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May 10, 2007
Charlotte Payne
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I IMPLORE your candour in reading the following trifling productions of a female pen, chiefly written in the thoughtless years of youth, and never with a design of making them public.—The ardent wish of extricating an amiable and worthy family from their present difficulties, inclined me to adopt this only method in my power of proving the force of my friendship; and if the kindness and generosity of my friends, either from motives of curiosity, friendship, or benevolence, enable me to succeed in my attempt, it will fully compensate for the apprehension and anxiety that, at this time, oppress the mind of
THE AUTHOR.[List of additional subscribers in manuscript hand is tipped in following page xii of printed text. Some names unclear and recreated with as much accuracy as possible. Ed.]
WILLIAMS, I sing the auspicious day
When Heaven conducted you this way,
To bless my future life:
When round the chearful board we sat,
You first proposed the grand debate
Of husband and of wife.
You first the pleasing theme began;
Then bade us all describe the man
With whom we wish'd to wed:
What his condition, fortune, age—
'Twas youth and beauty, you'd engage,
Which turns the female head.
My sisters prudently conceal'd
Their thoughts, 'twas I alone reveal'd
The secrets of my heart:
My nature, free from all disguise,
Confirm'd too plainly by my eyes
I felt love's pow'rful smart.
But say! what mortal could withstand,
When Mars assisted Cupid's hand
To pierce my tender breast?
But with what words can be express'd
The joy that fill'd my raptur'd breast,
When you my choice approved!
When Williams his assistance lends
Need I despair to gain my ends,
By Fox so much beloved∗
?
Without their aid ambition's vain,
Valour can ne'er its end obtain
If Fox refuse his aid:
With eloquence then plead my cause,
And by a well-deserved applause
Draw merit from its shade.
Mr. Fox, then Secretary of War.
But if your friend, with suppliants tired,
Seems slow to grant the boon desired,
One hope there still remains:—
Paint well the tender moving tale,
You must on Caroline prevail,
Sh' has felt Love's pleasing pains.
Such perfect love unites this pair,
He'll not refuse her any pray'r
She wishes to obtain:
When Hymen such examples shows,
How dare mankind e'er be his foes,
Or murmur at his chain?
I STOOD methought on some dark lonesome plain,
No sheltering cot in view, no straggling swain,
No bleating lamb, nor faithful spaniel lay,
Nor any friendly guide to point my way.
The scene was awful, and methought with fear
I trembling gazed for dread of danger near;
When, lo! I see a waggon slow appear:
At its approach my heart with rapture beat,
And thus its ancient driver straight I greet.—
Welcome! thrice welcome to my longing sight,
You ease my fears, and give my heart delight;
If to my prayer you'll lend your willing aid,
And safe convey to some sequester'd shade
An innocent, a young defenceless maid.—
—Fair virgin, then the hoary sage replied,
No longer fear, but take me for thy guide;
HAIL, favour'd shades! Hail, blest retreat,
Where mild Content has fix'd her seat,
With all her lovely train!
Stray'd from the cottage, and the cell,
Here Health, and Peace, and Pleasure, dwell,
Here they unite their reign.
Forsaken tho' by king and court,
Beneath thy walls the Muses sport,
Here fix their blest abode;
Thou, where each Grace had chose her seat,
Where sparkling eyes were wont to greet,
In William's glorious reign;
When love, with ceremonious fire,
Breath'd the warm wish of young desire,
In many a flattering strain:
Thou, whose green shades, whose walks among
Now humbler, happier beauties throng,
And gild the smiling scene;
And, scap'd from London's smoky tow'rs,
Find 'mid thy fresh and fragrant bow'rs
Gay mirth and peace serene.
Nature and art together join,
While various beauties they combine,
Thy sumptuous halls to grace;
All that a builder's art could frame,
All that excites the poet's flame,
Adorns this favour'd place.
No courtier's art shall thee defile;
The cringing bow, the fawning smile,
The false deceitful friend,
Long since are banish'd thy domain,
And Love and Innocence thy fane,
Thy hallow'd tow'rs, defend:
The faithful swain and tender maid,
Happy beneath thy verdant shade,
Secure from fear or ill,
Nor less the husband fond and true
Shall hither haste thy gifts to view,
With his admiring mate;
To please each other both so prone,
The libertine himself shall own
Their's is the blissful state.
No jealous fears, ambitious schemes,
No politician's feverish dreams,
Our comforts here molest;
Mutual good-will each bosom warms,
Mutual good humour's smiling charms,
Preside in ev'ry breast!
THOU blooming bright'ner of the year,
Fair queen of flowers, haste! appear!
With eager joy I fly to meet
Thy ling'ring and too tardy feet.
Behold with what officious care
For thee each maiden decks her hair;
The swains, with garlands on their brow,
To thee with slavish homage bow;
The plowman as he whistling stands
O'er his uncultivated lands,
The thoughts of thee his toils beguile,
While eager he awaits thy smile:
WHAT! banish me my native home!
Thus early sent abroad to roam!
Commit me to a stranger's care,
Who in my pains will feel no share!
Should fits disturb my midnight rest,
She'd scold that I her dreams molest;
And with rude hands, and ruder strains,
Add to my misery and pains.—
Was it for this I saw the light,
To be debarr'd my parent's sight?
Not so the little bleating lamb,
Who close attends the fost'ring dam;
She ne'er gives up the mother's part,
But leaves to man this cruel art.
FORGIVE, papa, this bold attempt,
Nor treat your baby with contempt,
Who feels himself inspir'd;
Who, 'scaped from nurse's watchful eye,
Has stole the pen mama laid by,
By love and duty fir'd.
How often when in those fond arms
You've fondly talk'd o'er all my charms,
My eyes, my face admir'd;
Your parting kiss still warms my face,
No wash can that dear mark deface,
'Tis lasting as your love:
Judge you how strong the mark was made,
Since all the tears mama has shed
Th' impression could not move.
But since Reflection lent her aid,
And Memory, her attendant maid,
To me their gifts impart:
Since by their aid I'm taught to know
What children to their parents owe,
Their laws shall guide my heart.
To prove these promises are true,
I'll tell you what I mean to do,
Your kindness to deserve:
I'll eat whate'er my nurse thinks fit,
And to my bath each morn submit,
And will my health preserve.
Or if mama, to grief a prey,
Should sigh as she has done to day,
And weep for her dear mate;
I'll kiss the tears off as they flow,
And will such love and fondness shew,
She shall her griefs forget.
My little sister too shall share
A brother's love, a brother's care,
To sooth her infant sorrow;
My pannikin, my boat, she'll find
I'll lend her with a willing mind,
And eke my coral too;
Nay, should she e'en my playthings crave,
My very playthings she shou'd have—
What more can brother do?
Continue then, my dear papa,
To love your boy and his mama,
For them preserve your heart;
With others tho' you laugh and play,
And trifle the dull hours away,
They claim of that no part:
And when these ten long months are o'er,
When we shall meet to part no more,
With rapture then your boy
Shall with his tongue, as with his feet,
Hasten your well-known voice to meet,
And both will tell his joy!
COME flock here, ye songsters so gay,
Bring hither your lyres ready strung,
Who would not rejoice on this day?
Its joys far and near shall be sung.
See! Corydon leads forth his bride,
As he passes each maid drops a sigh;
It was once their ambition and pride
To catch but one glance from his eye.
But Eliza first charm'd his young heart,
Nor could dangers his passion subdue;
From his vows he wou'd never depart,
To her ever constant and true.
In Him Venus hop'd to recover
That Adonis whose loss she deplor'd;
She envied Eliza her lover,
And Cupid's assistance implor'd.
But he told her, her passion was vain,
For Corydon faithful and true
To Eliza would ever remain,
Though the goddess in person to woo.
So rare an example of truth
You may seek for in vain thro' the plains:
Ah! where will you find such a youth
Amongst the gay modern young swains?—
So discreet, unaffected, sincere,
Yet neither presumptuous nor vain;
Tho' Eliza herself made appear
How fondly she lov'd her young swain.
Rejoice then, ye old and ye young,
That their virtues at length are thus crown'd;
Let the harps and the lutes be all strung,
And their healths drank in bumpers around:
WHEN Mars decreed his favourite son
Should forth to meet the Spanish don,
New conquests to obtain;
The god, to his amazement, found
The warrior stretch'd upon the ground,
Nor knew the love-sick swain.
What means, cried he, this fight, my, son?
Is this the hero I have known
So valiant at Quebec?
Like you, I've had my hours of sighing,
Like you, at Venus' feet lay dying,
Have known love's joy and woe:
But rouse, young man, 'tis my decree,
That England's foes shall find from thee
Their final overthrow.
No sooner had the god thus spoke,
Than from his trance the hero broke,
To climes unknown he steer'd;
Heedless of ev'ry other dart
But that he carry'd in his heart,
No foe but love he fear'd.—
Nobly the toils of war sustain'd;
And having wealth and glory gain'd,
Triumphant he returns:
Behold him fly his fair to meet,
He throws his trophies at her feet,
He sighs, and courts, by turns!
As Desdemona did of old,
She listen'd to the tales he told,
She pity'd, till she lov'd:
She begg'd mama to lend an ear,
And, while the fair one quaked with fear,
Her soldier she approv'd.
Herself she gives to crown his toil—
The sweetest and the richest spoil
That fortune could confer:—
Assist now, all ye heav'nly choir,
Each muse bring forth her sweetest lyre,
This theme is worth your care;
Behold from forth her mother's arms,
Radiant in all her native charms,
He leads his blooming fair!
Venus and Mars, together join,
With flow'ry bands your children twine,
Their hearts as hands infold:
Let sprightly joy, and smiling peace,
Each year their present bliss increase,
Till time and they grow old.
Sir Joshua Reynolds had just then painted Mrs. John Hale in the character of the nymph Euphrosyne.
AND is it thus, through num'rous weary miles,
Th' improving mind the heavy hours beguiles?
Whilst o'er the hills you cast th' inquiring eye,
Your Maker's works pass not unheeded by:
The wood, the lawn, the little silver stream,
Afford a heart like your's a grateful theme;
Nor does the grave-stone preach in vain to one
Who thus explores instruction from the tomb:
And when from subjects of more weight you bend,
With playful humour which can none offend,
The host, the hostess, whom we fancy'd fled,
With Fielding buried, and with Mallet dead,
WITH streaming eyes and tortur'd heart,
Mistley! thy groves I view;
No Berney now to take a part,
And share thy beauties too!
O Mem'ry! why the days renew,
When o'er this much-lov'd scene
Maternal pride and pleasure threw
Her freshest, brightest green?
Then with what bliss I saw this place!
But, O! those days are fled;
Those pleasures I no more can taste,
For, ah! my Berney's dead!
Exclude yon gay and giddy throng,
'Gainst mirth shut fast the door;
To me such guests can ne'er belong,
For Berney's now no more!
Far from these orgies let me keep,
Which mock a mother's woe:
Let me unseen, unnotic'd weep,
My tears for Berney flow.
The nightingale, and plaintive dove,
Are now fit mates for me;
Emblems of innocence and love—
Emblems! my child, of thee!
Thy much-lov'd brother too in tears!
Yes, well may he deplore;
Companions from your earliest years—
Companions now no more!
But, hark! what solemn strain from high
Salutes my ravish'd ear?
Methinks I hear an angel cry,
"Behold thy Berney here!
"Ungrateful wretch! and can thy sight
"By faith no higher rise?
"Behold with wonder and delight
"Thy Berney in the skies!"
WHAT thanks!—what boundless thanks are due,
My kind, my skilful friend, to you!
Whose godlike art, by genius giv'n,
Thus draws an angel down from Heav'n!—
With rapture o'er again I trace
The features of his speaking face:
So pleasingly your skill deceives,
The wretched mother scarce believes
Her child is dead—with anxious pain
She waits to see it breathe again!
AND shall thy father's pen alone
Recite thy worth, my much-lov'd son?
Shall he alone, with cherish'd pain,
To mem'ry tune the mournful strain?
O, no! thy mother's bleeding heart
Claims a full right to add her part
Of justest praise, to thee well due,
From those who best thy virtues knew.
How did his thoughts for ever bend,
To prove himself our tender friend!
How did he lighten ev'ry care,
How heighten joy, how sorrow share!
With fondest gratitude he strove
To pay us back the debt of love!
IN this unthinking, easy age,
When pleasure does all minds engage,
When the great, vulgar, and the small,
Victims to dissipation fall!
Allow, my Lord, a real friend,
For no mean view, no worldly end,
To lay her thoughts and hopes before ye,
Founded on ancient scripture story.—
When th' Almighty's lifted hand
Vow'd vengeance on a guilty land,
The pray'r of Abraham then had pow'r
T' avert the sad impending hour;
HARK!—What means that joyous sound,
Which thro' this ancient palace rings?
Makes ev'ry vaulted arch rebound,
And to the winds its echo flings?
A babe! a heaven-born babe is born!
Whose talents shall this roof adorn.
When Catherine gave the piercing cry,
That did her child-birth pangs proclaim,
Each portrait∗
seem'd to vivify,
Amazement shook each frame!
Mrs. Moore lay-in next to the gallery of the pictures of the archbishops.
Behold how each right reverend sire
Seem'd struck as with Promethian fire.
Lo! where the lovely mother lies,
Her infant at her breast!
Parental joy beams from her eyes;
Blessing! but still more blest.
View her, and blush with conscious shame
Each modish, lazy, modern dame.
From Moore, the favourite of Heav'n,
Lambeth receives an heir;
May to this privilege be giv'n
To fix his virtues there!
From son to son may they descend,
Till Time himself shall have an end!—
SHALL ev'ry pen but mine set forth
Thy num'rous virtues, matchless worth,
Sweet Mary!—Thee deplore?
Forbid it, friendship, love, and truth,
For sure from infancy to youth
None ever lov'd thee more.——
So sung my Muse!—But hush, my friend,
A sweeter voice bids thee attend!
AS restless the fond parent lay,
Watching the slow approach of day,
A form appears so bright and mild,
It is! It is my darling child!
In agony, the mother cried.
"It is! (the heavenly guest replied):
WILL sprightly W—— condescend
To listen, if a faithful friend,
Without poetic aid, or art,
Shall aught of use to her impart?
And meaning well, tho' void of skill,
Attention raise by mere good-will?
Your wit and parts, by all confest,
Must stand severest critics' test;
Yet still 'tis whisper'd in my ear,
"True, she is clever, but severe;
"And merely for satiric ends
"Hazards th' esteem of many friends.
"What though her genius, polish'd high,
"May all sarcastic sneers defy;
"Yet, if with satire it abounds,
"The more it shines, the more it wounds."
MY poor Mrs. Blore,
Your fate I deplore,
That now with your conscience you grapple:
Like Eve you believ'd,
When the devil deceiv'd;
But why would you taste of the apple?
THO 'tis years past a score
Since I chid Mrs. Blore,
For wishing to know good from evil!
Yet I still can boast fire,
When you stir up my ire,
To see you ride post to the devil!
To swear at each word
Is most truly absurd,
As you then serve his cause without end;
For surely some gains
I would have for my pains,
When I thus chose Old Nick for my friend!
O! what a disgrace
To that pretty face,
To make use of expressions so free!
Leave swearing and wenches
To the porter-pot benches,
Let your language and form more agree.
WHEN the poor widow gave her mite,
Our Lord beheld her with delight,
And why? He saw into her mind,
Saw that the gift was well design'd,
And that had fate enlarg'd her store,
She freely would have given more:
So now, as then, each thought and deed
His piercing eye has pow'r to read;
And when he sees the lib'ral hand,
Obedient to his high command,
Ready to wipe the widow's tears,
Relieve her woe, remove her fears,
He casts to earth a smiling look,
And notes the deed in judgment's book.
ALL poets agree,
Venus sprung from the sea,
But none have as yet told us when;
Till Geny appear'd,
When our doubts were all clear'd,
By seeing her plunge back again.
TWO phoenixes sprung from one nest!
How must the parent bird be blest!—
Alas! one lovely one had I,
But soon it claim'd its native sky!
May yours hatch others of their kind,
To benefit and bless mankind!
CUPID, they say, is blind and fickle,
So oft mistakes a knife for sickle,
And mows his knots asunder;
But Friendship's steady hand is true,
'Tis she presents this knife to you,
Trust it, 'twill make no blunder.
YOUR council's good, and kind your end,
But Fortune sent a better friend,
A friend! who took especial care
That I should 'scape th' intended snare;
In cooking arts prov'd so mistaken,
To save my leg, I lost my bacon!
BELIEVE me, my dear,
I can make it appear,
That wit, without wisdom, is folly!
You will certainly find,
When both are combin'd,
You are surer to please—my fair Molly.
"THE woman's old," and what is more,
In friendship she is such a bore,
I cannot make her comprehend,
That as a coat, one wears a friend;
Both—as the humour is inclin'd,
Each—out of sight, and out of mind.
THINK not, my friends, with ease I part
From those whose virtues won my heart;
Whose friendly kindness sooth'd that pain,
Which nature tir'd could scarce sustain;
Whose converse, sensible and gay,
Drove languid dullness far away;
O, no! tho' we are doom'd to part,
You'll live for ever in my heart:
Your father's strong enlighten'd mind,
Glowing with sentiments refin'd,
With sprightly wit, good manner'd mirth,
That proves the man of sense and birth.
A PERT young magpie, newly flown,
Who fancy'd all the grove his own,
And perch'd upon a neighb'ring steeple,
Had learnt to chatter to the people;
One day, contending for a straw,
Was pertly laying down the law,
Dictating to each bird his part,
And thought among his kind, a smart!
Till chance brought there a foreign fowl,
An old sagacious female owl,
WHEN posting on from mile to mile,
Satire could once my time beguile;
How much more forcibly shall praise
Shorten the rugged tedious ways!
And where can praise so well be due,
As when I think, my friends, of you?—
Such kindness sure was never known
As to us travellers was shewn:
For health, you spread the plenteous board;
To sickness, ev'ry aid afford;
Held out the helping, healing hand,
Which comfort brings at its command;
Mungo, a dog of Mrs. K. who always flew at his master when he offered to touch his mistress.
LET pagan, pagan worship pay,
Whilst to the God of Truth I pray:
—O Jesus, Lord! who when below
Did oft such tender mercy shew,
Look down with thy all-gracious eye,
Relieve a wretched family;
Once more restore to health and life
The tender mother, faithful wife:
Thy gracious heart, by pity mov'd,
Recall'd to life the slave belov'd!
Tho' dead and carrying to his grave
The widow's son, how didst thou save!
" 'Tis education forms the tender mind,
"Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclin'd."
SUCH knowledge of your God these books impart,
As elevate the soul, and warm the heart;
May they, fair maid, your future thoughts engage,
And fill the mind with their instructive page!
The search of nature can alone impart
Alike the pleasing and the healing∗
art;
To sow the seed must be the planter's care,
Be your's to weed out ev'ry noxious tare,
And may it bring forth fruit both good and fair.
Her father was a physician.
FULL twelve months ago
(Which, perhaps, you don't know,
Or may choose to forget
That you are in my debt),
Precise at this hour,
By the side of the Stour,
You gave me your word,
—Mark that, my good Lord—
And by a kind squeeze
Set my heart quite at ease,
That a living you'd give,
And I forthwith receive.—
But, alas! can it be,
After such a decree,
That the living's forgot,
And oblivion's my lot?
Can there be such a flaw,
In the head of the law?
Justice forfeit her word!
The idea's absurd!
Female patience to try
Has made you lay by;
POOR Cupid, in a piteous pother,
One day came crying to his mother,
And vow'd his fav'rite British fair
From him of late withdrew their care;
That matches now in England made,
Were all become illicit trade;
No licenses of hearts with hands,
Their thoughts all turn'd on house and lands;
He was no longer thought of use,
So Plutus did his bags produce;
And where such unions took their course,
Plutus still bragg'd of a resource,
By calling in his friend Divorce.
—Come, my poor boy, no longer cry,
Said Venus, as she wip'd his eye;
THE gift, the giver's mind proclaim,
And prove your friend deserves that name;
Mark the advice these visions give,
And from this book learn how to live.
So will you 'scape from slander's sting,
And pleasures that reproaches bring;
Health will on innocence attend,
And sweet content her bosom friend.
If mortals happiness can know,
It must from real friendship flow:
And when the marriage knot you tye,
Remember as you live, you die,
For death dooms joy or misery.
OPPRESS'D by faction's powerful band,
Expos'd to all the British land,
The Indian hero stood!
While truth and innocence combin'd
(The best supporters of the mind)
To stem th' impetuous flood.
The flood of malice and abuse,
Which freely his accusers use,
Defying all good-breeding;
The first assembly of the nation,
Became a school of defamation,
All Billingsgate exceeding!
Regardless of the silken coat,
The sparkling button, who can note,
With language so abusive:
And whilst the horrid deeds they paint,
The tender S——n must faint
To prove their charge conclusive.
The man that thus can firmly stand,
While persecution's uplift hand
Is levell'd at his heart,
Can bear it only from the sense
Of his own conscious innocence,
From goodness void of art.
Can he be callous, whose soft muse
Can every sentiment infuse
That speaks the feeling mind?
—O no! his Marian cries, O no!
Would you, his cruel foes, but go
To India's happy coast;
His character would there appear
Unstain'd, and as the Ganges clear,
My hero is their boast!
Away then with your accusation;
And all ye judges of the nation
His innocence proclaim:
And ye, who for mean selfish views
Of such foul deeds cou'd him accuse,
Let blushes speak your shame.
FANNY beware of jealousy,
Our sex's bitterest enemy;
"For other foes we are prepar'd,
"And nature puts us on our guard;"
But in this foe such stings are found,
As give our peace its deadlier wound.
Of this, my dear, I'll give a sample,
As precept binds not like example.——
A giddy, fond, unthinking miss,
Had built her castle in the air,
And thinking nought could cross her bliss
When once she'd fix'd her station there;
Was quite surpris'd, one starry night,
To find her mate had ta'en his flight.
YE gentlemen and ladies all,
Who mourn'd the late deserter's
∗
fall,
A real story deign to hear
That claims your sympathetic tear;
And if your tear draws out your purse,
We'll bless th' attempt, tho' bad the verse.
'Twas not the charm of song or dance
That call'd our father out of France;
From war's dread sound he took his flight,
Far as fam'd Savoy's mountain's height;
It alludes to the famed dance of the Deserter, which came out the preceding winter in England.
There built his nest and rear'd his young,
Till Death his dart unerring flung:—
Down dropt the soldier! His lov'd mate,
By grief o'ercome, soon shar'd his fate.
Their little helpless offspring left,
Of all parental care bereft,
Their cattle feed, and tend the sheep;
On dunghills cast for scanty sleep:
The peasants saw unmov'd their smarts
(Hard as their mountains are their hearts),
And turn'd them helpless out to roam,
Without a friend—without a home!
But pity, to relieve their woe,
Sent them one morn to Mont Repos;
Where innocence, with grief oppress'd,
Melted the tender Fanny's breast,
Who flew to give relief and rest.
But as Repos alone wont do,
Most noble Britons, still we sue
O THOU, to Whom propitious Heav'n
Its best prerogative has giv'n—
The pow'r of doing good:
And to that pow'r the will has join'd,
In mortals rarely seen combin'd,
By few, well understood!
A widow'd sister's cause I plead,
Brought to distress by no foul deed,
But the decree of fate:
How painful to the mind to crave
To be a haughty nabob's slave,
From him to wait relief!
Such is the lot of her, whose mind
Is gentle, meek, nay more, refin'd,
Tho' long obscur'd by grief.
Denied the privilege of nature,
Granted to each inferior creature,
A parent's fost'ring care:
Child of misfortune from her birth,
No kindred can she claim on earth,
None! who her woes would share.
But Heav'n, which ne'er forsakes the good,
And by its ways least understood
Accomplishes its end;
In the forlorn and trying hour,
By its all-gracious potent pow'r,
Sent her a willing friend.
Willing, but yet, alas! too weak;
In you, Lavinia, then we seek
That phoenix of our kind!
Who can the gift of wealth despise,
Unless it dry the weeping eyes,
And heal the wounded mind!
IN vain the beauteous fair one strove
Against the mighty power of Love:
To Reason flew in vain for aid;
She but deceiv'd the lovely maid.
For months, nay years, depriv'd of rest,
Two different passions tore her breast:
Duty and love, their rights maintain,
And each by turns her will restrain:
When most her lover's vows prevail,
Her father's kindness turn'd the scale;
But soon his reasons fail'd to move,
When she beheld the conqueror, Love!
A picture of Cupid given by her lover.
Forbid it, all ye powers able!
Again I own thy claim, sweet Love:
Before the image of her god
She then with awful reverence bow'd.
Soon as soft sleep had closed her eyes,
Transfixt with transport and surprise,
She law a living Cupid rise,
Who, in a voice divinely sweet,
Bade her her master know and greet;
Told her no arguments cou'd prove
Of any force, oppos'd to Love,
And that it was his sov'reign will,
Her vows to him she shou'd fulfil;
That, in the semblance of a friend,
At —— Chapel he'd attend,
Where, it was his express command,
She with her heart shou'd give her hand:
All future thought he bid her spare,
For he wou'd make her bless his care.
OH Goddess! hear thy suppliant's vow,
Who never bow'd the knee till now
At thy capricious shrine
I ask no favours for myself,
Brought by no sordid love of pelf,
But friendship's power divine!
Tho' to this favour'd youth is given
The choicest blessing under Heaven,
In fair Eliza's love;
Thy enmity to love forego,
To merit be no longer foe,
With Plutus break thy league;
Virtue thy fillet shall unbind,
And when thou art no longer blind,
Thou'lt scorn the base intrigue.
Of the same tender, gentle sex,
O do not this fair maid perplex,
And all her joys oppose:
No! See the goddess deigns to smile,
She leads her to the Cyprian isle,
And ends the lover's woes.
The loves and virtues all attend,
To welcome their own child and friend
To Hymen's sacred rite;
Where Strephon waits his lovely fair,
Her future joys and griefs to share,
Their hearts and hands unite!
The fable ends—but not the friend;
To sacred truth a while attend,
Ye happy, worthy pair:
Rest not too much on earthly love,
Remember Him who rules above,
And claims his rightful share.
If you defraud him of his own,
Erect an idol on his throne,
And act the pagan's part:
But no (methinks I hear you say),
Together we'll our homage pay,
Together join in pray'r:
And Strephon, with a taste refin'd,
Shall cultivate Eliza's mind,
With true religious care!
WHERE does thy gentle spirit dwell,
My lost, my lovely Nancy?
Not in the poet's heaven or hell,
Those dreams of idle fancy;
But, purged of all its dross and dust,
It mixes with the good and just.
When an inhabitant of earth,
Thou fair and pleasing maid,
Genius presided at thy birth,
And Fortune lent her aid.
They bore thee far above thy state:
Yet short, alas! thy earthly date.
Her manners had such winning arts,
Her taste was so refin'd,
She gain'd promiscuously all hearts,
E'en when the least design'd:
And tho' no beauty she could boast,
She was the universal toast.
Her parts were quick, her sense profound,
Her temper gay and easy,
Her judgment was so very sound,
She never fail'd to please ye;
Her humour such, and such her wit,
She could all tempers shrewdly hit.
Shut up in cold long wint'ry days
On a domestic plan,
Ah! who like me can sing thy praise,
My favourite little Nan!
But when she sung! not Orpheus' lyre
So sweet a strain could frame;
She could the human brute inspire,
The savage heart could tame;
Rauzini, Millico, nay more,
Her fairer rivals could adore.
PERMIT me, dear sir, to rejoice in your bliss,
On the happy arrival of sweet little miss.
It is said that her grandsire Apollo intends,
With one or two more of your intimate friends,
To stand for her sponsors; nay more, it is said,
That the Muses have orders to wait on the maid;
That the Graces are also requir'd on their duty,
To attend to the growth of this infantine beauty.
But it seems that strange quarrels amongst them arose,
Nay, it has been averr'd, they proceeded to blows;
As each one pretended to put in her claim,
And insisted the child shou'd be call'd by her name.
MY quiver full, and blest as I am,
With progeny like old king Priam,
How narrowly last week did I
Escape the sign of Gemini!
And now, when ev'ry friend begins
To shuffle off an infant's sins,
'Tis kind, dear madam, thus to send it
Such tribes of gossips to attend it;
Phœbus, nine Muses, and three Graces,
To quarrel for its sweet embraces.
Lucina sage, and Dian Dawdle,
Are well prepar'd with cake and caudle,
And persevere in their intention
To entertain the friends you mention;
Tho' puzzled to the last degree,
With Phœbus and his company:
HEBE.
CHLOE, how canst thou put on that gay smile?
How canst thou command so dissembling a face?
In vain you disguise it, too plainly the while
I can see, and can read, that you feel your disgrace.
CHLOE.
Too justly, dear Hebe, you read in my heart,
I own it, 'tis all but a counterfeit ease;
Yet, alas! when there can be no cure for the smart,
'Tis wiser to hide than proclaim our disease.
HEBE.
But say, my fair friend, for yet I am to learn
That hardest of lessons—our thoughts to disguise;
Is the veil of contempt so securely put on,
That nature, unguarded, peeps not thro' your eyes?
CHLOE.
O no, never fear, he's so formal, so cold,
I never, no never, can love him again;
Why then, cruel Hymen, two victims withhold,
When both wou'd rejoice to get rid of thy chain?
HEBE.
Yet tell me, my Chloe, pray can it be so—
Did Cupid himself your two hearts then unite?
By Love himself kindled, no torrent could flow
I thought cou'd extinguish a flame once so bright.
CHLOE.
Alas! my dear girl, let experience persuade,
Believe not what men when they're lovers will say;
For no sooner the boy saw the fools he had made,
Than he blew out his torch, and strait flew far away.
AID me, my Muse, inspire my song,
To sing the joys of Trumpington!
Amid whose calm and shady grove,
Sacred to friendship and to love,
We pass'd our time in social glee,
A chosen small society.
Our jolly host had wit at will;
—To paint his picture's past my skill;—
Serious and lively, grave and gay,
Alike by turns the self-same day.
BLEST Comforter divine! descend,
For thou alone my will canst bend,
Alone canst cleanse my heart:
Chase its lov'd idols far away,
Guide me thro' life's remaining day,
Of sin, increase the smart.
O Lord, without thy aid, how vain
Are my endeavours to obtain
Freedom from guilt and sin!
I've found, thro' every stage of life,
Body and soul at constant strife—
A constant war within.
One hour to thee my heart's inclin'd,
The next, as wav'ring as the wind,
It seeks its bliss below:
But finding here all pleasures vain,
To heav'n it lifts itself again,
And strives its God to know.
O Saviour of our race, look down
From thine august and heav'nly throne,
Pity a helpless creature!
To thee we fly, thy sacred word
Bids us to ask of thee, great Lord,
To change our guilty nature.
Thou, Thou alone, canst cleanse the soul,
From sin canst clear a guilty soul,
And set us prisoners free:
Grant, when thou call'st, that I may come,
And make thee, Lord, my only home,
From sin's dominion free;
So shall my bosom peaceful rest,
On earth resign'd, in Heav'n be blest,
And know no joy like thee.
THE dream of life is almost o'er,
And all its visionary joys;
The mind can be amus'd no more,
With such fantastic tinsel toys:
It seeks a more substantial food,
It looks to a remoter good.
Come Faith and Hope, ye blessed pair,
And cheer me with your solace sweet;
Ye can protect me from despair,
And bring me to my Master's feet;
Retir'd from all the noisy crowd,
Here let me sing my Saviour's praise;
This is the season, when aloud
We shou'd to him our voices raise;
Inflame the breast with sacred fire,
And age with love divine inspire.
These objects which around me move,
Remind me daily, Lord, of thee,
Who when on earth, with heav'nly love,
From all these evils set them free.
The blind, the dumb, the deaf, and lame,
All, all! aloud thy power proclaim.
And shall we less thy mercy prize,
Great Saviour of our race?
Open, oh Lord! our mental eyes,
Assist us with thy grace:
So shall we lift up hearts and hands,
With zeal obey thy dread commands.
So shall I pass this holy week
In penitential pray'r;
With true devotion I shall seek
Thy mercy, Lord, to share!
Nor may the world my ardour cool,
But be thy word my constant rule.
AMI, que veut dire ce don?
Ces bijoux superflus?
De ton esprit un seul rayon
M'enrichiroit bien plus.
Ce beau présent dont tu fais cas,
Cette boite si flatteuse,
Deviendra de Pandore, helas!
La boite ruineuse;
Si dans un moment de délire
Ma vanité s'allume,
J'émousse quand je veux ecrire
Cette belle, cette fatale plume.
Aussi, reprends ton beau présent—
Serpent subtil et fin—
Homme! quand tu deviens galant,
Nous ruiner—est ton dessein.
IF in the countenance we read
(As many wise men have agreed)
The picture of the mind,
You either have the most good-nature,
Or are the most deceitful creature,
Existing of your kind.
And now, good sir, without a jest,
I mean to put it to the test,
And try how far 't will go:
Apollo turn'd it out o' door,
The brat was none of his he swore,
His sisters said the same:
They vow'd that no such spurious race
Shou'd cause their family disgrace,
Or their protection claim.
The child was cunning, and she ran∗
Away to Francis, that good man,
Sure of admittance there:
She thought the minister of Heav'n
Wou'd, by fair Charity, be driv'n
To make the poor his care.
The Author had sent a copy of verses to Dr. Francis, the summer before, which he never noticed.
But tho' the Gospel teaches right,
And men say so who profit by 't,
They from its precepts stray;
His reverence prov'd not in the mind,
Vow'd—"He was always well inclin'd"—
But turn'd another way.
Oblig'd, thus young, to seek abode,
It liv'd on epigram and ode—
Hard diet for a child:
No tender parent to infuse
Discretion to this infant muse,
No wonder she ran wild.
Yet think her not, my friend, too rude,
Indeed she meant not to intrude,
She took you for Apollo:
SLY Cupid, in a distant age,
Accosted thus the Teian sage,
"Admit an infant guest:"
The good old man, who thought no harm,
Willing to keep the urchin warm,
Receiv'd him to his breast.
The fatal consequence you know—
Love, with its sure attendant, Woe,
Prey'd on the poet's heart:
Then lest his hapless fate be mine,
Forgive me, Hale, if I decline
To act Anacreon's part.
Can I so soon forget Sir John∗
,
Who fondly took your darling son
To his paternal care:
See how you lovely women fool us,
He gave his heart to young Iülus,
But found his mother there.
Think you I can such flatt'ry swallow,
To take me for the god Apollo,
Much liker to Silenus:
Howe'er, my gratitude to prove,
I make your child the god of love;
Then, prithee, who is Venus?
Sir John More had passed some time that summer at Mistley with Mrs. Hale and her children.
MAY I in thee, and in thy harmless race,
Once more the virtues of an Abel trace;
And may'st thou in thy Sophy's gentle mind
All the mild manners of a Thirza find!
Together, happy pair, each rising day,
Your homage to your great Creator pay;
Who views, with eye benign, his creatures' joy,
When virtuous pleasures all their days employ;
And none but such can e'er thy thoughts engage,
Tho' young and lively, yet discreet and sage.
O may'st thou live as Abel did of yore—
Thy God to serve, to praise, and to adore!
May no foul fiend, no modish modern Cain,
Approach within thy bower—its entrance stain
THROUGHOUT all ages 'tis well known,
A turtle cannot live alone;
And when the cruel hand of Fate
Deprives it of its darling mate,
It ceaseless coos in plaintive strains,
Expressive of its heartfelt pains.
Once on a time a swain I knew,
Whose love was, like the turtle's, true;
Who in the garden, or the grove,
Incessant mourn'd his absent love;
And when grown stupid as a log,
Would fly to fetch her fav'rite dog;
MY tale is told—and now, great dame,
To you I sue to feed their flame:
Tho' love all luxuries may scorn,
Yet doves must peck their barley-corn.
O may sweet pity in your breast
Lead you to feather well their nest!
If fame says true, your heart and mind
To ev'ry virtue are inclin'd;
If so, compassion in the chain
Must hold a link, or all were vain:
But all, birds, beasts, and human race,
Proclaim it holds the foremost place,
And that your gentle gen'rous mind
Delights to bless all human kind.
As many witness round Oatlands.
Shakspear, Henry VIII.
SWEET songster! from thy pen I find
A balsam to my wounded mind;
When brooding o'er thy hoard of grief,
These lines will give thy heart relief.
In thine, I feel my losses o'er,
For now, my Berney is no more;
And when Narcissa you regret,
Can I my lovely babe forget?
STOP, passenger, and drop one friendly tear
On the lamented form that moulders here:
Sad proof, alas! how soon our joys are flown,
And but just tasted, e'en for ever gone!
Yet stay, lov'd shade!—ah, yet a moment stay
(A moment! and we all shall haste away),
Thy partner only waits thy child to rear,
Sweet pledge of all on earth my heart held dear;
When she can spare me I will gladly come,
Follow thy summons to the awful tomb;
Where we may rest secure from state and strife,
Where none will wish to part the man and wife.
WHEN in our youthful sportive days
You used to read your sprightly lays,
And sought applause, nor sought in vain,
For the lov'd offspring of your brain;
I then was foremost in the tribe,
Who listen'd to the tuneful scribe;
The first who led the num'rous throng
That flock'd to hear your playful song;
And ready with the laughing train
Who hailed Thalia's favourite swain.
But now these joyous times are o'er,
And that the sire will sing no more;
Come, listen, ye whose souls can taste
The charm of music's sweet repast;
His sons' melodious strains will prove
The God has not withdrawn his love:
UNLIKE fair Semele of old,
I'd rather give, than take the gold.
O had I but, like Jove, the pow'r
To pour you down the glittering show'r,
This purse a reservoir you'd find
Capacious as your heart and mind.
SINCE once, by Hope and young Ambition led,
Thou'st dar'd Parnassus' sacred ground to tread;
A youthful pilgrim at the muses' shrine,
Hast woo'd with bashful pray'r the sacred nine:
Say, did the joy with which the tuneful band
Receiv'd the offering from thy trembling hand
—Soft smiles which graced Thalia's brow,
While with delight she fondly heard thy vow—
Claim no fresh tribute from thy grateful heart,
No glowing ardour to thy breast impart?
Art thou content, by bounteous nature grac'd
With op'ning fancy and with early taste,
HOW shall my bold, presumptuous muse
Presume that ardour to infuse,
Which Porteus, Wilberforce, and More,
Vainly attempted to restore
In the fair daughters of our isle,
On whom so many blessings smile?
That ardour which imparts to beauty
Its softest charm—religious duty;
Which o'er pale sorrow's suffering hour
Bestows a calm and soothing power,
Improves and gilds each happier scene,
With chasten'd joy and peace serene?
LADIES! I wish but to prepare ye,
T' avoid the path that may ensnare ye;
I wish, but with maternal care,
To watch and guard each thoughtless fair:
To famed Belinda's sylph related,
Though somewhat old and antiquated;
—And tho', perhaps, my heart's emotions
May seem but strange old-fashion'd notions,
Trust me, my prescient power now shows
What time hereafter may disclose;—
With deep design and studied art,
Madame is come to play her part:
Proficient in the sceptic school,
And French philosophy her rule,
IN days of yore, as bards indited,
The Fairies used to be invited,
To gift the child in heart and mind,
As they to good or ill inclin'd.
The time was fix'd, the guests were come,
All met in the state-drawing room;
When sudden to the astonished eyes,
Drawn by her gilded butterflies,
A radiant fairy form appear'd,
Whose hand a tiny sceptre rear'd,
And, perch'd on Dashwood's milkwhite plume,
Diffus'd ambrosia's sweet perfume;
CRITICS! where'er enthron'd you sit,
Stern arbiters of taste and wit;
Where'er from learning's licens'd ground
You deal your awful thunders round;
To you, your sentence justly dreading,
And your most lenient judgment needing,
I bow with earnest supplication,
To deprecate your indignation:
But if my pray'r thus humbly stated,
Ye still, with classic pride elated,
Declare I'm to no Muse related;
At all events, I here present ye
Variety!—let that content ye:
Whether in gay, or serious mood,
I offer light or solid food;
And try with many flavour'd dishes
Your appetite to meet my wishes.
Here in a faithful glass you'll find
Each feature of the author's mind;
Each passion which, from youth to age,
Mark the heart's progress stage by stage:—
In the cook's art prov'd so mistaken,
To save my leg she spoilt my bacon!
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