]> Original Poems. Pilkington, (Mrs.) Mary Hopkins, 1766-1839 Kimberly J. Merenda and Charlotte Payne, creation of electronic text. Electronic edition 238Kb British Women Romantic Poets Project Shields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956161997 PilkMOrigi

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 Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 5 Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing Editor Original poems Pilkington, Mrs. [Mary Hopkins] Printed for the author, and sold by Vernor, Hood, and Sharpe London 1811 [This text was scanned from its original in the University of California—Davis, Shields Library Kohler Collection I:976] [Kohler ID no: I:976. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:976mf.]

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Mrs. Pilkington. Published by Vernor, Hood & Sharpe, Sept. 1,1810
ORIGINALPOEMS.BYMRS. PILKINGTON.LONDON:PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, AND SOLD BY VERNOR, HOOD, AND SHARPE, 31, POULTRY; AND J. DEIGHTON, CAMBRIDGE. 1811.W. Wilson, Printer, St. John's Square, London.

[Title Page]
ADVERTISEMENT.[Last four lines of Advertisement suffer from a misfold in printing in Shields Library's copy of this work. It does not, however, affect the legibility of the lines.]

THE author of the following Poems, (who has frequently appeared before the public with the most flattering success) being prevented by the pressure of severe indisposition, bordering upon insensibility, from bestowing the last finish to her labours, and from attending to the minutiae of the press, it is presumed by those who are solicitous for her literary reputation, and her returning health, should any glaring errors occur, that the recital of a circumstance so afflicting, while it disarms the severity of criticism, will be considered by her numerous subscribers an ample apology for such imperfections.

CONTENTS. DONALD and Jessey3Mental Sufferings; or, the Duellist22Helen and Sedley35The Storm; or, the Atheist destroyed63Selina69Quashey91Edward of Walham Green; or, the Reward of Duty and Valour102The Storm; or, Virtue protected by Omnipotence110 Lines; addressed to the Right Hon. the Countess of Farnham119A Poetical Epistle to Lady H——l121Spontaneous Lines, addressed to Mrs. S——123Lines, addressed to Mrs. Williams, of Bedford Square125A Fictitious Dialogue, between two Gentlemen126Poetic Lines, addressed to a Friend129Spontaneous Lines; written in consequence of hearing the Conduct of Sheriff Smith highly applauded134Poetic Lines, addressed to Four Children135Lines, addressed to the Author's Dearest Friend141Spontaneous Lines, addressed to a Myrtle143Extempore Lines, repeated to a Friend145Spontaneous Lines, addressed to a Friend147Lines, addressed to a much-respected Relation149Lines on Friendship151Lines, supposed to be written by J—— H——, jun. to his Wife, on the day of their Marriage153An Invocation to Humanity156Morning Reflections157 A Monody on the Death of Mrs. Krutze163Elegiac Lines, written spontaneously upon passing the Tomb of the Right Hon. Lady Gertrude Cromie166Elegiac Lines, on the Death of the Right Hon. Lady Ann Fitzgerald167Elegiac Lines, to the Memory of Lady Hartwell169Elegiac Lines, on the Death of Christopher Pemberton, Esq.172 Lines on the New-year177On Separation179Lines, addressed to a Watch181Lines, on the Birth-day of a Friend182Concluding Tale185
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DEDICATORY ADDRESSTO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS OF WALES.WHEN virtue and dignity jointly combine,Like the sun's radiant beams, more effulgent they shine;For when virtue is hid by Obscurity's shroud,It resembles the sun, conceal'd by a cloud;But when 'tis encircled with Royalty's blaze,Conspicuous it shines, and, like Caroline's rays,Far beyond its own circular orbit extends,And effulgently shines on its admiring friends!May the virtues of BRUNSWICK'S descendant long shine,And, transmitted, appear in Old England's fair line;May her joys and her pleasures each moment increase,And her breast be the mansion of bliss and of peace!May those honours which fate has decreed her to wearBe never diminish'd by Royalty's care;May the coronet which her temples adornsNe'er prove to its wearer a garland of thorns!May roses spring from it, so profuse and sweet,That their leaves, falling down, may envelope her feet,And occasion life's steps to appear light as air,By concealing beneath them the rough path of care.If wishes, Great Princess, could like incense rise,Then mine should ascend to the foot of the skies,And implore the Blest Author of greatness and lifeTo shield you from care, and protect you from strife.But as wishes, alas! are both futile and vain,I have only to hope that no sorrow or painWill probe to the quick that too sensitive heart;And if sorrow must aim, may the point of its dartBe blunted, before it reaches a breastWhere virtue resides, and residing, feels blest.May your days, honour'd Princess, prove tranquil and sweet,Is the prayer of that being who lays at your feetThe offspring of fancy, the produce of thought;Though some of the Tales are with simple facts fraught,As their title will prove; and, permit me to say,That applauded by Royalty, each humble layWill borrow some merit from that brilliant gleamWhich illumines the Work from Caroline's beam!Receive then an off'ring, submissively laid,And draw forth oh, draw forth, the writer from shade!Oh, smile on her efforts—applaud but her Muse,And the World will no longer their plaudits refuse;But smiling or frowning, respectful I bend,Still hoping to find in my Princess a friend!Brook Green, Hammersmith.
COLLECTIONOFORIGINAL TALES.ORIGINAL TALES.DONALD AND JESSEY.NOT in a verdant varying vale,Not shelter'd by a wood,Not sweetly fann'd by zephyr's gale,Or margin'd by a flood,Whose gentle stream meand'ring flow'dClear as the mirror's glare,And, by reflection, plainly show'dEach form which wander'd there;But Donald's habitation stoodNear rocks, whose tow'ring heightSeem'd form'd primeval with the flood,So firmly fix'd their might.No placid rivulet was nearThat bleak, that drear abode;The gloomy cypress here, and there,Proclaim'd the footstepp'd roadWhich led to Donald's dreary den—For such I might it call—As there the busy hum of menNe'er echo'd, through the hall!Silence, and Solitude, proclaim'dThe master's turn of mind;Yet Donald's name had once been fam'dFor noble deeds—and kind.But treach'ry harden'd Donald's breast;Treach'ry of deepest dye——A friend depriv'd his soul of rest,And dimm'd his lust'rous eye.A friend!—blasphemy to a nameWhich spotless Seraphs bear!A friend it was, who, lost to shame,Drove Donald to despair.Donald, the Chief of a proud clan,Whose castle's tow'r'd the Clyde;And whose domain extended ranAlong that river's side.Yet not of wealth or titles proud,But of those noble deedsWhich time itself can never shroud,Or veil like widow's weeds!In feats of valour he had shone;Fame had those feats proclaim'd;But his sun set, alas! at noon,And 'velop'd him in shade.Douglass, and Donald, long were friends,Each fought on virtue's side;Donald on Douglass oft depends,And makes his will, a guide.A treach'rous guide, a subtle foe,Who, with insidious art,Instill'd a poison deep, yet slow;Which touch'd a noble heart.Jessey and Donald were a pairUnmatch'd—unheard—unseen!She was the fairest of the fair;He—of unequall'd mien!Mars scarcely mov'd with equal grace;Apollo's lute his voice;Adonis' not so fine a face;Such—was fair Jessey's choice.If Donald might with Mars compare,With Venus Jessey strove;Not Helen, that fam'd Grecian fair,Seem'd form'd like her—for love!Her roseate lip, her blooming cheek,Her eye of azure blue,Did not the pow'r of love bespeakIn language half so true:For modesty bestow'd a grace,A charm almost divine,—Which, Helen, beam'd not in thy face,But, Jessey,—shone in thine.No wanton look; no luring glare;In Jessey's eye was seen;She seem'd to shun the broad, bold stare,And wish to bloom unseen.The din of arms had ceas'd to sound,The trumpet's voice was mute;And Jessey sweet enjoyment foundIn Donald's tuneful flute.Attention mark'd her speaking eye,As o'er the strain she hung;And bliss inspir'd a feeling sigh,When Donald play'd or sung!Douglass attended to the sound,And saw the bliss inspir'd;He mark'd each gaze with look profoundEach gaze—his bosom fir'd,With passion,—fiend-like as the heartFrom whence that passion flow'd,He form'd his plans with subtle art,Whilst pure esteem he show'd:For Donald, when retir'd from arms,Ask'd Douglass to his house,To spend some months in rural charms,And see his lovely spouse.The sword, then to the ploughshare turn'd,The spear into the prune;And Donald husbandry had learn'dIn the preceding June.Douglass pretended to enjoyPleasure from rural sports;Weaving a web that should destroyBliss seldom known in Courts!—Long, long, had Jessey been assail'dBy Donald's treach'rous friend;But though his ev'ry scheme had fail'd,Yet still he would dependUpon that pride which women feelWhen husbands faithless prove:And there, with venom'd aspine steel,He poison'd Jessey's love!A tale, maliciously untrue,He whisper'd in her ears;But, Jessey, may each fair by youBe caution'd how she hears,Or listens to, a treach'rous taleAgainst the man whose nameShould reach her ears through plaudit's gale,Proclaiming worth and fame!For jealousy, when once inspir'd,Is not to be repress'd;It burns with fury, when its fir'd,Like a volcano's breast.And Jessey's gentle bosom feltThat fierce volcanic fire;A bosom Nature form'd to meltAnd soothe each rough desire.Swift, swift the progress from the roadOf virtue, if we stray;And few—if any—who have trod,Return'd the perfect way.This dang'rous path did Jessey tread;Jessey, once pure as fair;Whilst retrospective horror spreadA veil of black despair!"Oh, Douglass! causer of my woes,"(In frantic grief she cried,)"Shield me beneath the Alpine snows,Or in some cavern hide"Me from Donald's piercing eye,Which, sure, must read my shame!To the remotest realm I'd fly,To hide my perjur'd name!"Wretch that I am! disgrac'd and lost,By varying passions torn;My mind, like raging billows toss'd,Hopeless! distress'd! forlorn!""Fly, my belov'd!" (Douglass exclaim'd,And clasp'd her to his breast;)"Let but the spot of earth be nam'dWhere Jessey seeks for rest:"Not Afric's sun, or Alpine snow,Should e'er retard my flight;With thee, contented would I go,Thinking each danger light!"My Jessey's spotless form would proveA guardian angel's light !"——"Stop! Douglass, stop!" reply'd his love,"Virtue alone—shines bright!"But me, degen'rate and forlorn,Detesting ev'n myself;I rue the day that I was born,Endow'd with charms and health!"The plan of flight was soon arrang'd,To distant realms they flew;And Jessey from her lord estrang'd,Jessey, once fond and true!But who shall paint her lord's distress?Or tell the horrid tale,Which whisp'ring rumours soon expressOn aggravation's gale?He heard she fled—and by consent;—With rapid force and speed;He heard it as he homeward bent,And found her gone, indeed!His infant Jessey tearful ran,And met him at the door;"Mamma is gone!" the child began,"And will not see us more!""Not see us more!" Donald reply'd,Tortur'd with fresh alarms;He groan'd—he wept—he rav'd—and sigh'd—Then press'd her in his arms."Oh, hapless innocent!" he cry'd,"Forsaken and forlorn;Would but to Heav'n I had died,E'er thou—dear babe, wast born!"For now thou chain'st me to this earth;Thou art a pow'rful tie;Yet, as I gavest thee thy birth, For thee—I will not die!"Grief, indignation, and despair,Tortur'd his manly breast;Quick he pursu'd the treach'rous fair,Who robb'd his soul of rest.Douglass nor Jessey could be trac'd;Half o'er the globe he flew;When homeward he return'd disgrac'd,He scarce young Jessey knew.Thrice had the sun its circuit ran,Or thrice the earth mov'd round,When Donald, poor unhappy man,Resought his native ground.Unable to support the tauntsHe fancied would be thrown,He then resolv'd to seek some hauntsWhere he could not be known.Long did he seek—at length he foundA spot which charm'd his soul;Sterility o'erspread the ground;Rough winds—incessant howl!Far as the eye extends its ken,Rude rocks majestic rise,An unfit spot for social men;Yet thither Donald flies,Attended by the lovely child,Whose youthful joyous sportsRender'd the rocks a pleasing wild,More pleasing far, than courts.Remembrance never could recallTo Jessey other scenes;Her father's noble banner'd hall,Or park of vary'd greens,If e'er remember'd, soon appear'dLike an illusive dream;For Jessey's childhood had been rear'dWhere pleasures—never beam.To see the sea-fowl fly to rest,To hear the billows roar,Or sometimes for the kirk be drest,Then stroll along the shore,Was all of pleasure Jessey knew,Yet Jessey was serene;And as to womanhood she grew,She rivall'd Beauty's queen.Grace in her step; love in her eye;Contentment in her breast;And but for Donald's smother'd sigh,Young Jessey had been bless'd.Untutor'd she in worldly bliss;Unskill'd in guile or art;When Donald smiling gave a kiss,Joy touch'd her tender heart.She was, in fact, pure Nature's child,Yet might have grac'd a court;Not rustically rude or wild,But gentleness her forte.Jessey at ev'ning oft would stray,To mark the ebbing tide;Whilst Cynthia lent her silv'ry ray,To innocence—a guide!One ev'ning, as she watch'd the tide,A sudden storm appears;Cynthia no longer prov'd a guide,But darkness veil'd the spheres.A vessel tow'ring on the wavesDrew near to Jessey's coast;It rises! sinks! rises! and laves!Then seems for ever lost!At length surmounting shoals and sands,It gains the wish'd-for shore;A female form descends—and landsAmidst the billow's roar!Impervious as the rock she stood,Fix'd was her azure eye;When just emerging from the flood,Jessey she chanc'd to spy."Your name, young lady? oh, declare;"(She said in accents wild)——"Jessey;" reply'd the trembling fair——"Oh God!" she cry'd, "my child!"Then with maternal transport prestThe maiden in her arms;Alternate clasp'd her to her breast,And gaz'd upon her charms.Delighted gaz'd; then smiling wept;And smiling, wept anew;A soft sensation quickly creptThrough Jessey's heart, which flewSpontaneous to her lovely eyes,And dimm'd them with soft tears,More beauteous than the pearl of skies,Which in the dew appears.Donald began to think the fairUnusual time had staid;A thousand fears excited care,Lest danger haunted shade:Or that the lightning's lurid glareHad terror-struck her heart;For though as innocent as fair,She fear'd the rapid dart.Donald, acquainted with the roadJessey was prone to take,Quitted his gloomy, drear abode,For his lov'd daughter's sake.True did he mark the fair one's race,And drew to Jessey near,Just as a mother's fond embraceCall'd forth the tender tear.Eager amazement mark'd his eyeWhat mingled passions rise!His lab'ring bosom heav'd a sighOf joy, distress, surprise!He saw, he knew his long-lost love;But ah! no longer pure:No longer like a spotless dove;Her frailty prov'd his cure!"Jessey," he said, in solemn tone,"Say farewell to our dear!"Yet whilst he spoke, the deep-drawn groanWas follow'd by a tear."If poverty has been thy doom,I will its cares remove;But virtue in its op'ning bloomDemands a father's love;"Demands his fond protecting care,To shield it from all vice:Contagion mixes in its air,And females must be nice,"If they would wish to save their fameFrom Calumny's foul breath;And to preserve a spotless nameFor Jessey—I'd brave death!"Dreadful the tortures which I feel,Whilst making this decree;But for our daughter's future weal,This night she parts from thee."Appall'd the timid Jessey stood,Gazing upon that form,Preserv'd from the engulphing flood,To brave a still worse storm.Then falling prostrate on the ground,"My father lov'd," she cry'd,"A mother I've this moment foundI always thought had died"In giving birth to this frail form,Which begs, intreats, implores!Be not less piteous than the storm,Or hard, like rocky shores!"My mother's faults may have been great,But like a God, forgive;Permit her but to share your fate,And let your Jessey live!"For ah! I feel to part is death! Death to your darling child!"As she said this, she gasp'd for breath,Her lovely eyes look'd wild."Kill you, my life!" Donald exclaim'd,Kill her my soul holds dear!A savage fury would be tam'd,Could he behold that tear!"He clasp'd her to his throbbing breast,Then turning to his wife,"Jessey, forgive a mind distress'd,And almost sick of life,"The harsh expressions which I made,Resentment now is o'er;Severely, doubtless, you have paidFor quitting Albion's shore."And now behold the trio rushInto each other's arms;Whilst Donald saw the rising blushRestore his Jessey's charms:Those charms rekindled that soft flameWhich once was Donald's pride;Yet still a feeling sense of shameInduc'd him for to hideThose charms within a drear abode;There still his child confine,Though form'd to tread life's gayest road;And in a court to shine.Hear this, ye mothers! and bewareHow ye support the name;For if not virtuous as fair,Your daughters feel the shame.MENTAL SUFFERINGS;OR,THE DUELLIST.DECEMBER'S hollow winds had howl'd,And whistled through the air;The leafless trees an emblem stoodOf sorrow and despair.Beneath an aged oak I spy'dA traveller distrest;His manly form, by sorrow bow'd,Rais'd pity in my breast.His hollow eye was lowly bentTow'rds the russet earth;Yet in his form I thought I trac'dSemblance of higher birth:I spoke—and as my voice proclaim'dCompassion's soothing art,He rais'd an eye so finely form'd,It touch'd me to the heart.Speech was deny'd; but as he clasp'dImpressively his hands,A tear, the emblem of distress,Fell on the senseless sands.Well did I mark the crystal drop:Unbidden from his eyeAnother fell, attended byA sympathetic sigh."Unhappy man!" said I, "whate'erThy cause of sorrow be,In me behold a willing friend,Anxious to comfort thee."Astonishment was quickly mark'dOn his expressive face:"A Friend!" he cried, "do I hear right?Great God! I thank thy grace;"Or mercy—for this precious boon—"Then turning round tow'rds me,"My story's long,—the wind blows keen—Not far, Sir, from this tree,"A cavity these hands have made;And on the earth's cold breastThis wretched form each night retires,To seek repose and rest:"Thither allow me to conduct,And there I will discloseA tale that will appal your heart,A tale of real woes!"A silent glance bespoke assent;Towards the spot we drew;Four gloomy trees o'ershadow'd it,The cypress, and the yew.An excavation, made by art,Gave shelter from the air;Yet all within the cell appear'dThe emblem of despair!A table, if it might be call'dBy that convenient name,Was form'd out of an old elm trunk,With two stools of the same.A bow, that might a court have grac'd,Prov'd I was welcome there;And drawing forth a stool, he ask'dIf 'twould supply a chair?—Seated, I begg'd him to discloseThe sorrows of his breast;"No idle wish," said I, "my friend,Induces this request:"An ample fortune I possess;No kindred ties have claim;If I can serve you, tell me so;I ask not for your name;""It is Fernando!", he reply'd;"My father's I'll conceal;For false assertions have disgrac'd,And wounded pride might feel"Offended, if I should discloseThe race from whence I sprung;A race that's not ignobly born,For ah ! when I was young"The sycophantic tongue proclaim'dThe honours I should wear;Honours, connected with deceit,And laden deep with care!"When education was complete,The army was my choice;My mother the fond wish oppos'dWith a dissenting voice;"But youthful ardour rose too high,For reason to prevent:At length, reluctant I receiv'dA kind of half consent."Enthusiasm fir'd my breast:Like Cæsar's self I thought;And Veni, Vidi, Vita wasThe maxim which I taught.—"Approving honours deck'd my brow,But praise too oft inspiresMalign aspersions, and gives riseTo Envy's dark desires. "The artful fiend in ambush lay,It wore a specious garb;And under Friendship's sacred form,Convey'd the deadly barb."The point was aim'd by Osmund's hand,The much-lov'd friend of youth;On whose professions I rely'dWith unsuspicious truth."Is there a pang on earth so keen,So tort'ringly severe,As to find treach'ry in a friend,Whom our whole souls revere?"Yet him it was who stung the breastThat cherish'd and sustain'd;For Osmund ne'er had serv'd his King,Unless by me maintain'd."I thought within his mind I trac'dVirtues above his sphere;I call'd them forth—and lov'd the man—Pardon this rising tear!"A tear—which my Amanda's shadeOft summons from these eyes;—Amanda was her parent's pride,Their dear—their valued prize!"Angelic maid! she was the boastOf Avon's flow'ry vale;Forgive a brother's fond regret,—Who now pursues his tale."The specious Osmund soon contriv'dMy sister's love to gain;But knowing that his suit could notMy sanction e'er obtain,"He poison'd her too cred'lous mind,And taught her to suppose,That in her brother she would meetOne of her greatest foes!"The beauteous maiden soon believ'dThe fabricated tale;And drove Fernando from her breast,As an infectious gale!"Not satisfied with this dark deed, A vile report he spread,That when the enemy press'd close,Most dastardly I fled;"And that the laurels which I wore,Belong'd to him, in right;For that my rank alone obtain'dThe honours of the fight.—"No longer greeted with applause,A coolness I perceiv'd;And though my friends might Osmund doubt,My foes too soon believ'd.—"I trac'd the rumour,—and soon heardFrom whose false tongue it rose;The pang was doubled, when I foundIt sprang not from my foes!"My aggravated wrongs were moreThan patience could sustain;And urg'd by Passion's potent sway,I did not check its reign."Deceptious monster! (I exclaim'd,)Thy villany's reveal'd;Prepare, then, to defend thyself,Virtue will prove my shield!"Appall'd with terror by my words,And paraliz'd by fear,Osmund submissively implor'dExcuses I would hear!"But urg'd by passion to proceed,Impetuously I drew;—Defend thyself! (again I cried,)And the false Osmund slew!"The dreadful tale was soon disclos'd,And reach'd Amanda's ear;Transfix'd she heard it—but, alas!Shed not—a single tear!"Reason for ever fled her throne;—That sister, once my pride,Remain'd three years an idiot,Regain'd her sense—and died!"A father's curses have pursu'dMe—from that fatal day;But who my anguish can describe?Who can my griefs pourtray?"Disgrac'd—disown'd—I fled the landTo which I ow'd my birth;And twice twelve years a pilgrim nowHave sojourn'd on this earth:"Yet has affection to the spotWhere first I drew my breath,Attracted me from foreign climes,To wait the hand of death."And stranger, soon this care-worn formWill in the grave be laid;And you, perhaps, will shed a tearOf pity to my shade!"My wrongs were such, as few could bear;And such as all must feel;Yet Osmund's tale I should have heard,Before I drew the steel:"For each night when I seek repose,His murder'd corpse I view;His gaping wound all bleeding fresh,As when my sword first slew.—"Amanda's lov'd, angelic form,To me, too, oft appears;A maniac's shriek appals my heart,And fills my eyes with tears.—"'Restore my Osmund to these arms!'She says, or seems to say,'I come, my Love!' she then exclaims,And vanishes away."Then, stranger, whosoe'er thou art,Whose sympathetic breastHast seem'd to share my poignant woes,And giv'n a transient rest"To those afflictions which, for years,This heart with grief has fraught;From me, then learn to check revenge,And by my pangs be taught"That though the Duellist may thinkHe gains the world's applause,A sacred monitor withinWill disapprove his cause!"This monitor will loud appeal,And call forth many a sigh;By proving murder is a crime,A crime of blackest dye!"Believe me, honour is a nameWhich does the sense allure;Then, stranger, take a warning byThe anguish I endure.—"Could I but Osmund's life recal;Or could I but restoreMy lov'd Amanda from the grave,To this terrestrial shore,"Religion's dictates I'd pursue,And Osmund's faults forgive;Bid him repent, and sin no more,But free from slander live:"Then might I hope a Saviour's bloodWould wash my faults away;Nor dread to hear my doom pronounc'dAt the great judgment day.—"By prayers and penitence I tryA pardon to procure;But Conscience whispers to my breast,That pardon's far from sure!"Yet here this wretched life shall close;Here shall this form be laid;For near this spot Amanda died,That dear—ill-fated maid!"——He paus'd—I thank'd him for a taleWhich had impress'd my mind,More forcibly than doctrines taughtBy arguments sublim'd.""If," said Fernando, "My deep woesOne duel should restrain,Then will the anguish I endureNot prove completely vain." HELEN AND SEDLEY.A TALE FOUNDED UPON A NOVEL,ENTITLED<HI REND="italics">" HELEN OF GLENROSS."</HI> FAIR Helen was the loveliest maidThat Scotia's land has seen;A sylph-like form, adorn'd with grace,Mark'd lovely Helen's mien.—Yet not the grace of haughty minds,But modest, chaste, refin'd;As if devoid of ev'ry charm,Save a celestial mind!The *Author of young Helen's birthHad dire misfortunes known;Yet his complex, and various woes,In verse, could not be shown!* Helen's father, whose real name was Sedley, had, previous to her birth, assumed that of Frazier, in consequence of a domestic misfortune; and resigned all those brilliant prospects to which his high birth entitled him.— Frasier's, or rather Sedley's father, was the presumptive heir to a dukedom, and travelling with an artful tutor, had been induced to form a private marriage with that tutor's sister, when a mere boy. Several children, however, were the fruits of that unhappy marriage; and the mother of them, from distress of mind, at having her character suspected, (as Lord Henry dared not avow his marriage,) soon lost her senses; yet not merely from that grief which preyed upon her heart, as a mental disease ran through the family.— Frazier's father, Lord Henry Sedley, was for many years inconsolable for the effect of his youthful passions; but, as his wife was pronounced incurable, he at length formed another attachment, and married an amiable woman, equal to him in birth.—Many years after this second marriage, the first lady H. Sedley regained her intellects, and appeared before her husband and his family,[remainder of footnote appears at bottom of following page in original]claiming a pre-eminence in rank for her offspring, and, by so doing, basterdizing Frazier. By an art of superior magnanimity, the mother of the ill-fated Frazier so far worked up his feelings, as to induce him to take a solemn oath never to claim any right to the estate or honours of the noble family to which he belonged, but to retire to a distant part of the world, and there bury his name and origin in obscurity, although he evidently had a right to both; as Lord Henry had formed this unequal alliance when only a youth of seventeen.Too deep—too poignant—too severe,For fiction to disclose;His children were in ign'rance kept,Suspecting not—his woes!Suffice to say, he had resign'dA noble birth—and name;And in retirement pass'd a lifeWhich Nature form'd for fame!Helen had oft remark'd with griefHer father's gloom of mind;Yet ne'er presum'd to ask the cause,From sentiments refin'd!Yet would she strive to banish careFrom his unquiet breast;And from her harp, such strains would drawAs sooth'd his soul to rest.Her voice accompanied the sound,Sweeter than any flute;And Frazier oft, while list'ning, thought'Twas Orpheus and his lute.Each day some charming trait appear'dIn Helen's opening mind;So pure, so perfect, was the fair,She seem'd like Virtue's child!Form'd to be lov'd, ador'd, admir'd,Yet not to bloom unseen;Each courtly friend had oft implor'dHelen to quit the green,And mix among the brilliant crowdThat did the court adorn:Thus Ellen as a rose appear'd,Encircled with its thorn.With anxious, yet foreboding fears,Did Frazier then resignThe object of his tender care,In Pleasure's maze—to shine!Amazement follow'd every step;Such charms had ne'er been seen!Yet did no conscious pride appearIn Helen's modest mien!Frazier with joy heard the applauseBestow'd upon his child;And fondly did he hope to hearShe was some noble's bride.Amidst the numbers who were struckWith lovely Helen's charms,Was Sedley—dignify'd in form,And fam'd for feats in arms!This youth, not form'd in common mould,Was dignified in mind;His passions all impetuous were;Still, he was good and kind.His soul despis'd all sordid views;Lucre was not his aim;He thirsted for that shade, Applause—That bubble, we term Fame!Yet what, perhaps, he might have gain'dBy courteous, kind address,He lost;—because he seem'd to claim;Each look commands express!Such was the youth who Helen woo'd,Yet woo'd, alas! in vain;The very thought of Sedley's loveExcited fear and pain!Rejected by the maid he lov'dWith tenderness sublime;How shall I tell the pangs he felt!How paint his woes in rhyme!By turns he rav'd—by turns he wept;With frantic grief grew wild;And Frazier's rage scarce bound'ries knewAgainst his darling child,When he discover'd she'd refus'dAn offer he admir'd;For though retir'd in Glenross vale,Pride still his bosom fired.And Sedley was, of all the earth,The man he wish'd to callBy the endearing name of son;As then the banner'd hall,Where feats of valour waving hungIn ancestorial pride,Would to his Helen then belong,If she was Sedley's bride:But by rejecting Sedley's love,These hopes had fled in air;And Frazier's angry letter spokeDaggers—unto the fair !Surpris'd, affected, and dismay'd;With many a falling tear,She begg'd her father to announceWhy Sedley was so dear!" Oft has my father kindly vow'dNe'er to control his child;"Said duteous Helen, in reply,"Then why severely chide?"A piteous tale was then disclos'd,A tale of woe and pain;And Helen vow'd to be a bride,If Sedley sued again!To sooth the agitated mind,Toss'd on affliction's storm,Helen conceiv'd that duty forc'dA daughter to perform.With grief of heart had Helen readThose marks of rage or ire;And but for reading,—ne'er conceiv'dThem written by her sire.—The news that Helen's father blam'dHer hasty, fix'd decree,Was soon by friends to Sedley told,Who vow'd that sire to see.Helen, unable to sustainA father's rage and ire,Once more return'd to sweet Glenross,To see her much-lov'd sire.And scarce had Helen said, "I'm wrong!"When all resentment flies;He press'd her to his throbbing heart,With transport, joy, surprise!A fresh surprise was still in store,For Sedley soon appears;Again he breathes the ardent vowIn lovely Helen's ears!With modest blush, and downcast eye,She listen'd to the tale;Whilst Sedley, all impatient waitsOn Expectation's gale.And as her ruby lips unclos'd,He trembled lest the soundShould crush his new, aspiring hopes,In an abyss—profound!A tear, defying all control,Stole down his manly cheek;That precious gem, which feeling showsWhen language is too weakTo paint sensations of the heart,With hopes and fears opprest;Helen beheld the crystal drop,And pity—touch'd her breast;Pity, so near allied to Love,That Poets all declareThem sister-twins,—meant to evinceThe softness of the fair!Though pity soften'd Helen's breast,Yet duty made it rise;And whilst to speak she oft essay'd,Her voice seem'd check'd by sighs."Speak, my belov'd!" then Sedley cried"Thy Lover waits his doom;But if rejected,—here I swearTo die on *Glory's tomb!* Previous to the period of Colonel Sedley's being introduced[remainder of footnote appears at bottom of following page in original]to Helen, he had highly distinguished himself as a gallant officer; and though his regiment had then returned to England, he formed the resolution of volunteering into another, in the hope of terminating an existence, which would be intolerable without Helen."For life, without my Helen's love,Would be a life of woe;Love's poison I have deeply drank,A poison sure,—but slow!"He spoke, and press'd her downy handWith transport to his heart;A smile angelic,—grac'd the maid,And rivetted the dart.—The smile did no reluctance seemTo publish or proclaim;Sedley with transport felt its force,'Twas fuel to his flame!"If, Sedley," said the blushing maid,With fault'ring tone of voice,"Esteem and gratitude can e'erRepay thy flatt'ring choice,"Helen accepts thy ardent vows,And plights her vows to thine;Yet love's strong passion in this breastBurns not with rays divine!""Enough, my angel!" he exclaim'd,And clasp'd her to his breast;"Thy Sedley shall inspire that love;Then feel completely blest!"Sedley then urg'd the timid fairTo name an early day;And when the nuptial knot was tied,He bore his bride away—To scenes of fashion, pomp, and state,Unknown in Glenross vale;And Frazier fear'd his darling childIn Fashion's stream should sail!Yet well he knew Ambition's glareIs but a fatuus gleam;And that the lovely Helen ne'erWas pleas'd with Fashion's beam.Domestic pleasures were her choice;Her joys all pure and chaste;And visiting the humble roofOf poverty—her taste.Sedley he heard was prone to vice,Attach'd to wealth and state;In short, to all those glaring faults,Which stigmatize the great.E'er Helen had the charm dissolv'd,A mistress was his pride;*Woodley her name;—a friend of art,Yet she was Sedley's guide.* Colonel Sedley, like many other infatuated young men, had, in one of his unguarded moments, given the despicable Woodley a bond for ten thousand pounds, to shield her mind from any apprehension of his proving faithless; which bond, the artful woman had no sooner obtained possession of, than she exhibited her character in its true colours: a quarrel in a little time ensued, and she quitted Sedley, and placed herself under the protection of a richer man, still preserving the fatal bond, and resolving to put it in force if ever he married.—Sedley, too late, saw the error he had been guilty of; but having no means of paying the demand, was under the necessity of keeping upon terms with the[remainder of footnote appears at bottom of following page in original.]wretch in whose power he had imprudently placed himself; and this abandoned female had the audacity to introduce herself to Helen, upon her arrival in the metropolis; and Sedley, though shocked and terrified at her presumption, dared not to expose her real character, or check the intimacy.Too late he saw the dreadful snareThat wicked woman laid;Hatred usurp'd the place of love,Yet still he was afraidTo aggravate the wretch's wrathTo whom he had assign'dA bond, which must destruction bring;Distraction seiz'd his mind!Still, still, from Helen did he tryTo hide each deed of blame;But cruel Rumour's busy tongueSoon told of Sedley's shame.Sedley was then no longer frail;He lov'd,—ador'd his wife;And, to insure her happiness,With joy had yielded life.By contrast, Woodley was despis'd,He loath'd her former charms;Yet dreading lest the bond was claim'd,He fled into her arms.Hating himself—hating a crime,Which stigmatiz'd his fame;He could not meet his spotless wifeWithout a sense of shame!Helen beheld his alter'd brow,Beheld it with despair;Yet little knew the inward pangsWhich veil'd that brow—with care!Rumour, as I before observ'd,Gave gentle Helen pain;At length a letter meets her hands,Which made denial vain;For in that fatal note, or scroll,Woodley display'd her part;Call'd loudly upon Sedley's love,And *claim'd—his fetter'd heart.* Sedley is represented by the author of Glenross Vale, as a[remainder of footnote appears at bottom of following page in original.] compound of virtue and vice; for, sensible that dire necessity compelled him to keep upon terms with the despicable Woodley, he appears to have expected the injured Helen to commiserate, rather than condemn, his dereliction from virtue; and when she inclosed him the infamous woman's letter in a reproachful one of her own, his indignation became so violent, that he solemnly vowed never to behold her again. Alas ! what wife could patient readSo vile,—so sad a claim,Without experiencing those pangsWhich set the mind in flame!Helen inclos'd the shocking proofOf passions uncontroll'd,Condemning Sedley for her wrongs,In language strong and cold!Rage, indignation, and despair,By turns usurp'd his breast;A direful vow he solemn took,Which robb'd his soul of rest!He vow'd to quit his native shore,And see no more his wife;The sacred contract firm he kept,Fatal to peace,—and life.*Woodley resolv'd to share his fateDisguis'd, she sought the fleet;Secur'd a passage in the ship,And there the lovers meet.Helen this news too quickly heard,And begs, intreats, implores,Her angry lord to seek his home,Nor quit his native shores.But, like a rock, unmov'd he stood,Both sighs and tears, were vain;In terms severe, again he vow'dThey ne'er could meet again.The injur'd Helen keenly feltThis insult from her lord;The wound inflicted was as deepAs any treach'rous sword* The moment Woodley was made acquainted with the effect which her letter to Sedley had produced upon the unfortunate Sedley's mind, she resolved to share his fate; and disguising herself in male apparel, easily obtained a passage on board the same vessel. Could e'er inflict upon a breastIt ought to shield or 'fend:Thus cruel Sedley wounded hisKindest,—and dearest friend!Helen, discarded in her Prime,Return'd to Glenross vale;There did her sorrows soon burst forthInto a dreadful gale!Pitied—belov'd—ador'd—admir'd—Her friends in clusters cameTo offer consolation to, a mindUntouch'd with shame.Yet still had disappointed hopeHer promis'd joys consum'd;And the sweet Rose of Glenross Vale.Seemed wither'd, ere it bloom'd.Amongst the num'rous friends that came,Was *Stuart, great and good;His sanction—was a host of fame;On Virtue's rock, he stood.* Doctor Stuart, the amiable friend and preceptor of the[Remainder of footnote appears at bottom of following page in original] accomplished Lord Dorville, had, from infancy, considered Helen as his adopted child, and loved her with truly paternal affection. And with him came the polish'd lord,For whom the trump of fameHad sounded oft in Helen's ears,As free from spot or blame.Ah! luckless visit! big with woe;With horror, and despair;For Helen seem'd by Nature form'dTo fall to Dorville's share!Oh! had they met before the knot,The dreadful knot was tied;Then Dorville had, indeed, been blest,And Helen been his bride.They met, 'tis true; but Helen thenWas but in years a child;And Dorville merely saw in herA creature soft and mild.But when he view'd her ripen'd charms,And listen'd to her voice,How did he blame his wayward heart,That might have made a choice;Might have secur'd the precious prize,Ere Sedley own'd a flame!*For Stuart oft had wish'd the youthTo give the fair his name.Though Helen was a peerless maid,Unmatch'd in form and mein;Dorville in ev'ry grace excell'd,His equal—ne'er was seen!Persuasion hung upon his lips,Instruction mark'd his mind;His ev'ry look, his ev'ry thought,Was noble, chaste, refin'd!* Doctor Stuart, previous to Helen's leaving Glenross, had written Lord Dorville a letter, descriptive of his adopted daughter's amiable and accomplished manners, and recommended her as a wife, but Dorville rejected the proposal. But love, all-powerful love, distain'dA mind by Nature chaste;And his frail heart sent forth a wish,Forbidden joys to taste.By zeal unfeign'd, for Helen's bliss,He stole into her heart;*Stuart perceiv'd the wily snare,And shew'd his pupil's art.Helen awoke, as from a dream;Awoke, alas! too late;Her heart was gone, although her mindWas firmly fix'd as fate!Never could one unchaste desireThat radiant mind o'ercloud;But ah! her sun of happinessWas 'velop'd in a shroud!* Doctor Stuart, with truly parental zeal, cautioned Helen against receiving those pointed and delicate attentions which Lord Dorville paid, strongly pointing out the delicate mode of conduct which a young woman in her situation ought to observe. And to complete her poignant woes,Strange news of Sedley cameHis love for Helen had return'dWith an increase of flame!He felt the folly of the past,And Woodley's claims were o'er;With rapid haste he hasten'd backUnto his native shore.Then with true penitence of heartHe meant to see his wife;Implore forgiveness on his knees,And vow to love through life!Helen with anguish heard this plan,With terror and dismay;And vow'd her husband ne'er to seeUntil the judgment day.Not guilty she in act, but thought;Dorville possess'd her heart;Could she, then, meet its rightful lord,Without the aid of art?But Helen knew not how to feignPleasure—or great surprise;Sedley had once refus'd her love,And call'd upon the skies,To witness this his sacred oath,That they no more should meet;But that forgotten, home he sailsWith the Egyptian fleet.He sails, and lands on Albion's isle,With anxious, throbbing breast;To Glenross Vale he bends his course,Seeking repose and rest!For peace had long a stranger beenTo hapless Sedley's heart;Too late he trac'd out Woodley's wiles,Her treachery and art.But rumour now with Helen's fameHad cruel busy been;And Sedley heard that DorvilleHad, —tempted the Fair to sin.Impetuous as volcanic fires,His varying passions rose;Unhappy man! the fates decreeThou ne'er should'st feel repose!The purity of Helen's fameHe scarce could doubt or blame;But he believ'd Lord Dorville hadTried to disgrace her name.Belief with Sedley was a fact; His passions were on fire; And whilst he journey'd to Glenross, Each mile increas'd his ire ! Helen was journeying on the road,And Dorville chanc'd to meet;Oh, fatal chance! oh, luckless hour!An hour to vengeance sweet!For at the self-same inn they stopp'd,That Sedley entertain'd;A thin partition form'd the wall,— Each utter'd word explain'd.And Sedley heard Lord Dorville breatheVows into Helen's ears;Of love,—eternal love and truth;He maddens as he hears!Yet Helen tried to check those vowsProphaning to a wife;And no encouragement she gaveTo him whose very lifeSeem'd bound in her's—but pity soonSoften'd her gentle breast;And she declar'd that were she free,Dorville would then be blest!Blest with the hand as well as heart,Of her, whose dreary lifeWould pass unsolac'd and retir'd,Whilst she was Sedley's wife!Yet wife alone by wedlock's ties,Was all that she could prove;Sedley had once rejected her,She now despis'd his love!"Yet Dorville," said the weeping fair,"If Helen's peace is dear,Never, oh! never, I implore,Before my face appear!"Respect my sorrows, and my woes,Respect my spotless name;I'm Sedley's wife—not Helen now;Who might have shar'd thy fame!"Such was the language Sedley heard,And heard it with dismay;"Vengeance!" he cried; "Vengeance, ye gods!Vengeance, without delay!"The hapless Dorville had retir'd To soothe his cares to rest;But Sedley soon disturb'd the lordWith this severe behest:To meet him e'er an hour elaps'd,In an adjoining field;Dorville attended the command,Their glittering points they wield.Dorville is wounded—Sedley dies—Yet e'er his parting breathEscap'd his lips, *Helen had heardA dreadful tale of death.Frantic with grief and woe she flies;But ah! too late arrives!She threw herself upon his form;She heard his last faint sighs!Distraction sudden seiz'd her brain;Her eyes with wildness roll;Her servants bear her from the scene,But who shall calm her soul?Not, not on earth, poor hapless fair,Thy spirit e'er can rest;But in the realms of pure delight'Twill be a spotless guest!* A favourite dog of Colonel Sedley's, which had accompanied him to Egypt, bounded into Helen's apartment at the inn, and convinced her that his master was near; but, upon making enquiries, she heard from the servants that the two gentlemen had left the inn, and that carriages were ordered to follow them.For pure and spotless was thy mind;Thy virtue was unstain'd;Yet being Sedley's wedded wife,Thy conduct must be blam'd.Woe to a wife despis'd, forsworn,Who listens to Love's voiceFrom any but that husband's lips,Whom she had made her choice.And woe to ev'ry parent's heartWho lets ambition proveA cement for connubial bonds,Bonds only firm by love.May Helen's death, for ah! she diedDistracted and forlorn;Prove that ambition's flow'ry roadConceals the pointed thorn!THE STORM;OR,THE ATHEIST DESTROYED.'TWAS on a gloomy sombre night,When clust'ring clouds had form'dInto a mass so densely thick,That Nature seem'd appall'd!The whistling winds with hollow soundProclaim'd the tempest near;Whilst Echo, from the neighb'ring rocks,Increas'd the force of fear!Soon did electric fires illumeWith rapid darting rays;Whilst peals of thunder quick pursu'dEach flash's fearful blaze!Alonzo wandering o'er the waste,Benighted and forlorn;Beheld this elemental strife,And pray'd for early dawn!Pray'd, did I say? ah no! for prayerHis lips would have prophan'd;He had denied Omnipotence,By vices unrestrain'd !Not satisfied with doing wrong,It was Alonzo's prideTo propagate his dang'rous thoughts,And Virtue's laws deride!Still bounteous Nature to this youthSuch personal charms had giv'n;He seem'd to move a god on earth,The favourite child—of heav'n!For never was a finer form,And ne'er did manly graceAppear more strikingly display'dThan in Alonzo's face!But ah ! the casket was adorn'd,Whilst that which it contain'dWas but the seeds of ev'ry vice,Polluted—and distain'd.Still smoothness flow'd from the youth's tongue;Persuasion mark'd his speech;And deep Attention mutely sateTo hear Alonzo teach.He taught, that passions were bestow'dBut to be gratified;He taught, that virtue was a name;An ignus-fatúus guide.He taught, that an all-powerful GodWas but the cant of priests;And when the thread of life was broke,Man perish'd like the beasts.Such were the tenets which he taught;And ah! poor luckless maid!Such were the doctrines of the wretchBy whom thou wast betray'd.Fatal, Elvira, prov'd the hour,When, with sophistic art,Alonzo, by corruptive wiles,Betray'd thy spotless heart!Elvira was her parent's pride;Transcendent were her charms;And never till Alonzo woo'd,Had she felt Love's alarms!Not the Deceiver of mankind,Not Eve's invet'rate foe,Could e'er display more subtle art,Or more deception show!Scarce could her innocence escape,Assail'd by so much guile;Diana might have been deceiv'd,And yielded with a smile.Yet not contented with her charms,Charms of angelic kind;The wretch destroy'd her principles,Her virtuous turn of mind:Taught her to disbelieve a God!Nor fear his sacred name:And ev'ry moral law condemnWith ignominious shame!Yet was the veil in time withdrawnFrom her envelopp'd eyes;And penitence of heart then rais'dElvira to the skies.Untrammell'd from the fatal snaresWhich villany had spread,Elvira trembled at the past;But ah! her spirit fled!Unable to sustain the pangsWhich conscious guilt imparts,Elvira sunk beneath the stroke;Beneath Alonzo's arts!And twice twelve moons had circled round,When that tempestuous nightFirst made Alonzo view his crimes,And view them with affright!Pale—trembling—and dismay'd he stood!Cold drops bedew'd his face;"Oh God !" he cried, "in mercy spareA wretch who asks thy grace!"He spoke—and falling on his knees,Bedew'd the earth with tears;But whilst thus prostrate and dismay'd,Elvira's shade—appears!"Hide me, ye rocks! ye caverns hide!"Affrighted, he exclaim'd;"Thy hour is come ;—thy time elaps'd !"Reply'd the heav'nly maid."By prayers and penitence, my crimesA pardon have insur'd;But ah! unhappy wretch! thy viceNo longer is endur'd!"Eternal justice has decreedThis hour shall be thy last;Behold the lightning's lurid gleam!Hear the dread thunder's blast!"[First engraved illustration appears here, following page 68. For text, see end of poem.]Quick from the clouds the lightning burstOn his devoted head;"Save me, Elvira !"—he exclaim'd;But ah! his spirit fled!

But whilst thus prostrate and dismay'dElvira's shade—appears !Page 68

T. Uwins del.␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣T. Woolnoth, sculp.

Published by Vernor Hood & Sharpe Sept. 1.1810.

 SELINA.NOT far from *Tyvy's banks and bayAn humble dwelling rose;Around its walls the woodbine twin'd,Encircled with the rose.The purple violet at their feet,Perfum'd the ambient air;And those who view'd the lovely cot,Thought it—a shield from care!* A river in Cardiganshire, which issues from a lake on the east side of the county, and after watering Tregannon and Llanbeder, falls into the bay a little below the town of Cardigan.But ah! how oft the gilded carA wretched heart contains;And oft the palaces of stateAre fill'd with care and pains!Deceptuous is the lot of man;For those who seem most blest,Are frequently a prey to grief,Their hearts devoid of rest!And oh! that cot, which seem'd to beTranquility's abode,Contain'd a being who had longWander'd in Sorrow's road!Selina, beauteous as the mornIn orient streaks appears,Had felt Affliction's iron strokeEven in childhood's years!Had felt—for ah! her heart was softAs cygnet's downy breast;And when she measur'd twice six years,Heav'n sent a dire behest:A mother, tenderly rever'd,Was struck by death's keen dart;Fatal the stroke—sad the effect—On poor Selina's heart!A father still, 'tis true, she had;Yet father but in name;No tenderness he e'er display'd,E'en kindness seem'd a shame.Stoic and stern Antonio was;A tear ne'er veil'd his eye;And when he lost his gentle love,His breast scarce heav'd a sigh!His will, to her, had been a law;His word, a firm decree;His wishes were a strict command,And what he said—must be.Such was Selina's stoic sire;A sire she needs must fear;But such a man was never form'dTo cherish or endearA female timid as the fawn,Which fearful skips and plays;And whilst it sportive bounds along,Dreads danger if it strays.And thus Selina, if she e'erIn sportive childhood stray'd,Dreaded to meet a father's frown,For having sportive play'd.But as the age of childhood pass'd, A mind matur'd appears;Reading succeeded juv'nile sports,Reflection—mark'd her years.Intense those thoughts, by nature gay,For sorrow mark'd her mind;No soft caress e'er met her earIn language sweet and kind!But from her father's low'ring browRepulsive looks were cast;Like gath'ring clouds, which oft foretelThe rough succeeding blast.Thus did this fair-one, all forlornWithin a mansion dwell;Where art and nature seem'd to blendTheir sweet, inviting spell.Yet from that sweet Elysium spotSelina oft would stray;And on clear Tyvy's verdant banks,Stroll thoughtless of the way.One eve it was, when wand'ring far,Near that pellucid tide,A foaming steed flew rapid by,Ungovern'd by a guide.The rattling stirrups and the reinProclaim'd its rider thrown;Selina felt a thousand fearsAt being quite alone.Quick she return'd the trodden path,And there beheld a swainStretch'd languid on the verdant grass,Wreathing beneath his pain.Transfix'd some moments she remain'd,But Pity made her move;Pity, that passion which we knowIs near allied to Love!"Stranger !"—she said, in fault'ring voice,"Can I assistance lend?Or shall I fly to yonder farm,And fetch an abler friend?""Oh, fly not!—move not!" he replied;Gazing upon the fair;"That voice proclaims that you were sentBy Heav'n—to banish care!"Unus'd to language soft or mild,Selina anxious stays;Lends a white 'kerchief for the wound,And sweet attention pays.With tender hand the 'kerchief bindsAround his bleeding head;Then to the farm she quickly flies,To ask a friendly bed.The boon was granted quick as made;The honest farmer greetsThe stranger in the kindest terms,His wife well airs the sheets.Slowly and sad the maid returnsTo Tyvy's mossy vale;Not daring to relate the past,Or tell the stranger's tale!Strange the sensations which she feltWithin her throbbing breast;The stranger's sorrows, and his voice,Had robb'd her mind of rest!For as he spoke, his looks proclaim'dThe passion she'd inspir'd;And love appear'd in ev'ry glance,Pure love his bosom fir'd!Next morn Selina anxious bentHer steps towards the farm;And joyful hears the accidentPortended no great harm.Languid and faint, young Edward was,For such the stranger's name;His father, a true pastor, dweltFar from the road to fame:An humble village thrice three leaguesFrom Tyvy's flow'ry sideThe good man liv'd—admir'd, ador'd,—His humble hearers' guide.Edward was likewise for the churchIntended to prepare;Such was his taste,—although his sireThe money ill could spare.At Cambridge Edward found a friend;A friend he was, indeed;The Lord Macdonald saw his worth,And prov'd a friend in need."Edward!" he said, "be to my son,A youth about your age,A kind admonisher and friend;My service then engage!"Teach him to shun the path of vice,In which I greatly fearHe has been led—and I will grantTwo hundred pounds a year:"Nor that alone; for if I live,Most solemnly I swear,To make your interest my own,With a paternal care."He said, and rigidly fulfill'dThe promise he had made;And from that time, two hundred poundsEach year was duly paid.That sum was wealth to Edward's mind,A mind unprone to strayIn the luxurious path of vice;He kept pure Virtue's way.Such was the fortune of this youth,But bright his prospects were,When he beheld the lovely maidSelina—young and fair!Inspir'd he was with passion pure,As angels might proclaim;And well be knew his worthy sireWould sanction the soft flame.Oft had he heard Selina's charmsApplauded and admir'd;And when he saw the blooming maid,His breast by love was fir'd."Say, beauteous fair-one, can thy breastA mutual passion own?Say, wilt thou plight to me thy faithAnd live for me alone ?"If so, conduct me to thy sire,And on my bended kneeI will implore him to bestowA prize ador'd—on me!"Speak—fair-one, speak! tell me my doom!"Impatient he exclaim'd; "Or if my eagerness offends,Thy charms are to be blam'd!"With modest blush, and downcast eye,The timid maid replied:"If sanction'd to receive thy love,"I may become thy bride;"But oh! my father is severe;His voice I must obey!E'en now I fear I shall be miss'd,Longer I dare not stay."Nor would I wish it, till I hearMy father's fix'd decree;Although I readily will ownMy heart inclines tow'rds thee !""Let it incline and cleave," he cried,"To this true, faithful breast;And, like the ivy round the oak,Make me supremely blest!"They parted—Edward promising,On the ensuing day,To wait upon Selina's sire,His compliments to pay.Scarce had the damsel reach'd her door,Ere Dorothy, the maid,Inform'd her that a stranger had,During her absence, paid A visit to her haughty sire,"And much, dear girl, I fearThat visit will bring woe to you;Some words I chanc'd to hear,"Which gave me reason to supposeHe came to beg your hand:This visitor was crooked Dick,Who owns a pow'r of land.""Sir Richard Benson! do you mean?Speak, Dorothy—oh, say!Yet ah! the very name of himWould fill me with dismay!""Yes, him it was," the maid replied;"But do not yield to fear;"——Antonio, ah! that moment call'd,Selina hid the tearThat started in her azure eyeAt Benson's hateful name:He was the veriest wretch on earth,A being lost to shame:Sordid and selfish; proud and vain;Yet still his callous heartHad felt the mighty pow'r of love,And own'd its potent dart.Selina's form had met his eye,And all his passions fir'd;Then to Antonio he flew,To tell what he desir'd.Elate with joy Antonio heardSir Richard's flattering tale;And gave his word, a word he vow'dThrough time should never fail;That ere the moon its course had run,And ere three weeks had fled,His daughter should be sacrific'd,And to the altar led! Appall'd!—aghast!—Selina stood,The image of despair;Her trembling limbs refus'd their post,She totter'd to a chair!"What ails the girl?" Antonio cried,In accents deep and loud;His gath'ring brow was overspreadWith anger's darkest cloud."My father surely will not bringDeep sorrow on his child?"She said, in accents choak'd by tears,Yet accents sweetly mild!"What can the ideot mean?" he said,Foaming with rage and ire;"Sir Richard shall your husband be;Now to your room retire!" Not twice the mandate need be told,With pleasure she obey'd;Yet scarcely could ascend the stairs,Though aided by her maid. "Oh, Dorothy!" the fair-one said,"The veriest wretch on earthIs surely happier than me;For, from my very birth,"No ray of comfort have I known;No smile has fortune shed;But clouds, dark clouds, have from that hourBeen hov'ring o'er my head!"To Edward now we will return,Who to Antonio hied;And having told his love-sick tale,Solicited his bride.Scarce would the rude Antonio hearThe gentle Edward's tale;The youth perceiv'd his angry browCollect with Passion's gale."Begone!" he cried, "no parson poorCan e'er my daughter wed;She is betroth'd, and to the churchIn three weeks will be led.""Oh spare her! spare her!" Edward said,And sunk upon his knee;"If pity ever touch'd thy breast,Bestow her upon me!"As well might Edward have suppos'dPity could touch a stone,As to imagine his hard heartWould that sensation own."Young man, away ! nor e'er presumeTo enter this abode:"So saying, he unclos'd the door, And pointed to the road. Not twice requiring to be toldTo quit Selina's sire,Upon his ready steed he sprang,His bosom fill'd with ire;Not ire alone his feelings shook,But agoniz'd dismay;Selina's image fill'd his mindWith its celestial ray!Again towards the farm he turn'dHis horse's willing head;Again implor'd his gen'rous hostTo grant a friendly bed.The boon was granted, and next mornThe maid again appears;But with a face o'erspread with woe,'Twas Beauty veil'd in tears!These tender meetings for nine daysSuccessively took place;But at their end the fates decreedEdward had ran his race!During that time, Sir Richard hadEach ev'ning seen the fair;And by rich presents vainly triedTo win her to his care:Yet sighs and tears are the returnHis love and gifts obtain;The baronet resolv'd to knowWhat caus'd, the fair-one's pain;By bribery, he soon found outShe met the favour'd youth;Who plighted her his fervent vowsOf constancy and truth. Suspicion had the cause suppos'dWhy the fair-maid was coy;But fact the circumstance reveal'd,That Edward was her joy.Indignant were Sir Richard's thoughts;Revenge his bosom fires;And the ninth morn—oh, cruel deed!The hapless youth expires!A trusty page Sir Richard had,If such term be appliedTo a vile wretch who ever hadMade interest his guide.To him he told his tale of love,And whence the coyness came;Then bade his pistols be prepar'd,Oh, deed of savage shame!The one was laden with two balls,The other destituteOf any loading that could harm;Thus sally'd forth the brute,Attended by his trusty squire,To meet Selina's swain;Whom well he knew must pass that road,To reach his home again."Well met !" he cried, as he espiedThe noble youth appear;"But tell me, youngster, by what rightYou have been loit'ring here?"By what right, sir, do you demand Me to account to you?"Exclaim'd young Edward, whilst his faceGlow'd with a roseate hue."These grounds are mine;" Richard replied;"I am their lawful lord;"—"And I," said Edward, with a sneer,"Am master of the world!""Great as thou art—I'm greater still;My passions I control;Therefore pass on ;—thou art too meanTo agitate my soul!"Rage gave impétus now to love; He darted from his steed;" Vain boy!" he said, "this moment oneOr other, of us bleed!""To-morrow," Edward calm reply'd,""I'll try with thee my pow'r;The spot and weapons thou may'st name,Likewise the very hour!""To-morrow! say'st thou?" he exclaim'd;"Moments would seem a year!But, coward, I thy reason know;Thou tremblest now— from fear !"I have two weapons by my side,And one thou now may'st try;But I behold thy quiv'ring lip,Thou dar'st not nobly die!""Dar'st not!" the noble youth exclaim'd;And from the ready handSnatch'd the too fatal offer'd means;Each took the measur'd stand!"Heav'n and Selina!" Edward said,As he the trigger drew;With smile satanic Richard aim'd,The balls both rapid flew,And lodg'd beneath his manly breast!He stagger'd, groan'd, and fell!Who shall the horrid deed proclaim?Who the disaster tell?Yet told it was—though not with truth—Time only could revealThe dark assassin's villanyOf heart—more hard than steel!Quick did the horrid tale extendTo Tyvy's verdant side;A shriek of terror rent the airFrom Edward's destin'd bride!For on that fatal morn she hadPromis'd the urgent youth,Next day to plight to him her vowsOf constancy and truth.For nine long months madness o'erspreadHapless Selina's mind;At length Religion's soothing charmTaught her to be resign'd!But who shall paint her heart-felt grief!Who tell her poignant woes?.On Tyvy's banks the maid still strays,And as its water flows,She nightly wanders near its side,Her tears augment the stream;And Fiction says, those pearly dropsHave made it saline seem.Too late Antonio saw his fault;That fault in vain deplor'd;Sir Richard's name is scarcely borne,Whilst Edward's is ador'd.QUASHEY;AN AUTHENTIC TALE:FOUNDED ON MATTER OF FACT. NO more let Europe's offspring boastSuperior sense and worth;Or fancy virtue is attach'dTo any spot of earth;Nor e'er suppose that Carib's dark,And Ebon's sons don't knowA bright illuminating ray,A pure, a heaven form'd glow;For Quashey's simple tale will showA lesson to mankind;And prove a sable skin is notConnected with the mind.Quashey possess'd exterior charms,And native, untaught grace;For Porto Rico's sons were allEnamour'd with her face.A speaking eye—a slender form—A sensative, soft pride,Made her ador'd by Porto's youths,Who sought her for their bride.Yet was not Quashey easy won,Although her tender heartFelt the full force of potent love,And knew its joys and smarts !And Vincent was a warlike youth,Well he pursu'd the chase;His form, true manliness display'd,Expression mark'd his face.Long did he woo; at length he boreThe valued prize away;And tenderness each hour increas'd,From the propitious day.So fondly were their hearts attach'd,So true, so firm their loves,That Porto Rico's sons compar'dThis couple to two doves!But, sad and shocking to relate,This fond domestic pairWere torn asunder by a force,Which might with wolves compare;For slav'ry, with its ruffian band,Seiz'd the ill-fated youth;And though he pleaded wedded loveWith tenderness and truth,Yet unaffected by those ties,They forc'd him from the fair;And the distracted Quashey stoodAn emblem of despair!Frantic she saw him forc'd on boardA vessel that lay near;A shriek of horror rent the air,Yet shed she not a tear!To St. Domingo's fruitful isleThe hapless youth they bore;And three long days was Quashey stretch'dUpon the senseless shore!At length a floating bark she spied,With whited sails unfurl'd;Transported, she a signal made,'Twas handkerchief empearl'dWith crystal drops, which from her eyeThe snowy lawn had steep'd;And as she rais'd it high in air,Again the fair-one weep'd."Convey me to my love!" she cried;"In pity to my prayer,Oh, take me to Domingo's isle,For my belov'd is there!"The vessel was completely stow'd,Few passengers had roomE'en for the luggage they requir'd,Each birth was like a tomb,So close, so narrow, and confin'd;The captain cool declar'd,That Quashey could not be receiv'd,Or any space be spar'd."I'll sleep upon the deck," she cried;"No food this form requires;For grief destroys the appetite,And quenches such desires."Yet oh! in pity hear my prayer;In mercy give assent;If e'er the pangs of love you knew,Then would your heart relent!"Convey me to Domingo's shores,I'll pray for prosp'rous gales!"Yet still the captain stood unmov'd,The vessel swiftly sails.Senseless she dropp'd upon the sands;The sight appall'd the breastOf Edward, who had vainly urg'dPoor Quashey's fond request."Can you behold that hapless girl,"Said he, "with heart unmov'd !On Albion's shores is there no oneWhom you have fondly lov'd?"Think then—oh! but one moment think,If such should be her fate,How would you feel, to see that fairReduc'd to such a state? "Willing my birth I will resign,In my cot she shall lay;Order the men to loose the boat,And fetch the fair away."Humanity then touch'd a breastUnus'd to pity's charms;Two sailors sprang on board the boat,And bore her in their arms.By aid of volatiles restor'd,Her heart responsive beat,To Gratitude's impressive voice;And falling at the feetOf Edward—she implor'd her godsHis valu'd life to spare;Beseeching them, in language sweet,To take him to their care.Short was the passage to the isle;A prosp'rous gale soon boreQuashey to her beloved's arms,On St. Domingo's shore.The tender tale was soon disclos'd,It touch'd each feeling heart;And Vincent's humane master vow'dThey never more should part.Freedom to Vincent was proclaim'dWithin a trifling space;But Quashey wish'd her thanks to breatheBefore she left the place,To her preserver—as she call'dThe being who procur'dA passage to Domingo's isle,And all her sorrows cured.Yet ah! poor Edward was reduc'dTo such a dreadful state;The voice of gratitude was lost,But how shall I relateThe ravage which that dreadful foeThe yellow fever made?Twelve brother officers had thenThe debt of nature paid;And Edward was pronounc'd past cure,Senseless and parch'd he lay,Without one friend to comfort him,Or kind attention pay!Though pestilence breath'd round the spot,Quashey its wrath defied;For gratitude inspir'd her breast,"And oh, my love," she cried,"Help me to move this feeble formInto a purer air;This is the man who sav'd thy wifeFrom mis'ry and despair!"Then laden with Distemper's load,They mov'd it near the sea;And tenderly repos'd the weightUnder a plantain tree.An acid napkin was procur'd,And round his temples bound;Then searching Nature's bounteous store,Some healing drugs they found.These were prepar'd without delay,And like the Mecca balm,They check'd the burning fever's rage,And made the pulse beat calm.Soon did intelligence return,Soon Reason gain'd her seat;Tears stream'd from grateful Quashey's eyes,Tears exquisitely sweet.The languid Edward gaz'd around;"Where am I?" he exclaims;A plantain-tree o'ershadow'd him,Fann'd by refreshing gales.Extatic then was Quashey's joy,Her anxious cares had prov'dThe means of saving Edward's life,Whom she rever'd and lov'd."Quashey, receive my grateful thanks,"Said the still languid youth;"Existence to your care I owe,And by my sacred truth,The gratitude this bosom feelsShall be in deeds repaid;And half the fortune I possessShall at your feet be laid."Talk not to me of gratitude;"Said Quashey, in reply;"Through you my reason was preserv'd,And could I see you die,"Without endeavouring to restoreYour dearly valued health?Within this breast I feel reward,Then say no more of wealth:"Vincent will for his Quashey work;Daily his toils I'll share;Farewell, my friend—may the gods takeYou under their kind care!"Thus saying, she embrac'd his hand,And bath'd it with a tear;Then fled like arrow from a bow,Or hare impress'd with fear.Who, let me ask, will now declareThat sable tint of skinCan the mind's feelings ere display,Or prove the worth within.EDWARD OF WALHAM GREEN;OR,THE REWARD OF DUTY AND VALOUR.YOUNG Edward was a noble youth,A finer ne'er was seen;He was his aged gran-dam's pride,And lov'd by all the green.Yet Edward had misfortune known,Ere he pronounc'd the name;His father died in honour's cause,Untarnish'd was his fame!His mother's heart was fond and true,The fatal news she heard;And unprepar'd for the deep shock,She utter'd not a word!Her eyes on Vacancy seem'd fix'd;Her heart could not containThe mighty load of grief and woe,Its strings all burst in twain!Thus then was Edward, when a child,Of parents fond bereft;And in the space of two short days,An orphan was he left.Ill news, they say, on pinions flies,Swift as the passing gale;And Edward's grandmother soon heardThe melancholy tale!The orphan child was quickly brought,And plac'd on Walham Green;And soon a lovely boy became,As ever eyes have seen.His manly form was much admir'd;His manners more approv'd;And Edward, as he grew in years,Was by his neighbours lov'd.The gran-dam doated to excessUpon this worthy youth;And on his ductile mind impress'dA noble sense of truth.His father's virtues and his worth,Frequent would she proclaim;And then implore the list'ning boyNe'er to disgrace his name.Thus did the boy in early youth,A sense of honour feel;And as attentively he sat,The pearly drops would stealAdown his soft carnation cheek,Which checking—he'd exclaim,"Never—oh, never! granny, fear,That I'll disgrace my name!"A more than mother you have been,Dear granny, long to me;Yet much I wish to serve my king,And distant climes to see."Should I but any laurels wear,I'd lay them at your feet;And coming home, recount exploitsPerformed by our fleet!"Besides, I then a prize might gain;A noble prize for thee;And then afford to keep a maid,What comfort would it be,"To see thy ev'ry want supply'd!Yet little can I earn,And you grow old—and I have stillPart of my trade to learn.""Oh, Edward!" said the aged dame,"Would you your granny leave?Who in your absence will sustain?I have not long to breathe. Then stay until my eyes are clos'd;My heart I'm sure would break,Was I to lose my darling boy,Oh! stay then—for my sake!"Edward embrac'd her wither'd hand; And on that hand he swore Never to name the painful theme,Or quit his native shore, Until the being whom he lov'dWas in the cold earth laid:Cheerful he daily went to work,A carpenter—his trade.Whilst every penny he could save,Was to his granny giv'n;And as he toil'd, his tuneful voiceImplor'd the God of heav'nTo crown his labour with success;For as his granny drewNear to her end—her wants increas'd,And Edward's means were few:For scarcely sixteen suns had shedTheir light upon his head;And his protectress had quite lostThe pow'r of gaining bread.Though Edward toil'd from morn till night,His strength had never fail'd;At length his poor old granny died,Then—on the seas he sail'd.Beside his captain Edward fought,His eyes emitting fire;He fought for glory—and for fame,And gain'd his fond desire.For as the captain eager sprangUpon the vanquish'd deck,A fatal blow was slily aim'dAt his unguarded neck.Edward with eye of hawk beheldThe bright, uplifted steel;Rushing between his friend and foe,He made the latter feelThe force of his strong, nervous arm;For with one mighty stroke,The head he sever'd from the trunk:It fell—and never spoke!"No quarter to such wretches give!"Exclaim'd a lieutenant;"In mercy spare them!" said the youth;"Mercy's an English plant;"And let us not destroy its growth,Or tarnish our bright name;""Spare them!" the captain said, likewise,"We will not soil our fame!"Then rushing into Edward's arms,"Receive, dear gallant youth,My thanks," said he; "and now I swear,By honour and by truth,"From this blest moment you shall beDear as my vital breath: To you I owe the gift of life;And when that foe call'd Death,"Shall summon me to give accountOf all the deeds I've done,My fortune shall descend to thee,Henceforth thou art my son!"True did the captain make his words;And e'er that twelvemonth day,He was entomb'd within the earth,His body turn'd to clay.With fortune of ten thousand poundsWas Edward then possess'd;Whilst gratitude o'ercharg'd his heart,Grief agonized his breast;Returning home to Albion's clime,Two monuments he rais'd;One to the friend who nurtur'd him,Whose worth the marble prais'd.The other—to the valiant chief,Whose noble, gen'rous heart,Had shielded him from poverty'sDepressing, poignant smart.Yet Edward, when endow'd with wealth,With honour, and renown,Never forgot his humble birth,Or granny's russet gown.THE STORM;OR,VIRTUE PROTECTED BY OMNIPOTENCE.THE night was dark, the hollow windsRush'd through the falling leaves;For autumn shed her yellow hue,And ting'd the verdant trees.Long had the dew-drops from the skiesDenied their nurt'ring pow'r;The earth was parch'd—the forest dry—And faded was each flow'r.The rapid forming clouds proclaim'dA storm approaching near;The forked lightning darting quick,Inspir'd the breast with fear!The deep-ton'd thunder swift pursu'dThe elemental rays;And scarce one second interven'd,Between the sound and blaze!Oh! 'twas a night—when guilty soulsAre struck with horror's dread;And innocence dare scarcely sleepSecure upon its bed!Ethelbert, on this dreary night,Had wander'd long and far;No house appear'd—to shelter him—He saw no polar star:Yet 'midst the elemental shock,His mind was still and calm;Approving Conscience shed her light,Her sweet, consoling balm!"Great God!" he cried, "in thee I trust!On thy support rely!But if it is thy mighty will,That this night I should die,"Forgive the errors of my youth!Pardon the faults I've done!Sins of omission—oft I feel;Yet crimes—thank thee!—I've none!But if the creature thou hast form'd,Might venture to implore;Oh! let the lightning's lucid glareSpare her—whom I adore!"If delegated angels guardThe virtuous and the wise;Then—then is my Louisa safe,'Midst those terrific skies!"Yet timid is her spotless soul,Though guilt she never knew;Angels themselves—are not more pure,More perfect,—or more true!"Oh! should her form be now expos'dTo this tempestuous night,Fear would destroy the lovely maid,She'd sink—beneath affright!"Thus spoke Ethelbert—whilst the blastHowl'd horrid o'er his head;At length, majestic rose the moon,Her rays effulgent spread.The tempest for some minutes ceas'd,Whilst Cynthia's silver rayBecame a guide—conducting himInto the proper way.He thought her light display'd a formExtended near a tree;"Great God!" he cried, "'tis sure my love!"My angel! that I see."Like arrow from the bow discharg'd,He flew with eager speed;Appalling sight!—and sad to tell!Louisa—'twas indeed!Her pallid form was stretch'd beneathThe branches of an oak;He caught her in his circling arms,But ah! in vain he spoke."My life! my love! my soul's delight!"Alternate he exclaim'd;But terror—or the hand of death,Silenc'd the lovely maid!Fresh peals of thunder rent the air,New flashes burst the skies;Far from the tree—Ethelbert boreHis senseless—lifeless prize!Scarce had he mov'd her to a spotThat seem'd to him more freeFrom danger—than he saw a blastShatter the fated tree!Transports—beyond the pow'r of wordsTo paint, or to describe,Then fill'd the breast of Ethelbert—Louisa—was alive!For, as he press'd her to his heart,The maiden op'd her eyes;But fearful was the sight she saw,Joy—terror—and surprise[Second engraved illustration appears here, facing page 115. For text, see end of poem.]Restrain'd at first the pow'r of speech;At length—"My God," said she,"How has existence been prolong'd?How came I from the tree?""The God we serve," Ethelbert said,"An agent's power conferr'd;I saw thy danger—and I flew;"But heav'n—thy life preserv'd."And ere we leave this fearful spot,Let us, my love, in pray'rReturn Omnipotence our thanks,For making thee—his care!"Near to the blasted tree they drew,And prostrate at his shrine,Breath'd to their God a grateful pray'r,An orison divine!This done—Ethelbert once more press'dThe maiden to his heart;"'Tis heav'n," said he, "has join'd us now,And we will never part!""Yes heav'n, my friend, has surely join'd;And virtues bright like thine,Will be reflected, Ethelbert,When I am wholly thine."To-morrow shall the priest uniteOur hands, our souls, and heart,And never from my EthelbertWill I consent to part!"

And prostrate at his shrine,Breath'd to their God a grateful pray'rAn orison divinePage 115

Published by Vernor, Hood & Sharpe, Sept. 1.1810.

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.LINES;ADDRESSED TO THERIGHT HON. THE COUNTESS OF FARNHAM.FARNHAM! receive the mede of praise,An humble mede—whose meteor raysCannot illumine worth like thine;Worth, which with radiance divine,Displays itself by doing good,And nurturing a *tender broodOf helpless orphans!—yet who ne'erFelt that deep loss—a mother's care!For in thy tender arms caress'd,They lean upon a mother's breast.Still not to them alone confin'dThe gen'rous dictates of thy mind;For never was the aged poorIndignant driv'n from thy door:E'en there the ready hand bestowsSufficient for their present woes;And with benevolence impartsA balm to their afflicted hearts !No vain domestic ever there,Forbiddeth the appeal of care;But, like the streamlet, in its course,Nurtures from some great river's source!Long may that river and its tideSuccessive flow—and sweetly glide!Long may its smooth meand'ring streamContinue bright by Fortune's beam!And ev'ry blessing life bestows,With Farnham—and her lord repose!* The amiable Lord and Lady Farnham have generously adopted the orphan children of a beloved brother or sister; and her ladyship superintends their education with as much tenderness as if they were her own.A POETIC EPISTLE.TOLADY H——L.;Inviting her to a Fair, which commenced on the First of May.PERMIT a dull muse, my dear Charlotte, to say,The season approaches when Brook Green looks gay;Or in other terms, my dear friend, to declare,That on Monday the first, commenceth the fair;And though bustle and noise cannot always amuse,Yet to see others happy, you will not refuse;For I know that your heart by sympathy sharesThe joys of your friends, as well as their cares!"But pray, what amusement does Brook Green display?"Methinks, my dear Charlotte, I now hear you say,There is Gingle exhibiting musical glasses,Whilst the tone he produceth, Apollo surpasses!Then his dog, such superior instinct discovers,As to tell each young lady her number of lovers;And both master and dog alternate displayA thousand droll tricks, which pass time away.Two dramatic companies likewise appear,In one Rolla thunders,—in the other a Lear,Who raves at his daughters with such potent rage,That his voice is sufficient to shake the poor stage.Then there's Saunderson's troop, with riders so bold,As e'en to astonish all those who behold!Three horses they stride, and fly round a ring,Like the *God at whose heels there is painted a wing.There are wild beasts, and giants, and likewise a child,Whose person is large—but whose manners are mild;With whom poor Lady Morgan appears on a stage,That comparison may—more attention engage.There are booths, where all trinkets may easy be bought,From a three-guinea writing-desk, down to a groat.In short, my dear Charlotte, at Brook Green you'll find,Relief for the eye, if not for the mind;For a more motley groupe ne'er assembled together,And last year they were favour'd with beautiful weather:But weather affects not the feeling of friends,For on internal sources their pleasure depends;And should Boreas blow with his blusterous main,Or the clouds all distil in torrents of rain;Should the elements war, or the deep thunder roll,They would make no impression on my serene soul:For if Charlotte was with me, the season would seemAdorn'd with the beauty of spring's verdant green;And come when she will, to me 'twill be fair,For her presence disperses both sorrow and care.* Mercury.SPONTANEOUS LINES,ADDRESSEDTO MRS. S——;Who, upon being made acquainted with the Author's Design of publishing a Volume of Poems by Subscription, for an aged Mother's Benefit, warmly exerted herself to obtain Subscribers, and wrote for Fifty more Copies of the Proposals, to circulate amongst her numerous Acquaintance, apologizing for the Number. FIFTY more! my kind friend—and apologize too!Yet with form—let me ask, what has friendship to do?And such friendship as yours—flowing warm from a heartUnguided by int'rest—unaided by art,But rising or springing from sources divine,For such sweet benevolence surely is thine!And such, my kind friend, is a motive that's blest,Which, phoenix-like, rose from its mansion thy breast."No phoenix,"—methinks I hear you exclaim;Yet in this instance do not the epithet blame;For sincerity guideth each thought of my mind,And so, my dear friend, in time you will find.But phoenix you are; for no friend have I found,(Though with some—twenty years have circled their round,)Who have tried like yourself to promote this design;Then surely the praise, and the glory is thine!Yet do not suppose that I mean to declareNo being has made my int'rest their care;I only avow, that you have done moreThan the rest of my friends,—as I've told you before;And as gratitude filleth each space of my heart,You claim, my dear friend, a Benjamin's part.LINES,ADDRESSEDTO MRS. WILLIAMS, OF BEDFORD SQUARE;Supposed to be written by a young Lady of Fourteen; to whom she had sent a Lock of Hair, accompanied with a Letter, filled with tender and maternal Advice. THE lock, my dear aunt! I've this moment receiv'd;And with grateful emotions impartThat joy, which the present inspir'd, or conceiv'd,In a warm and susceptible heart!No *trifle to me is the gift of a friend,So maternally tender and true;And when from my bosom the lock shall suspend,My thoughts will each day turn to you!* Alluding to some lines which accompanied the lock."A trifle, if you do not love;A treasure, if you do!"They'll turn like the needle, whose magnet the poleAttracts like a pure northern light;And those virtues, dear aunt! which display thy pure soul,Shall lead me—to do what is right! A FICTITIOUS DIALOGUE,BETWEEN TWO GENTLEMEN; The one of whom had, in reality, imagined Mrs. M—— to be a very young Woman, from the peculiar Lightness of her Step, and complained of the Calash concealing, those Charms he fancied confined under it.SAID a beau to his friend, who resides on Brook Green,"Oh, Charles! near your house I've a new beauty seen!Her gait was elastic—her step debonaire,And if I might judge, she is youthful and fair;But although a female who cutteth a dash,Her charms were conceal'd—by a horrid calash;Under which even Argus could not take a peep,Still her form all that night haunted me in my sleep.And as you now live near her, pray tell me her name?Or from what part of England the sly gypsey came?For that said calash, which envelopes her ears,Like the zones which encircle their different spheres,Is merely a trick, as beauty conceal'd,Makes us anxious to gaze, and wish it reveal'd.Charles smil'd at his friend—and smiling exclaim'd,"Dear George, you are caught! still not to be blam'd;The fair-one in question is Mrs. Anne Moore,Who has seen fifteen years, and likewise threescore;Yet in movement may rival youth, beauty, and grace,And in worth of mind;——but as to the face,That doubtless is furrow'd by sorrow and years,Though still she's much older than what she appears;For the smile of good-humour illumines a faceWhere youth and its charms we no longer can trace;Yet no girl in my life have I ever seenWho could trip with more lightness or grace o'er the green.The calash is no trick—but a veil to the light,As the dear, good old lady, has not a good sight;For alas! she has mourn'd o'er the grave of those friendsOn whom all our joys, and our blessings depends.Yet friends she has left, both distant and near,Who her virtues admire, and her merits revere;And relations, who proud of Nature's soft ties,Would rejoice in the pow'r of preventing her sighs."—"Faith!" said George, (interrupting his friend as be spoke,)If this phoenix old lady would yield to the yokeOf wedlock—and join but her fate once to mine,I think, as a husband, I might chance to shine.Her virtues, at least, reflected would be,And effulgently bright shine forth upon me.""Poh! marriage!" cried Charles, "obtain her your friend;For on her advice you may safely depend,As Prudence directeth each word, thought, and deed;And you know, my dear George, that a true friend in needIs a blessing which Solomon tells us to prizeAbove ev'ry boon we receive from the skies;So come along now, we'll away to Brook Green,Where this charming old woman is still to be seen;Though Uffington is her place of abode,And next week, I find, she retravels the road."POETIC LINES,ADDRESSEDTO A FRIEND,Who had paid the Author a late Visit; and whom a Lady in Company asked whether she was not fearful of returning to Town without other Protection than Servants? The Enquiry led into a Dissertation upon Courage, and the Author was requested to give her Sentiments upon it. YOU request me, my friend, on true courage to write;Yet do you reflect, that whilst I indite,Or attempt to explain my ideas on the theme,The critics may term them a mere *ignus gleam.As courage, the lords of creation declare,Disgraces that softness attach'd to the fair;For courage, like honour, they boldly maintain,Is their inclusive right—a paternal domain,Descending as land, from the sire to the son,Since the time that dame Eve her domestic course run.She was softness personified, Milton declares;And Coelib's his heroine to Eve compares;Yet her's was the softness of feeling and soul,For each passion was under the judgment's control.But you'll tell me I wander, and widely digressFrom the subject you wish'd me to paint or express;Corrected I stand;—and revert to my text,Although to expound it—I'm rather perplex'd. True courage, I think, springs mature from that heartWhich disdains all appearance of softness or art;That softness, I mean, which seems to requireSome fostering aid if a cat should expire;Or a poor harmless beetle should happen to crawlFrom its confin'd abode, in the chink of a wall;Or a mouse should presumptuously venture to strayFrom its diurnal hiding place, and seem to say,This moment's your last!—then seize on the fair,And her delicate form into mere atoms tear!'Tis only such softness as this I despise,For a softness of heart is our sexes first prize.Again, you will say, I'm digressing too far;Allow'd;—I now make you my kind polar star;And return to the subject with which I began,Declaring true courage belongs not to man,As his exclusive right, or paternal domain;And will prove it, by shewing our sex can bear painWith heroic firmness, and undaunted mind;E'en to danger they often prove fearless or blind!Yet assertions and proof are two distinct things,Though my bow, in this instance, expands with two strings;And from history ancient and modern, can traceProofs of courage sublime—in the peticoat race.*Arria's sufficient, my friend, to proclaim,That woman, weak woman, has some claim to fame;For, as the life-blood flow'd warm from her heart,She smiling deliver'd her husband the dart:"No pain, my lov'd lord, does thy Arria feel,"Said she, as she gave him the sharp-pointed steel;"The death which I suffer is only to partFrom the object I love—the spouse of my heart!"Yet courage consists not in contempt of life; But Arria died to prove that a wife Could set an example, worth record, and fame, For both sex's honour that great woman's name.This is one of the many examples which thoughtHas to my remembrance judiciously brought,To prove that true courage from female minds springs,And is not confin'd to warriors or kings.Since fate has ordain'd all those horrors in France,What marks of courageousness might I advance!But the theme is too shocking for me to proclaim,And the proofs are recorded in annals of fame.But would you, my friend, have me courage define,I shall say, 'tis a gift from the Author Divine,Bestow'd at our birth, yet never acquir'd,Though brav'ry oft with its semblance is fir'd:'Tis a passion which banishes all futile fear,And draws independence within its own sphere.It would not face danger with wanton despite,Or shrink from dark omens with fear and affright;Collected it stands, with reason its base,Not fearing alarm, or dreading disgrace:'Tis a shield which preserveth from dread and surprise,And used by the noble, the good, and the wise.Yet why, my dear Laura, should I e'er define,A sentiment which I believe truly thine?No feminine fear does your bosom pervade,No dreadful forebodings excited by shade;From Brook Green you travel at twelve of the night,With the same perfect ease as when Sol's rays are bright;The reason, my friend, is perfectly clear,Neither act, deed, or word, give occasion for fear.Long, long may you travel through life's changing road,And always have sun-shine to gild your abode!And as you drive on—may each smiling yearMore joyous and gay than the former appear!Then when you arrive at the end of life's stage,May you meet the reward of virtue and age!* A poetic licence, abridging the term ignus fatúus.* Arria, the wife of Coecinius Poetus, a noble Roman, equally celebrated for her fortitude and conjugal affection.—The husband of this heroic female having been proscribed for some crime falsely imputed against him, was sentenced to an ignominious death; which, to avoid, Arria, in vain, endeavoured to persuade him to become his own executioner. Upon finding all her arguments unavailing, she drew a concealed dagger from her robe, and plunging it into her spotless breast, presented it to her husband with an angelic smile, saying, "It is not painful, my Poetus!" and expired.SPONTANEOUS LINES;Written in Consequence of hearing the Conduct of J. J. Smith, Esq. highly applauded in a private Company, for having filled the important Office of High Sheriff with Credit to himself, and Benefit to the Community at large.WHEN the charters of England by worth are maintain'd, And each citizen's right supported unstain'dBy corruptive measures, or fraudulent deeds,At which honour's high sense recoils or recedes;When the sheriffs of London adorn their high post,Attracting applause, from a legion or host;Then Britons may proudly exult in their name,And the temples of Smith—wear the laurel of fame!May the wreath long his temples entwine and adorn,And the bays never prove like the rose and its thorn!But when he ascends to the high civic chair,May the sheriff's applause—attend the lord mayor.POETIC LINES,ADDRESSEDTO FOUR CHILDREN;To whom the Author was tenderly attached, and who had frequently intreated her to celebrate them in Verse; but at length requested Compliance with their Wishes, in a collective Body.FOUR beggars at once! each imploring a poet,If the muses inspire, on their persons to show it;But the *Helicon's distant—and poor †Peg is tir'd;Or, in other words—your friend's not inspir'd!Yet, to please you, dear girls, I'll endeavour to sayA something to each— in a mere friendly way.Suppose, then, in form, your ages I take,And begin with dear Sarah, for eldership's sake:Though not quite poetic the name which you bear,May that breast ne'er be tortur'd by sorrow or care;Yet do not suppose, in this varying life,One lot is untinctur'd with sorrow or strife;We all, my dear girl, must expect that some shadeWill o'ershadow our sun—like clouds o'er the glade.But may you never meet with distresses severe;Still an uncorrupt heart can have little to fear;As the great God who form'd you will ever protectThat being who treateth his laws with respect.Yet, Sarah, permit me in friendship to say,We must do something more than simply obey;We must, by exertion, endeavour and tryTo make ourselves worthy a place in the sky.Remember that steward whose talent was laidSecure in a napkin, confin'd in a shade;And conceal'd, as a miser would hoard up his store,Instead of endeav'ring to make little more,Though the giver intended the girl should diffuse,And nurture, like rain, or the soft morning dews.Yet to take leave of metaphor, and speak the truth,Each talent is giv'n for exertion in youth;As after that period, who e'er can say,I'll devote to improvement the whole of a day?Then now, my dear girl, is the time to attendTo those precepts which fall from the lips of a friend.Let zeal for improvement attention inspire;Ne'er suffer a junior in years to be higherOn the ladder of knowledge,—or yield them the prizeWhich those may obtain, who try to be wise.Yet never permit emulation to bringA sensation like envy—for its pointed stingWill poison those qualities which all admire,Instead of exciting an ardent desireTo excel in those virtues which adorn our race;In fact, 'tis a passion that teems with disgrace,And one, which I trust you never will feel,And therefore I need not its dangers reveal;For your heart is so tender, so good, and so kind,That envy can never take root in your mind.And now, my dear Emma, to you I must speak,Though my poetic rays, I confess, are so weakThey scarcely would light a poor author to bed,If perch'd in an attic, or down in a shed.Yet, nevertheless, as in verse I must write,For such is the order you gave me to-night,Your motto, dear Emma, is frolic and fun,Yet I trust that no mischievous tricks have been done;For frolic, unless by prudence confin'd,May lead to exploits which degrade the pure mind;But your frolic and fun, I'm persuaded, my dear,Will never excite in my bosom a fear;And ne'er will you smile, if misfortune appears,But soften its pangs with sweet sympathy's tears.Then smile away, Emma—you'll ne'er hear me say,I wish to behold you less cheerful and gay.Yet amidst all the innocent pleasures of youth,Let sober reflection inspire love of truth;And may Virtue's lov'd image, transcendently mild,Take up its abode in the breast of a child!For Nature, dear Emma, bestow'd at your birth,A gift far more precious than Golcondo's earth;Or rather those treasures its bowels contains;I mean a good stock of intelligent brains!And you, my dear Frances, are equally blest;For never were two little birds in a nestMore completely alike—in point of the storeOf brains you possess—as I've told you before;Where much has been giv'n, there much is requir'd;And much, my dear Frances, from you is desir'd,Both by parents, and friends;—then for those friends' sake,A pleasure in mental improvement pray take.The mere charm of person, without worth of mind,May please for a moment;—yet ah! you will findFrom virtue alone we taste true delight,'Tis the soul's radiant lamp—which ever burns bright;And from it a rich source of pleasure will spring,More sweet than the fragrance of blossoms in spring.Then let me implore you to cherish with careThose virtues which add so much grace to the fair;Let mildness and sweetness be both so combin'dThat those prone to censure may no failing find;And may even cynics, dear Frances, declare,The child whom I love—is as good as she's fair.Though last, my dear *George, not the least in affection;May your mind be the seat both of worth and perfection!And as time circles round, may each virtue appearMore transcendently bright than it was the last year!May those volatile spirits, with which you are bless'd,Long fix their abode in that innocent breast!Yet never allow them to escape those boundsWhich reason prescribes—and true feeling grounds,Or brings into practice—for spirits, my dear,Should be always constrain'd by humanity's sphere;I mean that you never, by action or word,Should be guilty of any thing which is absurd;And ne'er thoughtlessly ridicule failings in others,For remember, my love, we are sisters and brothers;The same father made us,—the same God protects,And 'tis virtue alone,—which that father respects!But now, my dear girls, permit me to say,May you all long remain just as guileless and gayAs you are at this moment,—for trust me, that artIs a corrosive passion—which cankers the heart;In youth 'tis obnoxious—in age 'tis repleteWith those pangs its possessor deserveth to meet;It lives unrespected,—neglected it dies,And can never obtain an abode in the skies;There—harmony, love, and tenderness greet,And there—may our spirits, my dearest girls, meet!* A famous mountain, dedicated to the Muses and Apollo.† Pegasus, a horse on which the Muses rode.* Georgiana.LINES,ADDRESSEDTO THE AUTHOR'S DEAREST FRIEND;Accompanied by a Pack of Ticket Cards. COULD the cards, dear Louisa, which herald your name,Be endow'd with the pow'r of proclaiming your fame,At each door where you stopp'd, these cards should declareYou more good and more great, than lovely and fair.They should say, that your heart was the seat of true worth,That your grandfather's virtues descended by birth;For *Ford, Earl of Cavan, when living, was knownTo possess all that merit which by his rank shoneMore transcendently bright—than had he been bornIn a more humble sphere, for the blossoming thornIs seldom admir'd from its low situation;Yet scarce an exotic, inclos'd in glass station,Possesses such exquisite beauty and scent;But wherefore the simile? how is it meant?I hear you enquire;—why, virtue, my dear,When attach'd to a noble or exalted sphere,Is much more attractive than when it is foundUnadorn'd with that grandeur which makes the name sound;For the great, an example of virtue should show;Yet this is a truth which you too well know,To require repetition:—Accept, then, each card,As a mark of the donor's esteem and regard;A regard which increases with time and with years;And though time is pourtray'd with a pair of sharp shears,He ne'er, dear Louisa, my love can divide;As well might he sever this heart from the side:My friendship's so tender, my love so sincere,That the longer I live, the more strong 'twill appear!* The lady to whom the lines were addressed, was granddaughter to Ford, fifth Earl of Cavan; a man more highly respected for his private virtues, than for his elevated rank in life. SPONTANEOUS LINES,ADDRESSEDTO A MYRTLE;Presented to the Author by a Friend.THEE, verdant plant, with joy I greet,And welcome too my roof;Thy fragrant leaves appear more sweet,From being friendship's proof!And as thy whited buds disclose,And starry forms assume,More sweet they'll seem than breath of rose,Or violet's perfume!The verdant green I now compareTo friendship's changeless pow'r;And nurture thee—with fondest care,Thou sweet, unvarying flow'r.From winter's cold, and summer's heat,Thy verdure I'll defend,With the same tenderness I'd treatA dear—a much-lov'd friend.An emblem thou of friendship art,Which is sincere and true;Thy leaves unvaryingly impartA verdant, lively hue.So genuine friendship will remain,Like never-fading green;And thus I venture to maintainAffinity betweenThis plant, which now calls forth my verse,And her—from whom it came;Whose virtues I cannot rehearse,They need not public fame.EXTEMPORE LINES,REPEATEDTO A FRIEND;Who had advised the Author to pick up a Pin, which lay with the Head towards her; and observing it was an Emblem of good Fortune.THIS crested pin, I heard you say,Was like a beam from fortune's ray,Portending some event that's kind,To soothe my griefs, and calm my mind.Yet Fortune is a treach'rous jade,And many an adverse trick has play'd;For e'en this pin, which you suppos'dAn emblem of success disclos'd,Has prob'd me to the very quick;The current flows—my heart turns sick!Thus have I often been deceiv'd—Thus friendship's semblance oft believ'd,And press'd delusion to my heart,Which, like this pin, occasion'd smart,When I expected and suppos'd,Instead of wounding—'twould have clos'dThe lacerations of distress,Or, by partaking, made them less.But never more, Louisa, say,A prostrate pin will luck convey;For though its head to me was bent,Its point has prov'd an instrument,And caus'd life's crimson stream to flow;Yet if I never more should knowA sharper pang, or keener smart,I'd cherish this metallic dart;And ever after fondly greet Each pin that I might chance to meet;And though to stooping not inclin'd,I'd humble my too tow'ring mind;Place Fortune's emblem near my heart,Nor dread its scratch, or fear its smart.SPONTANEOUS LINES,ADDRESSEDTO A FRIEND;Who had presented the Author with a very neat Chamber Lamp, in Consequence of her observing the Servant never brought the Water hot in Summer. WHENE'ER, my friend, this lamp I see,My grateful thoughts will warm tow'rds thee;Not with a *blue, or vap'rous light,But from true friendship, glowing, bright;For friendship's light must ever shineWith radiance almost divine!But to my lamp again I turn,And though in August, see it burnWith radiance brilliant, pure, and bright,As in December's chilly night. A two-fold purpose I shall makeThis said lamp serve—for prudence sake;Not merely warming a tin-pot,But keeping a rump-steak quite hot;Or, should rich ven'son, fat and fair,E'er fall to a poor author's share,Then shall my lamp with pride appear,Fresh trimm'd—fresh burnish'd—bright and clear!And as my plate upon it stands,Mary—the currant jelly hands;To give what epicures term goút,Yet all the time I'll think of you;And as I think—spontaneous say,To C——I owe this treat to-day;As but for her dear lamp I'd not Eaten my ven'son half so hot;And what is a delicious treat,'Tis ten to one if I could eat;For heat goes far to form a cook,So says dame Glass's cook'ry book.Thus will my lamp, with useful ray,Serve me at once by night and day;Thus should pure friendship ever showA never-failing warmth and glow;And thus, my friend, may ours appear,Bright, steady, permanent, and clear!* Alluding to the superstitious idea, that a lamp burning blue, foretold disaster.LINES,ADDRESSEDTO A MUCH-RESPECTED RELATION;Accompanying a net Lamb's-Wool Tippet, to which Fashion had given the Appellation of Sylph.A SYLPH, my dear aunt, is the gift which I send,In the hope it will warm, and comfort my friend;For comfort and warmth are so nearly allied,That we own their affinity round a fire-side.Yet methinks, my dear aunt, I hear you exclaim,"A tippet term'd sylph! who gave it that name?"Not your niece, my dear ma'am, I vow and declare,But that potent queen Fashion, who rules all the fair.'Twas Fashion, that arbitress rigidly great,Who turns, as she pleases, the helm of her state!Yet a sylph, you must know, the poets declare,Is an ærial spirit—attending the fair;And with kind precaution implores them to takeSpecial care to avoid the designs of a rake;And with an impressive and strong warning voice,Implores them to make true virtue their choice.So a sylph, you now find, is a guard, or a friend,And to guard you from cold, this sylph I now send;Then wear it, dear aunt—and let it appear,That the donor's a friend—though not a friend near.LINES ON FRIENDSHIP;Addressed to those who, on many Occasions, had displayed it to the Author.FRIENDSHIP! thou sweet, balsamic pow'r,Which soothes affliction's trying hour,And with a ray divineIllumes the dreary path of life,Checking resentment—healing strife,On me, bright Goddess, shine!Oft have I felt thy potent artExpand each feeling of my heart,At thy benign decree!Have I not seen the purse unfold,With proffer'd use of friendship's gold,When care usurp'd my breast?Oh H——! can I forget that day,When on my table bank-notes lay,Conceiving me distress'd?Or can I e'er one hour forget,The marks of kindness and respectThy lov'd Eliza pays?Ah no! engraven on my breastIs ev'ry proof of friendship dress'dWith hospitable rays!Rays, which to me are more than bright,Because sincerity's pure lightShines forth in artless strains.Long may ye both display that worthWhich shines transcendent on this earth,Devoid of care or pains!LINES,SUPPOSED TO BEWRITTEN BY J——H——, JUN.TO HIS WIFE, ON THE DAY OF THEIR MARRIAGE,(In Imitation of Doctor Cotton's Fire-side.)THIS morn, dear Mary, were our handsUnited firm in Hymen's bands;Bands which to me are sweet!Though at the altar then I sworeTo love my Mary, and adoreThe vow I now repeat!And may recording angels writeEach word that feeling shall inditeIn their immortal page:I vow, then, through each stage of life,To soothe and cherish my lov'd wife;And should we see old age,New charms in her—I'll then descry,Though lost the lustre of her eye; Still shall her fruitful mind Ten thousand ripen'd charms display, Conducting me to virtue's way,With her the path I'll find!Together we will tread her road, Neither requiring any goad,Religion our sure guide;And as the hill of life we reach,Some moral precepts she shall teach,In which we'll both confide.Should Providence our wish befriend, And branches round our table send,New transports we shall feel;Their ductile minds we'll then improve,Sweet task of duty and of love,Affection's binding seal!What pleasure to behold a mindChaotic, uninform'd, and blind,With learning's rays illum'd!'Tis like the op'ning buds of May,Which some new fragrant charms display,Each spring that they have bloom'd.Nor wealth, nor honours, we desire,'Tis competence that we require,And comfort in our home.This blessing we, my love, enjoy,No gilded prospects should decoy,Or make me wish to roam!My blessing is my own fire-side,With thee and virtue for my guide;I wish—nor ask for more.Long may our lives thus tranquil flow,Like some clear current, soft and slow,Far from all rocky shores!AN INVOCATION TO HUMANITY.OH, sweet Humanity! if e'erThe tide of pity in this breastShould be calcin'd by grief and care,Or stagnate—from my being blest,Then, heav'n-born Goddess may thy nameProduce the deepest dye of shame!Yet, whilst I feel for other's woes,And whilst the stream of pity flows,And whilst this heart will sorrow greet,In language gentle, kind, and sweet,Then in its mansion ever dwell, Soothing distress with potent spell!Ne'er can Oppression's pointed thorn,Or Pride's malignant sneering scorn,E'er find asylum in this breast,Which heaves a sigh for the distresst,Whilst readily this hand would spreadA pillow for affliction's head!And though this hand should be confin'd,By Fortune proving rather blind,Yet whilst humanity resides,And pity flows from Feeling's tides,Distress shall never plead in vain,But always some assistance gain!MORNING REFLECTIONS,UPON FIRST RISING.My drowsy thoughts, by sleep refin'd,Salute the rising day;Death's torpid image o'er my mindHas now resign'd its sway.And as the sun's all-glorious lightIllumes the azure skies,My grateful thoughts to heav'n take flight,As morning sacrifice!Silent and soaring they ascendTo the Almighty's throne;And bless some delegated friend,For care and kindness shewn!For guardian spirits, we are told,Watch o'er the good and just;And whilst the sun his rays withhold,Protect our slumb'ring dust!Yet day and night they kindly tend,And with paternal care,Some guardian angel proves a friend,And checks that foe, Despair!And oft, when care and sorrow bendsThe deep-afflicted heart,The very thought of long-tried friends,Whom death alone could part,Hov'ring around us from that sphereWhere bliss and transport reigns,Stops, e'er it falls, the trembling tear,And reconciles our pains.May they not only guard, but guideMe—through life's devious way,Until, like them—through death I glide,To everlasting day!And whilst the days successive roll,May I—their care employ;And Virtue's image fill my soulWith happiness and joy!Then shall each hour as tranquil flowAs an unruffled stream;And death itself no terror show,But seem a pleasing dream.ELEGIAC LINES.ELEGIAC LINES.A MONODYON THEDEATH OF MRS. KRUTZE;Supposed to be written by her disconsolate Husband.OH Death! insatiate archer! why on mePour forth thy vengeance with a shaft so keen?Why was no other victim mark'd by thee,To be conducted to the world unseen?Or didst thou think my Harriet's growing worthWas too angelic for this faulty earth?Oh Death! if such was thy benign design,Then will I try to bear this load of mine!Yet how with fortitude can I sustainThe keenest anguish—most afflictive pain!How shall I now drag on the load of life,When ev'ry joy, and ev'ry bliss is fled!When she who prov'd a sister, friend, and wife,Alas! lies number'd with the silent dead;For ev'ry tie relationship e'er gave,Seems to me, buried in my Harriet's grave:'Twas in her sweet society I foundEach kindred left upon my *native ground!* Mr. Krutze was a native of Russia. Oh! could I check those inward pangs which rise,And rob my mind of comfort and of rest!Let those condemn my unavailing sighsWho ne'er like me—have been supremely bless'd!Yet let me not presumptuously repine;My Harriet was but lent by pow'r Divine;The great Jehovah only gave her birth,To prove that virtue still exists on earth;On me—vain man, bestow'd the heav'nly prize,Ere he recall'd her to her native skies!A few short years alone can intervene,Ere Death shall point his ebon'd dart at me;Nay, months—may haply not by me be seen,Dear Harriet, ere my spirit flies to thee!Then shalt thou greet me on thy native shore;Then ev'ry pang, and ev'ry care be o'er;Extatic bliss—and joy supreme shall prove,The bright reward of genuine wedded love;Then hallelujah's we'll together sing,To our beneficent eternal king!Yet whilst my soul's envelop'd round with clay,May I each duty, and each tie fulfil; Affection's dictates rigidly obey,And whilst I mourn, bow to my Maker's will!My little Harriet now has double claimUpon her father's tenderness and name!Dear helpless innocent—thy growing yearsWill oft be nurtur'd with thy sire's sad tears;And when thy lisping accents can proclaimThe mournful sound of thy lov'd mother's name,Then, lovely innocent, I'll hourly tryTo make thee worthy of yon azure sky!ELEGIAC LINES,Written spontaneously upon passing the Spot where the Body of the Right Honourable Lady GERTRUDE CROMIE was buried, previous to any Tombstone or Tablet being erected to her Memory.THIS humble, hallow'd spot containsThe pious Gertrude's—pure remains!But shall no stone proclaim that worthWhich shone transcendent on this earth?Shall not the poet's pen declare,That virtue was her daily care?That gentleness and worth combin'd,Irradiated her placid mind;And like the moon's soft silv'ry beam,Display'd a mild—yet lovely gleam!That born to honour's rank and state,She envied not—the proud or great;But in retirement pass'd her days,Unaided by Ambition's blaze;Whilst Friendship's rays display'd a light,That made the frowns of Fortune bright!Thus drooping nature sunk to rest,And her pure spirit join'd the blest!EPITAPH FOR THE TOMBSTONE.Though born to honours, title, pomp, and state,Her mind disdain'd the pageants of the great;The path of humble piety she trod;Her hopes and wishes center'd in her God!!!ELEGIAC LINES,ON THEDEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. LADY ANN FITZGERALD; Who died in Dublin at an advanced Age, in the Year 1808.AGE, when adorn'd with innate worth,Affords the youthful race on earthA bright example—and a gleamNot ill compar'd with Cynthia's beam;Which in the mazy gloom of nightGives to the traveller a light,Conducting to a peaceful home,Like virtue—guiding to the tomb,Where it will meet with true renown,And be rewarded with a crown!A crown immortal! glorious prize!Yet which weak mortals oft despise!Not so Fitzgerald;—for her voiceProclaim'd that virtue was her choice.Still not by words alone—proclaim'd,But by those deeds—which known, are fam'd;For poverty ne'er sued in vain,Nor age, nor impotence, or pain;Each turn'd rewarded from her door,She was a friend to all the poor!Her honour'd name to me is dear;And whilst the sympathetic tear Streameth unbidden from my eyes, In thought—I see her in the skies; Receiving there a bright reward,For ev'ry instance of regardWhich her benevolence display'd,Whilst passing through life's devious shade.And when this stream of life shall cease,May her pure spirit whisper peace;Then guide me to the realms of light,Beyond the reach of mortal sight!ELEGIAC LINES,TO THEMEMORY OF LADY HARTWELL;With whose Friendship the Author had been blessed near twenty Years; and whom she took leave of, upon her going to Cheltenham, without the most distant Idea the Indisposition under which she laboured, was of a dangerous kind.AH! why did no foreboding fear foretelThe dire misfortune which I now deplore?Why, dearest Charlotte, when I said farewell,Did I not feel—that we should meet no more!Why did I fancy Chelt'nham's healing springWould prove balsamic to thy fragile frame?Why was I unprepar'd for Death's sharp sting?Why were my Charlotte's *blooming cheeks the same?Deadly disease was lurking at her heart,Whilst roseate health imparted youthful grace;So bright the hectic, that it seem'd like art,Deceptious art—which wore a Janus' face!Yet ne'er did Janus influence that mind;No act deceptious, Charlotte, sprang from thee;Thou wert all candid, gentle, good, and kind,And thy resemblance—dare I hope to see?Ah no! the prize of friendship is too rare!A loss irrevocable—I sustain!Yet let the check that dreadful foe despair,And ev'ry murm'ring sentiment restrain!* A beautiful hectic glow overspread the countenance, and gave an appearance of the highest health.My loss, dear Charlotte, has to thee prov'd gain,Angelic spirits wafted thine in air;The moment death had rescued thee from pain,A crown immortal thou wast doom'd to wear!From sacred record—do I now believeThe friend I mourn receiv'd the promis'd prize;Then why deplore, why sigh, lament, and grieve,When Charlotte's spirit, ranges through the skies?Dear sacred spirit of my much-lov'd friend,Wilt thou the name of guardian angel bear?Wilt thou, dear Charlotte, on my steps attend,And guide me through this labyrinth of care?And when misfortune shall pervade a breastToo oft assail'd by trials most severe,Wilt thou, my Charlotte, whisper future rest,And by that whisper, check the rising tear?And when life's troubles, and its joys shall cease,And languid nature feel its last decay,Wilt thou conduct me to the realms of peace?The glorious realms—of everlasting day!ELEGIAC LINES,ON THEDEATH OF CHRISTOPHER PEMBERTON, ESQ.Who died November 1809, in his eighty-fifth Year, sincerely lamented, and universally deplored.ENCLOS'D within a spot of earth,A form superior lies,Endow'd with talents great and rare,Humane, sincere, and wise!Oh, Pemberton! thy matchless nameThrough time shall be rever'd;Belov'd, respected, and admir'd,To ev'ry friend endear'd!The grateful tribute of a tearThe muse spontaneous pays;Yet worth like thine deserves a wreathOf the unfading bays!Not the Columbus Christopher,Whose name is still renow'd,Deserv'd more honours, or more fame,For the new world he found.Around thy native spot of earthThy deeds of fame shall rise;The widow's sighs—the orphan's tears,Shall there ascend the skies.Often hast thou reliev'd their woes,And with a lib'ral hand,Made poverty in peace reposeRound *Newton's fertile land.Bless'd with the will—bless'd with the pow'r,Thou didst their griefs assuage;And God, in mercy to their pray'rs,Lengthen'd thy life—to age!* A village in Cambridgeshire. Yet did no semblance of decayIn mind or form appear;For manhood's grace—conspicuous shoneBeyond thy eightieth year!And when the fatal fiat came,Compos'd, prepar'd, resign'd,Thy spirit left its earthy clayAnd kindred angels joined.When the immortal trump shall sound,Oh, may our spirits meet!And join the pure celestial choir,At our Redeemer's feet!SUBSEQUENT GLEANINGS.LINES ON THE NEW-YEAR,ACCOMPANIED BY AN ALMANACK.Addressed to a Friend.MAY ev'ry hour that passeth by,May each revolving year,Destroy the source from whence a sighDerives its gloomy sphere;And may the mansion which gave birthTo the ungenial gale,No more become a spot of earthFor sorrow to assail!But may it ever be a sourceOf true, substantial joy;And may a tide of pleasure courseWithout the least alloy!And as Amanda marks the hoursRevolving in their sphere,May smiling peace, like May's soft showers,Enrich the rising year!With gifts more sweet than India's islesIn bounty can bestow;Where blooming verdure ever smiles,And fragrant odours blow!Enrich her with the precious balmWhich Friendship's goddess brings;That tender and all-soothing charm,Which shuns the pride of kings!Enrich her with a store of health;And may the waning yearSee her possess'd of every wealthAs blesses mortals here!ON SEPARATION.THE worst of tortures fate can findTo lacerate the feeling mind,And rob the soul of rest,Is, when its adverse laws ordain,That Separation's heart-felt painShould agonize the breast!Oh! 'tis an anguish too severeFor even Hope to soothe or cheer,Tho' deck'd in radiance bright;For, like dense vapours which arise,And cast a gloom upon the skies,It soon obscures her light!Its torturing pangs, alas! are foundMore poignant than the keenest woundThat venom'd darts can send;For fortitude can suffer pain,But, oh! to part, and not againRejoin a much-lov'd friend,Corrodes, as well as pains, the heart,Makes ev'ry nerve with anguish smart,And ev'ry bliss destroys;Remembrance, with officious zeal,Increases ev'ry pang we feel,Recurring to past joys.And oft, amidst the gloom of night,It brings Louisa to my sight,Then leaves me to deplore;In ev'ry dream I likewise seeSome tender proof of love to me,And, waking,—feel 'tis o'er.Ah! no, though distance may divide,Affection still may be her guide;Still, like the needle, true,Her thoughts will turn towards that poleWhich seem'd to guide her chasten'd soul,Though not within her view.And Mem'ry's pencil oft shall paint,In colours neither cold nor faint,The portrait of a friend!On whom, through ev'ry scene of life,Whether of pleasure, pain, or strife,She firmly may depend!Then, why should Separation's pow'rImpress with gloom each future hour,Why ev'ry bliss destroy?Still our united thoughts shall greet,And, though divided, they shall meet,And thus partake of joy.LINESADDRESSED TO A WATCH,Which had been presented as a Parting-Gift to the Author.OH! why, thou dull noter of time,Dost thou move so progressively slow?Is it merely to measure my rhyme?Or is it to measure my woe?Ye moments that flew with delight,When with my Lucinda I've stray'd,Oh, say, is it out of mere spiteThat ye now are so sadly delay'd.Come, hasten your tardy career,And fly with a Mercury wing,Till the friend of my bosom is here,Then let Saturn add weight to each spring.For moments then gladly I'll find,As long as a Midsummer day;And fancy, when Phoebus declin'd,He had shorten'd the length of his ray.LINESON THE BIRTH-DAY OF A FRIEND,To whom the Author was tenderly attached.ONCE more I'll endeavour to paint,In language which flows from the heart,Those wishes, which make language faint,Those feelings it cannot impart!What phrase can my friendship disclose?What words have the pow'r to revealThe love, which maternally flows,Or the exquisite fondness I feel?By Destiny's adverse decree,No longer, Louisa, I proveThe friendship my heart feels to Thee,Or give daily proofs of my love.Yet still do my thoughts hourly turnTo the object most dear to my soul:As well might the needle e'er learn,To diverge from its magnet the pole.This day, my Louisa, I findAn additional void at my heart;Yet this may, perhaps, seem unkind,When for years we were never apart!Each year, in succession, I've hail'dThe annual return of this day;And though I, perhaps, may have fail'dIn the poetic style of my lay,Yet still I have try'd to impartThe feelings which friendship inspir'd;And the theme coming warm from the heart,Louisa has often admir'd!Will absence, then, make it less dear?"Ah, no!" my Louisa replies:Th' assertion is prov'd by a tear,Which, I fancy, now falls from her eyes!The chrystaline drop wipe away;Ah! let it no longer appear;As this should for smiles be the day,And the brightest of all the whole year!Yet may they be never confin'dTo a day—to a month—or a year!But always extend to thy mind,And illume that susceptible sphere!Alas! I have known it o'erspreadWith affliction's enveloping gloom;Henceforth may each sorrow be fled,And happiness come in their room!My wishes, Louisa, arise,And ascend to the mansion of Grace,Imploring the Lord of the skiesTo shed his bright beams on thy face.CONCLUDING TALE,IN THE STYLE OFALPHONSO THE BRAVE AND FAIR IMOGENE.WHEN evening's pale light had retired from the plain,And night had the valley o'erspread;When the dew was converted to big drops of rain,And the Owls on their battlements hooting complain,As the wind blew in gusts o'er their head.A damsel all frantic with grief and despair,Fled rapidly over the plain,Her face, though the emblem of Sorrow, was fair;Dishevell'd and torn were her ringlets of hair;Her bosom was labouring with pain.A shriek of distress was then borne on the wind,More plaintive to hear, than the soundOf a Ring-dove, describing the pangs of its mind,When no longer its mate in the woods it can find,Or, finding, perceives a death wound.It reach'd to the cave where Alphonso retir'd,To seclude both his sorrow and woes;Where the lamp of affection had never expir'd,Though Religion and Virtue together conspir'd,The anguish of grief to compose.Yet love was still potent, and under a vest,Which duty oblig'd him to wear, He conceal'd the dear tyrant, that sway'd o'er his breast,That robb'd him alike both of joy and of rest,And made him the victim of care.Sebastian the tyrant, had chanc'd to beholdA maid, whom Alphonso long priz'd:He sought her, he woo'd her—at length he was told,Her heart could be never attracted by gold,And his love would be ever despis'd.Enrag'd at a rival, he quickly retires,The tumult to hide in his breast;For envy and malice together conspires,To light up a flame, more terrific than firesThat burst from a volcanic nest.Sebastian was lord of a boundless domain,And part he resolv'd to bestow,If the sire of Alphonso despotic would reign;Compel him to wear both a Cross and a Chain,And take a Monastical Vow.The bait was attractive—his heart was allur'd,The peace of his son was forgot;Of his zeal the proud tyrant was firmly assur'd:Alphonso was destin'd of love to be cur'd,Or sent to a far distant spot.The sire, with a mandate most rigidly stern,Said, "Alphonso, 'tis hence my decree,That your bosom no longer with passion must burn,But your love be for ever entomb'd in an urn,And religion the object for thee."Amazement, at first, suspended his speech:At length he exclaim'd—" Do I hear!Resign, my Louisa!—turn Hermit!—and preach!Relinquish a joy when its just in my reach?Ah! rather I'll stretch on a bier!""Decide," said the father, "decide, nor delay,Louisa's existence depends,For unless you declare that my will you obey,And solemnly swear you agree to my way,Her Love, and her Life, quickly ends.""Oh, spare her!" Alphonso in terror then cries,"To what would you have me agree?"Then clasping his hands, and imploring the skies,"Louisa," said he, "thou delight of my eyes!And must I resign Love, and thee?"The paleness of death o'er his features was spread,Cold dew stood in drops on his cheeks;The roses from thence entirely were fled,His lips were no longer enamell'd with red,And his frame became suddenly weak.The moon had thrice circled around in her horn,E're Alphonso recover'd his sense,E're he knew that his comforts were totally shorn,That his love from his arms been forcibly torn,And many leagues distant from thence.The wealth, which his sire had so vilely obtain'd,Corroded, like care, in his breast;Too late he lamented, Sebastian had gain'dA purpose, by which his Alphonso was pain'd,And totally robb'd of his rest."My son," said the Tyrant," alas! I relent,And gladly dispense with thy vow;But for fear that Sebastian should know I repent,And recal in the wealth, which in part I have spent,An appearance of sanctity show."Thy garments must henceforth religious appear,Thy vestment some order disclose;For if ever thy rival should happen to hear,You still have a right to reclaim your lost dear,He'd at once put an end to your woes.""Alas!" said Alphonso, "the cloaths that I wear,Can only my person conceal;But give me a veil to confine my despair,To hide from myself, the corrodings of care,And teach, me no longer to feel."Or find me some spot where my sorrows may hide,Where my griefs may in private repose;Where my tears may augment the slow course of some tide,As it silently murmurs my cavern beside,And seems to attend to my woes."The spot which Alphonso so stongly desir'dAt length was disclos'd to his view:'Twas a cave where a hermit had once liv'd retir'd,Where his life and his virtues together expir'd,And the moss round its arches thick grew.To the inmost recess of this deep gloomy caveA voice in distress did extend:Alphonso it rous'd, and he rush'd forth to saveA damsel, who sought a defence from the brave,And call'd upon Death as a friend.But who can describe the emotions that rise,As the lamp plac'd the fair-one in view?When Louisa herself was disclos'd to his eyes!Yet her spirit seem'd fled to its mansion, the skies,And frantic with horror he grew."Louisa!" he cried, "thou delight of my heart,Oh speak!—let me feel but thy breath!—And have we then met to he destin'd to part?Ah no!—for, I swear, no persuasion or artShall prevent me from sharing thy death."His voice soon recall'd the faint spirit that fled,She open'd her languid blue eyes—Beheld her Alphonso—reclin'd her weak headIn those arms which to press her were openly spread,And shield her from grief and surprise.The pow'r of expression to both was deny'd—Their joy was too great to impart:At length—" My Alphonso, I'm spotless!" she cry'd,"I've escap'd all his arts—and I'll now be the brideOf him who has long had my heart!"THE END.W. Wilson, Printer, St. John's Square, London.