, the purple vines
Seem to blush a brighter hue.
Thou canst gild the darkling cloud,
Or Phœbus' brightest glories shroud.
And ah, how swift thy gaudy vestments fade!
That robe erewhile which ev'ry hue display'd,
The zone and looks which transport warm'd,
Are now to sable weeds transform'd,
While all surrounding objects show
Sad symptoms of responsive woe.
Come then, bright nymph, with all thy various pow'r,
Into my breast thy strongest influence show'r,
While I the pleasures of thy reign rehearse,
And sing thy praises in immortal verse.

210

EPILOGUE.

“Ye gentle soothers of my lonely heart!
“Ye tuneful offspring of my teeming brain!
“Go—to the world, the critic world depart;
“In lowly vale obscure no more remain.
“Go—for my brow the laurel wreath obtain—
“The laurel wreath by smiling Virtue 'twin'd,
“Where lurks no sting conceal'd, which by no thorn is lin'd.

“Haply these lays, in solitude conceiv'd,
“To chace blank Sadness from my lonely heart,—
“These lays which oft my drooping soul reliev'd,
“And bade Despondence flee, and Woe depart,
“Might, if corrected with attentive art,
“From loath'd Obscurity preserve my name,
“And round my temples spread the lambent rays of Fame!”

By dreams like these did flattering Fancy warm;
(Ah soothing dreams, too soon, perhaps, believ'd)
Rash I adventur'd.—But what fears alarm
Of threat'ning dangers now too late perceiv'd!
With anxious throb how oft my heart has heav'd,
Lest by vain hopes, delusions fond! betray'd,
I on a sea too rough my canvas have display'd!

211

Lo! now the mists which youthful ardour shed,
And proud, delusive dreams all glide away;
Around the solar beams of Reason spread,
My threaten'd dangers my weak bark display;
Here critic rocks my trembling eyes survey,
'Gainst which I dread to split by doom severe:
There sands oblivious threat to swallow me for e'er.

Why did I listen to Ambition's voice?
Why did I e'er believe the partial friend?
Why was it not my calm, my humble choice,
Thro' lowly vale obscure my course to bend,
Where sweet Content and smiling Peace attend,
Far from the flattering trump of haughty Fame,
Far from discordant clang of Disappointment's blame?

Yet oh ye sacred daughters, ever young,
Of Memory sage, and of Creative Pow'r,
To whom the lyre my boyish fingers strung,
If at the entrance of your hallow'd bow'r
I vent'rous thus approach in youthful hour,
And sue to gain admittance 'mong your train.
Be this, ye maids, my plea, nor be that plea in vain:

212

“To Virtue's notes alone the tuneful wire
“Was taught to tremble by my artless hand;
“I never strove to fan unhallow'd fire,
“Or spread of wanton Vice the lewd command.
“A ready champion did I ever stand
“For hapless beauty by feign'd Love betray'd;
“The stings of Guilt I sung, and Virtue's charms display'd.

“Of pure Benevolence the hallow'd shrine
“Oft with the incense of the Muse I heap;
“Or warm'd by Gratitude, that pow'r divine,
“The harp of praise my raptur'd fingers sweep.
“Perish the Bard whose idle harp can sleep,
“When heav'n-born Gratitude demands the lays
“To Friendship's gen'rous name to swell the note of praise!”

Then give, ye Muses, to your vot'ry's pray'r,
Still in the number of your train to live.
The honest verse let critic rigour spare,
The artless rhime, the theme unlearn'd forgive.
Let on my brow your verdant chaplet thrive,
And grant, ere yet my youthful prime decays,
To 'twine one flow'ring sprig of Myrtle with my Bays.

FINIS.