Variety: a Collection of Original Poems : electronic version.

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series 168 Managing Editor Charlotte Payne Founding Editor Nancy Kushigian Variety: a collection of original poems Lady, A by A Lady T. Davison, White-friars; for James Wallis, Paternoster-Row; and Christopher and Jennet, Stockton. London 1802

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French July 01, 2008 Jared Campbell ed. Proofed and entered final corrections.

[Title Page]

VARIETY: A COLLECTION OF ORIGINAL POEMS. BY A LADY. LONDON: Printed by T. Davison, White Friars; FOR JAMES WALLIS, PATERNOSTER-ROW; AND CHRISTOPHER AND JENNET, STOCKTON. 1802. CONTENTS. DEDICATION v On Peace 1 The Nosegay 5 The Poet 9 Anecdote of Gustavus 14 Return again 21 Hard indeed the Case is! 26 The Birth of Rosy May 40 Why, Good Folks 44 On the Death of a young Lady 47 The Captive 48 The Request. To a Lady 67 Sonnet to Hope 70 On Eloquence 72 Lines written on the Prison-walls by one of the Victims of Robespierre 74 Translation of the foregoing 75 The Christmas Rose 77 Stanzas 87 Ambition, a Pastoral 89 The Vision of Truth and Justice 93 Sonnet to Spring 121 Henry and Eudora 124 Sonnet to Friendship 133 The Sailor 136 The Winding-sheet 138 The Purchase 141 The Storm 146 The Slave 154 Duet 158 Ejaculation 163 Lines on the Death of Miss M. B. W. 165 DEDICATION. To you, my preceptors, the wreath I here bring, Compos'd of wild flow'rs, the first produce of spring; If the Sov'reign of nature implanted the seed, 'T was the warmth of your care its expansion decreed. But yet so unfinish'd, unstrengthen'd their form, That the chill blasts of censure with ease may deform; Unfit for the critic's, the satirist's view, To good-nature I tend them, indulgence, and you. Of beauty devoid, unpossess'd of a claim That would bear the impression of nice-judging fame, By genius unfashion'd, by grace unadorn'd, Uncultur'd by time and by age uninform'd, The sun of your smiles I may hope they will meet, Should they ne'er gain the sanction, the smile of the great: As you twisted the root, so the stem has since grown; So matur'd into practice the precepts you've sown. 'T was the maxims you early implanted in youth Bade me falsehood detest, love and cherish the truth; Bade honesty's path seem our interest below, As from thence 't is on high every blessing must flow; Bade the sigh of ambition repose on content, Bade the wish of the heart rest in moments well spent; Bade the treasure of mind to all wealth seem superior, Bade me rate ev'ry talent to virtue inferior. If not wise by your care, if in learning not great, Though no partial discernment enlightens my state, Still blest is my lot, you have taught me the road Which leads on to honour, religion, and God; To happiness, end of all human pursuit, Of virtue, mild virtue alone, the sweet fruit. How vain should I seek to repay all the care, Which rais'd my fond hopes to a promise so fair! Yet the mind which you guarded, long cherish'd and taught, For your labour of years is with gratitude fraught: The lov'd sense of your bounty, whilst reason remain, The first seat in her empire shall ever retain; Whate'er be my portion, whate'er be my state, Be prosp'rous, adverse, high or lowly my fate, Attach'd to my soul, as the ivy 't will twine, Shall live ever green in cold poverty's clime, Till nature's remembrance be wrapt in the sod, To rest in the hope of redemption in God. But fortune forbade its first off'ring to prove, But by this slight effusion, avowal of love: Yet if faithful through life to your precepts I prove, Should virtue below gain me favour above, Should you view then hereafter the fruit of your care, In the regions of bliss grow eternally fair, To think that you aided her flight to the sky, Some pleasure at least for your toil may supply; There you, next to God, my just praises must claim, You who guided my steps to the summit of fame. VARIETY. ON HEARING OF PEACE. WHAT heavenly notes, what music dear, Vibrate on my raptur'd ear! Not the trumpet's freezing sound; Not the drum's emphatic bound; Not the clarion, or the horn, On the wings of tumult borne; Not the direful clang of arms, Presaging woe, in war's alarms:— 'Tis the dulcet note of Peace! Cease, every murmur! horror, cease! Stern Oppression's reign is o'er, France and Albion war no more! Who shall now with these contend, When their power, their forces blend? Who shall dare their might defy— Who but God who rules on high? Who shall o'er their strength prevail? Who conquer when their chiefs assail? Who by fear shall be opprest, When the world's great masters rest? Doubt and Danger fly the shore: France and Albion wage no more: Peace reigns upon the dashing tides, And Plenty o'er the earth presides: Hope e'en seeks the barren plain, And deserts promise smiling grain. Now the waste, which war has made, Shall the gentle olive shade: 'T will chase the tear from Misery's eye; Content shall sorrow, want supply. Hush every murmur! horror, cease! Peace comes, long-look'd-for, welcome Peace! Exulting Commerce hails the hour That gives her strength, increase, and power. Now shall Science raise her head, Now her foe Confusion's dead. Now Discord flies, and gentle Peace Welcomes Plenty, joys increase. Oh! then fulfil, enchanting maid, The hopes that at thy shrine are laid. Here see the mother waits her son, And fears the danger yet to run; In every wave she dreads a foe, And chides the winds that adverse blow: And here, the still more anxious wife Demands her all....her lord....her life! And quick, with busy skill, foresees, Prepares whate'er she thinks will please. Favour, ye winds, affection's speed, Nor e'er by storms its course impede: Ah! send to rest, to home again, The gallant chief, his martial train: Long may they taste the sweets of peace, The social charms that hence increase; And, as they count each battle won, Talk o'er each feat of glory done; Paint all the horrors of a war, And honours number in each scar; Dangers o'ercome with rapture tell! Yet, ah! with double rapture dwell On the day, the happy hour, Gentle Peace resum'd her power; When the cries of Death, Despair, Fill'd no more the ambient air; When drooping Pity raised her voice; When Mercy bade her sons rejoice; When the last trump was—Tumult, cease; When Sorrow died in birth of Peace! Who can claim a virtuous heart, And in joy not bear a part? Who possess a noble soul, Not rejoice when peace controuls? Who his country love, nor feel The wounds the olive branch shall heal? Albion sees revive her power, Peace comes, and her triumphal hour: As the sun, she rises bright From the obscurcive shades of night; Neighbouring kingdoms cheers, befriends, Wide and far her wealth extends; Wide and far the smiles of Peace Bid confusion, discord cease: Fear and Danger fly the shore; France and Albion war no more! Hush, every murmur! horror, cease! Hark! 't is the dulcet note of Peace! Plenty comes, and joys increase: Be lasting, then, thy reign, O Peace! THE NOSEGAY. TO A YOUNG LADY. WHILST nature's sweetest flowers I send To you, my Emma dear, Allow me moral truths to blend, And deign these truths to hear. See roses, emblem of your charms, Which winter's frost shall blight, That no returning suns shall warm, When set in death's cold night. Fleeting beauty, what art thou? A simple fading flower:— Now in the rose-bud's vernal hue, Now in its full-blown hour: Now faded every blushing grace, Fled the sweet roses of thy cheek:.... Ah, Emma, heedless of the face, The fruits of virtue early seek. Store honour, wisdom, in your mind; These shall more fragrant sweets diffuse Than the fair flowers I here entwine.... Sweet as the rose-dropp'd morning dews. These, e'en in age, shall charm each heart; These shall ne'er feel the scythe of time; But bliss-like fostering showers impart When lucid suns in shades recline. Cull then, my Emma, cull in youth What years nor aught can e'er impair: To live in all the grace of truth, Be e'er your daily, hourly care. Time, which shall silver o'er your head, Shall still preserve unchang'd your name; And Emma, tho' to beauty dead, Shall bloom in virtue's fairer fame. The flower the blossom, on the tree, The fruit, that more luxuriant grows, May lessons just convey to thee, May teach thee how to find repose. The supple ivy be in duty; Seek in the wise, the strong support; Adhere, and they'll impart their virtue, Nor on thy weakness e'er retort. The humble violet be in mind: Each native beauty, lowly shade, Tho' e'er it lives conceal'd, you find Its fragrance scents the neighbouring glade. Let thy benevolence be warm; Nor from the poor, th' opprest, depart; But, as Sol smiles beneath the storm, Do thou e'er cheer th' afflicted heart. Let worth thy friendship e'er procure; Let int'rest ne'er affection bind; That, e'en to life's declining hour, Ye find in two, one kindred mind. Learn chaste discretion from the reed, Which never quits its lowly sphere, Content to lowly state decreed, Unknowing proud ambition's fear; It 'scapes the blasts which oaks destroy, Secure in every rising storm: No scandal shall thy peace annoy, Suspicion wait not on thy form. Let gratitude luxuriant rise, To him—your guard, defence, and shield; Rich as the juice the vine supplies, To fostering man returning yields. Then as the poplar be upright, Nor stoop to falsehood's winding way; Array'd in truth's celestial light, Thou shalt not soon in error stray. Firm as the rock let faith e'er guide, Religion every action rule; Humanity o'er thought preside; Taste form, in reason, judgment's school. Then, as the rock, thou'lt brave each storm, Wilt rise superior to the tide; Affliction shall not bow thy form; For conscious virtue adverse fate derides. THE POET. A HALF-starv'd poet once began to muse— Not on thin love, blank verse, or foreign news, A weightier matter weigh'd his sinking heart— He felt, alas! he felt cold hunger's smart: His hoard was empty; all his little store, That gave him scanty joy, was now no more; Nay, every avenue of hope was clos'd, And lost each stay, where hope had once repos'd. Now only fill'd the store-house of his brain, All else was vacant, or replete with pain. "O nature!" he exclaim'd, "why, why bestow With double sense to feel, still double woe? Why leave the rich in mind, in fortune poor? Why grant the liberal soul but little store? Why with thy kindness ever cruel prove? Why add the pangs of fear to hopes of love? Why chasten fancy's bliss, by truth's stern hand? Bid nature this, and fortune that, command? Bid pleasure seek, necessity forego? Delight anticipate, yet pain to know? Why warm my mind with verse's magic power, And bid cold poverty that warmth ensure? Unthinking parent, take thy paltry boon, Oh! take, and give relief, ere night, ere noon! Give me but solid food, and cheering wine, No more on fancy's feasts I'd care to dine; No more the nectar of the gods I'd sip, Or in Castalia's troubled fountain dip; No more o'er fields elysian would I stray, But bend o'er earthly walks my safer way; No more in verdant groves or bowers recline, In fortune's softer lap my cares resign: And might I from that pillow never rise Till death should ask its final sacrifice, No more, I say, no more I'd write again.— Mistaken poet! then, and only then, In truth an author eloquent I'd be; Then, only then, I'd soar from bondage free. Did fortune's sun-beam round my mansion play, What warmth, what fire, what feeling I'd betray!" "Hold," cried a genius, who had heard him moan, "I can redress; thou need'st no longer groan: I will prescribe the remedy to grief, Yet leave thee still the choice of the relief: What thou not comprehend'st, I can explain— Thy pleasure only is thy source of pain. Man's evils oft, like thine, in common rise, Which each may cure by some small sacrifice; Yet good's so blended with each bitter here, Thou canst not lose or one but lose it dear. In flying woe, fled is its fellow joy; Pain we may ease, yet never pain destroy: Rhyme is thy pleasure, and it proves thy pain, Because attended with no solid gain. Thou dost repine that fortune's left thee poor, Nor added riches to thy mental dower; Thou sigh'st to live in dull luxurious ease, To measure nature's wants, as whim may please: Yet know, shouldst thou this envied plenty gain, Lost is the poet's fire, the author's reign; For such thy temperament, and such thy frame, To check thy stomach, is to clear thy brain: Too surely wine thy faculties would cloud, Too surely load of food thy fancy shroud. What thou couldst eat, thou mightst not well digest; The cloak thou wear'st, suits thy complexion best; Thy warm imagination needs restraint, And cooling food is given, to suit thy bent; This temporises fancy's lambent fires, With sober judgment damps, what she inspires: Fortune oft aids dame Nature's wise intent, And virtue, virtue dares to be content. To feebler minds than thine is fuel given, To different natures, different states and living. Say, when rapt visions all thy thoughts employ, Dost thou not feel then some superior joy? Awhile, perchance, thou giv'st the subject o'er, And then remember'st that thou art but poor; Then, only then, so transient is thy pain, So lost thy real woe in fancy's chain. The remedy I bring is simply this— Change, take another care, another bliss; Dig in the mine, that yields thee golden ore, Abandon verse, and be no longer poor: The rich man's wealth, his dread of loss, be thine, His fear of death, his gout, his whims, his wine, His chariot; and beware the northern blast, That nips the hot-house plant ere summer's past. Weigh well, ere changing, what thou wouldst forego, What 'tis thou hast, and what thou sigh'st to know; For discontent ne'er feels its present good Till it has chang'd, and evil understood; Then it regrets, regretting finds too late It ow'd contentment to its former state; Pays the sad debt by heartfelt keen remorse, And proves a fickle temper half a curse. Yet when we've evil known, now bliss enjoy, Thought of the past prevents that bliss to cloy; When trifling woe would fain oppress the heart, We but revert, and lost is half the smart. I'll point thee out the path to wealthy fame; Weigh well, I say, the sacrifice 's a name; What else it should be call'd thou best must feel, Thou canst alone decide, alone reveal: Thy hoard is empty; oft before has been, And resupplied as oft in time, I ween; As oft thy hopes and thy repose were o'er, As oft has fortune rais'd again thy store." "Enough," he cried: "content I'll rest, tho' poor; Content to keep the devil from the door." The genius fled in reason's sober gray: How mildly powerful was her parting ray! The poet ate, forgot again his care, Mus'd on the vision, now no more in air; He fix'd her lov'd idea in his breast, And found in her a shield, a guide to rest. When fortune frown'd, and hope no more could charm, This friendly genius smil'd beneath the storm; The more, and more, he call'd her to his aid, The more, and more, she strength of mind convey'd; The more, and more, we take her for our guide, The more she grows our ornament and pride; The more from shame, from sorrow we retreat, The more we truly grow in virtue great. ANECDOTE OF GUSTAVUS, KING OF SWEDEN; OR, FILIAL PIETY REWARDED. FROM THE FRENCH. CLOSE by the covert of a mountain's side, Where the stream dash'd, in gay immeasur'd pride, Auburna watch'd her fleecy white-rob'd flocks; Oft climb'd, with them, fair Sweden's flow'ry rocks; Oft on her pipe would tune the joyful lay, Whilst the troop gather'd round in sportive play. One midst the flock, distinguish'd from the rest, By name Jeannette, she lov'd, avow'd the best; The nymph she'd follow as she pac'd the mead, Come at command, and from her hand would feed: Sometimes she'd turn the fugitive, and stray Beyond her bounds, in mirth and frolic play. How oft in search her mistress has she tir'd, And in her gentle heart despair inspir'd! How couldst thou, Jeannette, torture thus the fair, Who of thy safety took such tender care? How couldst thou cause alarm in that fond breast? The seat of virtue, of content, and rest. 'T would seem thou wouldst, by thus suspending joy, Give double zest, prevent the power to cloy; For when Auburna had believ'd thee lost, When hope's bright ray dark fear had then o'ercast, When as she'd ceas'd to call, thou wouldst again Seek in her arms a welcome to the plain; Skip by her side, to peace restore her breast, Lull every care and every doubt to rest; Again to her protection yield thy power, Pass in obedience each succeeding hour. But from the rocky margin of the deep, The wood, the stream, where drooping willows weep; From bounding o'er the variegated plain, Dales and meads rifling of their sweetest gain; Soon was Auburna call'd to scenes of sorrow, Where joy ne'er cheer'd the night, nor wak'd the morrow: The fiend Disease subdued her parent's frame, Held every nerve a captive to its chain. Yet whilst Auburna liv'd, she still was blest— Still consolation felt, devoid of rest. The maid would tend with anxious love and care, Each wish anticipate, prevent each fear: Now smooth the pillow, to procure her sleep; Now, in her anguish sympathising, weep; And in the moments when she finds repose, To heaven Auburna's prayers emphatic rose. And sure if prayers could pity move above, Inspire divine regard, angelic love, Hers were the prayers which piety had form'd Worth taught affection, rais'd, energic, warm'd. Of every virtue that can mortal grace, Thou, filial love, mayst hold the fairest place; The sweet result, of gratitude and sense Felt, but whose honour holds pre-eminence. One eve, as crossing o'er the village plain, Sweden's great monarch saw, beheld with pain, Auburna's toil, when at the crystal fount The weight she bore, her strength seem'd to surmount; Struck with her mien, awhile he silent gaz'd, Each trait affliction touch'd, each beauty rais'd: Her hazel eyes express'd the virtues meek, Pale sorrow dimm'd the roses of her cheek; The dormant pipe across her shoulder hung, Chaplets lay scatter'd, wither'd and unstrung. Jeannette, with plaintive look, too, droop'd forlorn, And seem'd her mistress' lonely state to mourn: Nature alone contrasted with her mien, Sol's lucid rays illum'd th' enamell'd green, From each near summit seem'd to dart in fire, But o'er the lambent wave, the distant spire, Shot softer glories, whilst the breath of day, In sweet vibrations, chas'd the scorching ray. Such the bright scene, which varied feelings mov'd: Gustavus gaz'd, admir'd, he pitied, lov'd: He ask'd to drink; the crystal draught was given With that superior grace, the gift of Heaven; That emanation of the virtuous soul, Which simple awes unthought of still controul. "Enchanting maid!" the enraptur'd monarch cried; "How hard a fate like this such charms betide! My heart in pity mourns your luckless fate; You seem to merit a superior state: Your labour quit, to rest, to Stockholm go, From want I'll guard you, toil you ne'er shall know; Ease, peace, and plenty, shall attend the day, No care, intruding care, e'er mark your way." "Had I to change my state as much desire As your vow sooths, and as you faith inspire, E'en then impossible! I could not go; Or, going, happiness could never know. My mother, poor and ill, has only me, None else to toil, assuage her misery: Hence, to persuade, vain eloquence will prove, For whilst she lives I'll ne'er another serve; Nor shall one vagrant wish degrading roam Beyond her lov'd embrace, our humble home. Yet could I, going, meliorate her fate; To sickness health impart, thus change our state; Yes then, and then alone, reverse I'd prove, Part ere death will'd, in truth on care improve: But human art can ne'er her strength restore; Long she may live, yet can revive no more. Tho' double ills our fortune should betide, No earthly power shall force me from her side; One common fate we both on earth will share, One common sorrow as one common fare." "Say then, ah! where this happy mother lives: I'd call none wretched who thy care receives; E'en tho' by all the ills of life opprest, In thy affection, beyond fancy, blest! Thy looks are truth, thy words expressive prove Thou liv'st a prodigy in filial love: Foregoing all that youth in common charms, Thou find'st contentment in a parent's arms; Blind to the power of fortune and of fame, Which in the world such beauty e'er must claim, Deaf to suggestions of a better fate, Thou still canst love, prefer, thy lowly state. Come, let me see this mother; lead the way: Sure no plebeian she who gave thee day!" They gain'd the humble cot, to virtue dear: The man, the monarch, greatly soften'd here. Stretch'd on a couch of straw the parent laid; Too well her frame affliction's power betray'd. "How hard!" exclaim'd the king, "how partial fate! Or you, poor mother, ne'er had known this state." "Say God," she said, "is just in all his ways; I his weak creature still can chant his praise: Poor as I am, rich in this child you see, Who by her thousand cares, her industry, Supports my life, tries to prolong my days, Inspire lost hope in all her pious lays: But for her efforts, long I must have left This mortal life, long been of food bereft. May the Eternal, who can worth reward, When I'm no more, still prove her fostering guard! He can alone repay her filial care, Or fully recompense a mind so fair." "Yet man shall render here a tribute due, Perform his duty, and to trust be true. In me behold your king, your sure reward, Now the support of virtue, now the guard. Amiable girl, adieu! Your name shall live; Fame to Auburna a due laurel give. Recording truth shall tell your filial love, And your reward to future age shall prove; That merit e'en on earth will find its due; That kings can recompense, distinguish too." No more the monarch said; with generous speed To Stockholm hasted, to confirm by deed Each promise to the child; the parent made Each vow approv'd on high, to virtue paid. May ye, ye daughters, vie Auburna's work! Tho' no king honour or reward on earth, The King of kings can more than these bestow— Transplant to heaven the worth that grew below. RETURN AGAIN. AS the wood-fuzz'd hill I climb'd, By the parting solar ray, Inhaling the refreshing wind, Chanting heedless on my way, As my flocks I gather'd home, Void of anguish, care, or pain, I heard a note, a note forlorn— "Friend of my youth, return again." The echoes round Repeat the sound It vibrates o'er the neighbouring plain:— "Friend of my youth, return again!" "Say," the lonely wanderer cried, "Ye enlighten'd sons of earth, Where does Constancy reside, If ye find her not with worth? I lov'd a maid, I was belov'd, Equal were our joys and pain, The tender tie on each improv'd— "Friend of my youth, return again." Winds caught the sound, The breezes round Seem'd to murmur in the strain— "Friend of my youth, return again!" My heart ne'er own'd but her controul, Nor other bliss it e'er had sought; It was the union of the soul By sympathetic virtue taught. Soon was I envied all my pleasure, Tho' I was neither proud nor vain A maid more artful stole my treasure: "Friend of my youth, return again." How the warblers seem to say, On the dew-girt blossom'd spray, Chant in lowly plaintive strain, "Friend of my youth, return again!" Superior talents claim'd the fair, But, ah! she could not love more true; Professing more, with wily care She gain'd my friend—to joy adieu! Absent then; with hope sincere To meet that friend, in heart the same, I return'd: no longer dear My promis'd bliss—unlook'd-for pain. The gentle lambkins' bleating moan, The shepherd's pipe, and tuneful horn, Seem'd responsive to the strain— "Friend of my youth, return again!" "Are ye, ye fair, ne'er firm then here? To vows of friendship never true?" I cried with sympathy sincere: The wanderer heard me; heard, and flew. I follow'd with a pitying eye, My heart pursued her o'er the plain; I long'd the lost friend to supply: I hop'd—I sigh'd, "Return again!" Now I hear the curfew toll Peace to some departed soul. But hope with life shall ever reign:— Lovely wanderer, come again! Seek in me a second friend; I, if none else faithful prove, I will love till life shall end, I'll thine every care remove. Banish, then, all vain alarms; Constant, doubt not, I'll remain; Let love supply lost friendship's charms:— Lovely wanderer, come again. The parting day, The twilight gray, Seem'd to soften with the strain— Lovely wanderer, come again! Nature hope shall e'er retain; The setting sun shall rise again. Still she flies, nor hears my lay, Yet my heart to hope I'll give; Hope, nor distant hope, the day In her partial smiles to live. Time shall heal her woe-worn heart; She may pity, then, the swain Whom she taught, devoid of art, To sigh "Return, return again." Now the silver moon appears, Guides my steps, my bosom cheers; Omens, as she lights the plain, The wanderer will return again. Tune my pipe, the cherish'd strain:— "Lovely wanderer, come again!" Well I know, when friends betray, To other kindred minds we fly; The soul can never lonely stray, Till the social feelings die. The heart was made for more than one, Form'd to sooth, as to complain: When the heart's warm friend is gone, What but love shall ease our pain? Source of pure felicity, Heavenly, sacred sympathy! Ye sweetly trill thro' every vein— "Return, dear maid, return again!" Here every eve I'll watch the plain, Perchance she here may come again: Hope on my pipe shall tune the strain— "Lovely wanderer, come again!" HARD INDEED THE CASE IS! WHAT various maxims for our sex are laid! What poor respect to every system paid! Each different author gives for all one rule, And undistinguish'd we are put to school, Without regard to nature, rank, or state, The power of fortune and the gifts of fate. All must conform to one immediate plan, First to the author bow, and then the man. Alas! my sisters, are we blest with reason, And not allow'd its proper use, in season? Sure we may judge ourselves—I see no cause Why these should ever give to women laws. The fair we're call'd, the fickle and the gay; The soul of social life, and porcelain clay: Now, as the treacherous weather, ever changing, Mad after pleasure, e'er with folly ranging; Now less than mortal, more than heavenly, thought, Angelic, insignificant, or nought. Alas! plain sisters, hard indeed the case is! Man centres all our merit in our faces. Deserv'd, or undeserved, alike we share: As each may think of one, we all must bear. From her who with an eye a prince can kill, To her who executes a goose with skill; From her who love of only one demands, To her who praise of all the world commands; From her who early sighs for wedlock's state, To her who vows, she men, and marriage, hates; From her who's had five husbands, to the maid Who ne'er was noos'd, persuaded, or betrayed: In short, wise, foolish, beauteous, and the plain, Alike are fair, are frail, divine, or vain, As each thro' love, caprice, or hatred, speak The experienced knowledge of a month or week. Alas! good sisters, hard indeed the case is! How little own'd our worth, our rights, and places! And then, how more than hard! I vow and swear We're nothing thought of, if we grow not fair; Virtues avail us nought, to gain respect; "Such is the hard condition of our sex!" Vain we prove diamonds of intrinsic worth, If grandame Nature smile not on our birth. But "bound in calf and gilt," unlettered still, Honour's our own, we have it at our will. A sparkling eye, fair skin, or ruby cheek, Will catch the homage merit long might seek. Alas! plain sisters, hard indeed the case is! We're not regarded, without handsome faces: We've no incentive to improve the mind, To grow in virtue, or in sense refin'd. For charms of person most the world admire, And beauty hence becomes our chief desire. Exterior grace we may with justice praise, Yet not make this "the business of our days;" And think of this, this only to improve, As the guide, guardian, and cement of love. Did the world equal prize sense, honour, virtue, We'd strive to excel in these, and every duty. Can skin-deep merit ever better claim Than transient praise a fading earthly fame? But can this satisfy the noble mind? Will it not ask for praise the most refin'd? Say, does not reason bid us seek above For approbation, for angelic love? Should not this prove our first peculiar care? And, gaining this, are we not more than fair? Alas! wise sisters, hard indeed the case is! Our minds are less regarded than our faces. Some deem worth not essential to our nature, Nay, say we're not a soul-informed creature. Oh horrid thought! thus to insult us all, Alike the good, the wise, the great, the small! Ye sex profane! ye then would e'en invade A right by Heaven, by virtue sacred made. By every rule religion can maintain, By every precept held in reason's rein, Ye sisters, ye who claim superior minds, Whose judgment virtue heightens and refines, Assert our rights, oh! speak for all in season, Ere they deprive us of all claim to reason. Should they proceed as now they have begun, Why, we are none, and all our rights undone: Let's be no longer call'd, then, frail by man, Untemper'd clay, that moulds to any plan; Let's sound the alarm! let each, let all resist: The fury of our tongues shall truth insist; For these they say e'er prove our strongest weapon, These shall abet the cause, shall scold and threaten. What! after all our earthly toil and strife, Rob us of well-earn'd bliss, eternal life? Oh sacrilege! is 't thus ye would reward Your best, your first, your kindest, tend'rest guard? But retribution soon must come, Think then, ye sinners, of your doom! Were we not help-meets made?—Oh! shame! abuse! The word, the sex, ye equally traduce. It means an equal, no poor aide-de-camp, No humble walking-stick to general man. No, no, we equal were, are made, Tho' by wrong nursing oft we may have stray'd From our degrees, that equinoctial line, To the antipodes of wisdom's shrine. 'T is true, the half of us are spoilt in teaching; For men so many maxims will be preaching, That right from wrong we hardly can discern, And lose ourselves in seeking how to turn. Be frank, be natural, they oft exclaim, Be gay, be simple, and reserve disclaim. But art simplicity can never be, Nor inborn sorrow the bright soul of glee. Thus new conceit arises; thus we find An affectation of a nicer kind. Thus cunning apes the mild, the feeling heart, And, seeming honest, acts a double part— Acts against nature, when it most would show What nature is, or how it ought to grow. Does the blunt hero play the coxcomb part; The miser smile when from his hoard apart? Does folly dare to wit a vain pretence? To blushing modesty, cool impudence? Why, where's the difference? Each himself forsakes: 'T is affectation still, howe'er it takes. Just as cameleons vary as they turn, Man weeps with those that weep, with those that mourn; Laughs with the jovial, howe'er sad at heart, And scorns with good luck to avow a smart; Eats, drinks, and sleeps, as those he meets shall rule, And with a title deigns to be the fool. But, when we're honest, can we more appear? And, being that, whose censure should we fear? Or whose but wisdom's sanction should be dear? If we're not what we would be in our mind, If not in judgment or in worth refin'd, Let's not assume a part, for shades are frail; The real self soon seen through every veil. More labour 't is our failings to conceal, Than to learn justice, and to justly feel. 'T is most in action worth or merit lies; 'T is most from sentiment that manners rise; 'T is from good sense and knowledge that they flow: But give these first, and we the other know. Let education guide aright the mind, The fruit shall then be of no common kind; Then shall word, action, from conceit be free; Then we appear, are, what we ought to be. Alas! weak sisters, hard indeed the case is! Few know the way to teach us mental graces. Let women right and truth be taught in season, Then they will think, speak, act, live, love, in reason. Give us instruction suited to our sphere, Knowledge, that renders virtue doubly dear; Then, then alone, we shall domestic grow, And all the joys of home superior know. 'T is they who have in self no sweet resource, Who idle pleasures seek, and folly's course; For where no int'rest the senses bind, Where no amusement rises in the mind, The heart ne'er owns content, and seeks in vain In dissipation's path the prize to gain. Let women taste acquire for real joys, For what nor morals, health, nor time, destroys; Improve the talents doubtless wisely given, Nor leave to rust the precious boon of heaven: Give zest for literature, we home shall love, Good sense and honour's path we must approve. But oh! my sisters, hard indeed the case is! Brains are denied us with our heads and faces. Some would make men of us, some strive to prove That we were only form'd for joy, and love: Yet, 'faith, methinks, the greatest load we bear, And ease mankind of half their weight of care. Equal we're form'd; but, being equal, then It ne'er was meant we women should be men. Did God intend that we should prove the same, Be disunited one, be one in name, He had not stamp'd upon our form and feature The different impress of a different creature: He gave us equal reason, for we need An equal share, alike to 'scape and heed The wiles of treach'rous and designing man, Th' erroneous maxims of friends, church, or clan; A mind, if cultivated, to discern Our real duty, whence we bliss may learn. He gave perception, for, were woman blind, Why but half-sighted then were humankind, Half moulded by her care? When she is wise We grow superior, and in wisdom rise: Tuition blind may make us weak appear, Yet custom rarely deems us what we are. If men adhere to virtue, we the same, Then we are equal, different though our name. What is 't can raise or dignify the nature? What makes the just distinction in the creature? The truth-built claim to reason, honour, sense, Alone gives title to pre-eminence. If, as 't is said, we are by nature weak, Why so much censure, why perfection seek? Why on that weakness do ye then retort? Reeds were ne'er made to be of oaks the sport. When little's given, can justice much require? First have the fuel ere ye seek the fire. If such we were, we'd need your pitying love; Then, as ye talk, 't is Heaven ye'd most reprove. Nay, were we e'en in our primeval state So little blest in mind by partial fate, It does not follow that we now should be, Since Eve ate knowledge from fair wisdom's tree. For what is now as in its first-born state? Or who remain as they are first create? Nature herself has various changes prov'd, Her children still more variously have mov'd. Our sex a part have prov'd the changing fashion, And, reason once denied, they dare to dash on; They now begin to claim their pristine right, To drink of Persia's spring, and clear the sight: And sure to knowledge we've a prior claim, Tho' nought to boast, if hence too care we gain. In plenty first, 't is said, the woman ate, And wisely gave but little to her mate; Of course she'd prove the wiser of the two, Since, eating more, the more she learnt and knew: Perceiv'd, through eating, at some future day The sex would strive her daughters to betray; Kindly to us, she gave man smaller share, That less he might transmit to every heir, That, less empower'd, he might less evil do, That we might, better 'scape when they pursue. Thus of the evil deed she made the best, Thus on the blot was wisdom's seal imprest; And would some honest counsel see us righted, We should, we might be found the clearer sighted. Alas! wise sisters, hard indeed the case is! Justice is blind, we lose our rights and places. Is it in genius that ye difference state? This may be prov'd th' impartial gift of fate; Alike to poverty, to rank allied, Precursor oft to each, the wish or guide; Of neither sex, and yet of both the right, Since Heav'n can only will, and give the light: And where he has bestow'd superior reason, Who should presume the gift is out of season? For man or woman it alike may grace, If virtue hold but with it equal place, If bright discretion's staff the power befriend; Else not to good, to comfort, it will tend. If double prudence lead not on the way, From each rude touch preserve the high-wrought lay— And then, e'en then, impossible to pass Uncensur'd in the world's hard trying glass— Each trivial error of superior minds Bears the false import of superior crimes: The rust on polish'd steel we soon discern, But speck on iron not so quick we learn. Genius, to men, to Europe, unconfin'd, Will rise spontaneous with or sex or clime: Superiority if hence ye state, I vow 't is wrong; the like proclaimeth fate: 'T is seen to this we hold an equal claim; Our right is equal, if not so our fame. Alas! wise sisters, hard indeed the case is! Men will allow us nought but fairer faces; Yet they discover, what they most have known, E'en in their gen'ral thought of every one, Those who know only virtuous of the sex, Must give them due will, honour, and respect: But with the rake, the disappointed swain, Frailty and woman are one common name; Few of the best e'en wish us light to gain, Lest we should preach, and preach them out of fame. Here authors cry, "How charming 't is to see A lady's patch-work, rags, embroidery! After a day of toil and mental strife, How sweet to thus unbend in simple life! Small talk the fair, their lovely persons flatter; Sweet nonsense whisper, swear, profess, and chatter; A hat, a cap, a lap-dog's form admire, And vow they live but in your eye's bright fire." Oh! manly pleasures, for the manly mind! Great and superior joys, of souls refin'd! All recreation, more or less, exact, And each betrays himself in what attracts: One seeks a book, and one pursues a bauble, Some cricket play, and some play the diable; Fribbles in gauze and trinkets may delight, And only love what but attracts the sight. Sure reason's pleasures differently will rise, 'T is the true solid e'er its bliss supplies; 'T is reason still, in rest, in toil, and play, In sorrow's night, or fortune's smiling day. Alas! fair sisters, hard indeed the case is! That ye should need to please the aid of laces; That 't is not charms original will win, Your robes must vie the whiteness of your skin; That real beauty must be deck'd with art, That dress, as much as you, shall gain the heart. Let's heed them not, pursue the path of duty, And boldly dare to fix our hearts on virtue: 'T is time we move upon a different plan, Time we seek more the love of God than man; Time our ambition swell to mighty things, Quit earthly monarch's smile, for King's of kings; 'Tis time that Truth our cause and worth should plead, And time dame Custom should revise our creed. Speak then, ye wise, for now's your time, your turn, The good will thank you who our case must mourn; Shew that the soul men would deny us here Can be to honour and to right sincere. Against these proud foes haste ye then declare, Justice shall lead, as justice forms the war: On earth not e'en content to rob our fame, They seek on high to disannul our claim. Speak then, ye wise, ye just, ye good, ye great, Speak for your sex, oh! speak ere 't is too late: I would assist, but must decline in season, Till time empow'r, and old experienc'd reason. Ah! should it chance—as wonders will appear, Rise on the tablet of each passing year— Should I e'er gain essential strength of mind, Be as I'd wish, in judgment, sense, refin'd, Then, my lov'd sex, I would resume the pen, Defend our worth, and dare have at you, men! I'd prove the soul ye vilely would dispute, Reprove in mercy, yet in truth confute: For heav'nly mercy rises in the soul, And where no spirit is, she can't controul. Hence with you, critics, e'en I hope for pity, If I have err'd in this, in every ditty: I grant ye souls, you may in mercy say, Perchance thou'lt better write another day; For time, experience, make the weakest wise, The seasons change, and moths grow butterflies: The vagrant bee seeks home and rest in season, And e'en weak woman may improve in reason. THE BIRTH OF ROSY MAY. 'T WAS the birth of rosy May, Winter's frost no longer chill'd, Sol check'd the dew-drop on the spray, And warmth with joy each bosom fill'd: 'T was the birth of rosy May.... 'T was Maria's natal day. Roses now began to bloom, Lilies grac'd the flow'ry scene, The violet shed its sweet perfume, All nature smiled in fairy green: Warblers caroll'd on the spray; Welcome, rosy birth of May! But vain the rose had sought to vie The radiance of Maria's cheek; Vain would the lily's softer die The whiteness of her bosom speak; Vain the songsters of the spray Equal her melodious lay. Oh pride of nature! pride of may! Wisdom's, beauty's, honour's pride! Whose every smile could render gay, Whose life the censure of a world defied! 'T was the birth of rosy May.... 'T was Maria's natal day. Just eighteen years the maid had seen, Mark'd by truth the radiant course; With virtue every step had been, Untinctur'd with the thorn remorse. Then, ah then! the birth of May Prov'd Maria's funeral day. Love, affection, friendship dear, Come to hail her natal day, Rais'd by joy, undamp'd by fear, On the rosy birth of May: But soon how chang'd their joyful lay! It prov'd Maria's funeral day. The dance began, the pipe, the lute, Beat symphonious to the train; The tabour, violin, and flute, Responded to the jocund strain: Welcome, rosy birth of May! Welcome, Mary's natal day! But fate forbade their joy to last, Death seized Maria in the throng, Dismay in every bosom cast, The dirge usurp'd gay pleasure's song. Unwelcome then thy birth, oh May! That prov'd Maria's funeral day. But death shall ne'er destroy her name, Her name shall live to virtue dear; E'en on her tomb sits mourning Fame, Affection dews the sod with tears: There grateful Mem'ry loves to stray, To chant her worth in plaintive lay: And there maternal love still hies, First and superior in her woe! Such woe while life remains ne'er dies; Death can alone a hope bestow: Will she not welcome then the day, Emancipation from oppressive clay? Ah! when she Mary clasps again, When she beholds her offspring blest, Will she not bid adieu to pain? Will not each woe be then redrest? She'll join the choir in joyful lay, Welcome virtue's holiday! Ah! let us think on rosy May.... Think on Mary's natal day; Think every hour may be our last, Prepare, repent our folly past: That we in heaven may chant the lay.... Welcome virtue's holiday! WHY, GOOD FOLKS. WHY, good folks, should you make such a pother 'Bout bach'lors, old maids, and the like? 'Tis a hard case indeed, All the world seem agreed, To have for the race a dislike. Each petty author thinks he freely may scan A woman unmarried, if she e'en live in peace; Though the apostle have said 'T is as well not to wed, If single we're happy, enjoy perfect bliss. A good woman is sure more respectable single, Than she who is married and kicks up a riot, E'er scolding her dear, And possessing with fear The neighbours, who can't live in quiet. Methinks there's more shame for a woman to marry, When she feels for the object no partial esteem: Now-adays 't is a trade Too generally made To marry for livings, I ween. Thus approaching the altar, no grain of affection To lighten the sorrows of life, Discord will ensue, And the lady may rue That she e'er bore the name of a wife. We all have our use in the grand chain of being; No one, to be sure, was e'er made in vain; And those who are stated, Call'd falsely ill fated, Old maids, have their office 't is plain: If you find one in a hundred a little severe, She has in the world no mean station; She makes the young and fair, The thoughtless beware How they sport with the gem reputation: Having nought else to do, do ye see, they refine Their knowledge of right and of wrong; To examine each thought, With discretion e'er fraught, Is their conduct amidst the gay throng. Of the world's foolish censure, dear tabbies, ne'er think; 'T is the married in malice who envy our station; They say we are curst, But their fate is the worst, Under man's, tyrant man's domination. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. RICH in each grace that can adorn the heart; Young without folly, prudent without art; Friendship, affection, sway'd her youthful mind; Chaste as the morn, beneficent and kind. Heav'n saw her virtues with a godlike love, And snatch'd the fair-one to the realms above; Releas'd her spirit from this load of clay, To mix with angels in eternal day. THE CAPTIVE. Founded on Fact. THE sun was sinking in the shadowy west, Spire, hill, and wave, his partial rays confest; His milder radiance grac'd each distant scene, His ev'ry smile forsook the lowly green. Now the tir'd labourer from his labour goes, To home, to happiness, to sweet repose; There patient waits the glad return of day, As the night ends, in morn begins to pray; Then speeds to toil: around the rough winds blow: He breathes content, that kings but seldom know; Pure as the stream which by his cottage winds, Pure as the wish which there his soul confines. What happy lot! to him who in this tow'r Ne'er sees the sun rise, its declining hour; In one dull tedious night for ever cast, Alike each day, the present and the past! War made him captive, stern oppression chain'd, And to one gloomy cell his feet restrain'd; Torn from his native land, his cherish'd home, Without one friend to cheer the frightful gloom. Here "hope deferr'd" redoubles every smart, And sickens each bright impulse of the heart; Chill'd expectation, fairy phantom! flies, And ready mem'ry's tort'ring visions rise. Here black suspense, with all her direful train, Prolongs, recounts, each care-corroding pain; Relief has seldom reach'd this grated door, Nor mercy e'er imprest the death-cold floor. "Are we to pity lost, to friendship's aid, Because by cruel war in fetters laid? Is it because some other speck of earth," Cries captive Bertrand, "own'd our infant birth? Can there be minds so little in their sphere To scorn each action but their own career? Does not one God incorp'rate and maintain? Does not one soul inform, one pow'r sustain? Has not one spirit on each heart imprest A sense of right and wrong, and rules confest? Life's trembling source, with reason's fragile chain, Health, smiling guest! despair, and ghastly pain? Are we not objects of our Maker's care, And, though exotic, claim compassion's tear? Can man to man thus so illib'ral prove, Forget religion, nature, God, and love, That God from whom he ev'ry good derives, From whom he borrows, from whose word he lives?.... That such there are, too well I feel and know:" Thus Bertrand mourns, while scalding tears o'erflow.... Bertrand, whose hapless and peculiar fate In simple truth I briefly will relate. On pleasure's wing he on the ocean rode, In mind unruffled, as the tide then flow'd; Bright as the sun-beam then around him play'd, Fortune her fairest gifts to him convey'd. Just in life's glorious prime, as then the year, And as on plant and tree the blossoms fair Adorn'd each stem, so beauty grac'd his youth, So shone his virtues, his superior worth. 'T was in the nuptial week, no present care Clouded the prospect bright with doubt or fear.... How quickly chang'd the scene! how sad reverse! Which feeling e'en must pain to think, rehearse. Oh misery! shalt thou ne'er know restraint? Shall ne'er the wicked thy controul content? Must youth, must beauty still thy power confess, And, knowing honour, know thee not the less? Bertrand's a proof of thy despotic pow'r, By foes attack'd in an unguarded hour.... His country's foes, who saw the open boat From port, from signal equally remote; Quickly they tear him from his frantic bride, Her tears, her pray'rs inhumanly deride. Ah! say ye, judges, was there justice here? Could war exact a sacrifice so dear? Soon in the prison's gloom, in horror cast, Usurp'd by present pain each pleasure past, Anticipation is itself a wound, And dreaming visions waking pangs redound. His cherish'd partner e'er in fancy's view, And as himself despairing, and as true: And oft when care-brought sleep his eye-lids close, When through oppression nature seeks repose, In smiling light enwrapp'd, she hovers round, His couch illumes, and in seraphic sound Whispers he soon shall quit this mortal life, In happy regions meet his long-lost wife: But with the night the flatt'ring vision flies, And with the morn does new-born mis'ry rise. Such long has been the state of Bertrand here, Such still may be for many a tedious year. Tho' twilight's curtain veils him from my sight, His sorrowing voice steals thro' the gloom of night, Damps the gay ardour of a feeling mind, Drives gentle peace from ev'ry sense refin'd. PART II. SOL rose again in glory from the east, And blooming nature his glad smile confest. "Shall herb," I cried, "shall tree, shall plant, and flower, Thy influence feel, and man not own thy power? Shall virtue, Bertrand, mourn thy cheering ray, And taste but partially the breath of day? A fate so hard than pity more demands, It asks an int'rest, and redress commands." Resolv'd to aid, I seek the ear of fame, And loud his matchless beauty, praise, proclaim; The curious seek the lonely prison's gloom, Depart, in word compassionate his doom. Edgar, not distant from the dark abode, Heard of the name, and sought the dreary road.... Sought, yet unthinking that he there should find A friend, a kindred soul, an honour'd mind. He enter'd: and what grief, what sad surprise, In the pale captive's form struck Edgar's eyes! Is 't not," he cried, "my Bertrand that I view? Or some illusive shade, or semblance true? Come, sole possessor of thy Edgar's heart, Come to my arms, thus let me feel thou art The man whom here I least would wish to see, And least would dream to view in misery; Behold a captive in a foreign clime, When flatt'ring hope, when fond delusive time, As my steps wander'd, painted to my soul That, blest in love, still friendship might controul. Fatal reverse! say, dost thou equal prove In the expected votive hopes of love? Or does thy Lucia's heart yet vibrate true, Fix'd and superior, only beat for you?" "Truth mark'd her steps, fidelity her lay; I was the husband....captive....in a day. Oh! Edgar, welcome as the matin light To us, inur'd to one unceasing night! Say, can'st thou figure....no, thou dost claim.... The pride of virtue, beauty, and of fame? Thou art a stranger to a tie like mine, Or thou might'st guess what 't is to part, resign. I can no more....Read thro' the rest, my friend; Here present woes, here prior griefs all end. Forgive, thou God....'t is mortal man relates.... If he unjustly blame the wond'ring fates: Ev'n now he doubts if every harsh decree May in the end not give felicity; Raise every feeble, wand'ring wish to thee, Secure our peace....in heav'n, eternity. I see, my Edgar, thy indignant soul Spurns at the chains which here thy friend controul: Patient, resign'd, alike I'd bear my fate, Had I but tidings of my Lucia's state; Could I her every care for me remove, Assuage her fears, our common woe improve; Give her that hope I even dare not claim, The dear idea....we may meet again. Yes, sure we shall, if I deserve her love, Still be united in the realms above. Ah! when I taste, beneath the prison's gloom, The sweets of slumber, dream of life to come; There think I rest, secure from earthly strife; And there in glory view the faithful wife; This proves a prelude to severer pain, The vision flies, a captive I'm again. Can'st thou, my generous friend, some means devise.... Blest in thy counsel, what dost thou advise?" "I'll hie to France, and to the maid impart Each embryo wish, each whisper of the heart." "But shouldst thou, Edgar, tempt the treach'rous main, Thou may'st become, like me, on Gallia's plain, Or in the bosom of the raging deep Find thy last hour, death's dreary joyless sleep: Then might'st thou curse thy friendship's eager speed, Bertrand, the cause, if not th' effective deed; Then should I feel oppression doubly strong, Thy ev'ry pang redound each sense of wrong. Some other plan my Edgar must advise; This proves thee gen'rous, but not proves thee wise." "Canst thou then, Bertrand, patient wait the night, Yet unresolv'd till day's returning light? Haply some kindred spirit may impart Projects congenial to thy feeling heart. I leave thee, Bertrand; doubt not quick return; Hope whispers, long thy fate I shall not mourn: My steps shall wander from this lone abode, My soul shall seek thee and repose in God; And as I praise, for ev'ry bounty given, I'll ask thy better fate in pray'rs to Heaven." PART III. "OH holy friendship! do thou guide my heart, To act the real friend, the christian's part! What tho' from Bertrand I have ne'er received Proofs of his love, too strong to be deceived, Shall weak distrust humanity disarm? Or fancied vice prevent the truth to charm? Tho' different interests our nations rule, He's the world's friend who's train'd in virtue's school. And what though diff'rent were our mortal sires In name, pursuit, in glory, and desires; Still of one father we the children are, His equal love we claim, his equal care: Brothers in mind, if not by nature made, By reason form'd, and virtue's self betray'd. Should I my captive friend, my Bertrand, free, Give up my all to get him liberty; Say that from France the happy edict come, His wish'd redemption from a joyless tomb; Hence he'll not seek to thank, return bestow, Nor e'er perchance may his deliv'rer know..... They are not gen'rous, act no noble part, Who giving, look for gain with sordid art; Their liberality mere traffic grows, They love the practice as their profit flows." Thus reason'd Edgar, whilst with eager speed He flew to execute the noble deed. Restore to liberty.... oh! blissful thought! Say ye, ye happy, by true virtue taught, Is there on earth so pure, divine a joy? Another transport without base alloy? That bliss supreme, which hope of ne'er deceives, Which, pleasing once, again shall soothe and please, To cheer th' oppress'd, the drooping sons of worth.... This, this is virtue's luxury on earth. This Edgar felt, when o'er the distant plain He flew, perform'd, and met his friend again; Met as unconscious of the glad result, And various plans they form and long consult. Then, as resolving, the wish'd orders come, Life, joy, and hope, the pris'ner's cell illume. "Eternal Pow'r!" the grateful Bertrand cried, "What wish'd, unthought-of bliss my fate betides! Oh! France, my native land, I then shall see, Shall hail time once more, once more shall be free! Once more shall clasp to this fond faithful heart My soul's lov'd empress, and its better part! But where, my Edgar, shall I guess the hand, That gives me freedom in thy favour'd land? Had Edgar wealth possest, I'd said 't were he Who gave me life, in giving liberty." "Right then had Bertrand said, for none more true Could have the will, yet want the pow'r to do: Thou sees'st thy Edgar what the world calls poor; Blest with thy love, now rich in friendship's store! Poor through the debts of honour I have paid, Which chance, necessity, incumbent made; And hence impoverish'd, yet I something gain.... Experience oft instructs by stripes of pain." "But mark....To friends in France, 't is said, I owe My purchas'd freedom, and no more can know. Such e'er is virtue, such is worth refin'd; Praises and thanks oppress the gen'rous mind; It loves in secret blessings to diffuse, And, Heaven-like, unseen relieves and views. Yet ah! how painful to congenial souls, When gratitude o'er ev'ry sense controuls, To be denied the debt of thanks to give, And feeling, seem insensible to live! But thee, just God! the first immediate cause, All know, may own, and give thee due applause; And, through the agency of earthly pow'rs, Perceive who counteracts, who good procures; And e'er oppress'd, the soul reverts to thee, Primeval source of joy, felicity! Secure to find, beyond this mortal life, An end to toil, to vanity, and strife: 'T is thus the weary traveller returns, Sighs but for home, and for rest only mourns." PART IV. THE day arriv'd when Bertrand should depart, Leave Albion's isle, with no dejected heart: When fickle fortune deigns but once to smile, Hope counts successive favours in the wile, Affliction's storm believes for ever past, And each surmounted woe still deems the last. Thus expectation views the solar beam Which breaks thro' April showers, illusive gleam! Tempting the steps, the fancy on to stray, But to beguile more deep in sorrow's way. Bertrand claim'd one regret, by friendship form'd, By love, superior love, chas'd, lessen'd, charm'd; And in a neutral vessel bound to France He braves of winds and seas the dang'rous chance. Propitious breezes waft them from the coast, Soon, betwixt sea and sky, the bark is lost; The undulating waves soon lull to rest All but the watch, who dare not feel opprest. Bertrand in sleep forgot each prior pain, Thought fled in dulcet joy and peace again. Ah! short repose!....a night of tranquil ease!.... Who shall e'er seek for safety on the seas? The light of morn was lost in sombrous clouds, And winds loud thund'ring rent the rattling shrouds; The lambent light'ning caught the sportive sails, Quick the flame spread in the quick bursting gales; Loud shrieks of horror in each ear resound, Annihilation's heard in every sound: Now from the trunk they lop the flaming mast, In the devouring sea impatient cast; Descending smoke with rising waves combine, And clouds impending in confusion join. Now half the crew are swept into the main; Some on the crackling deck are toss'd again; Some fall a prey to the dread raging fire, Some in pale horror, deadly fear, expire. The few whom fate still spares launch the long-boat, And leap within her with one common thought; Bertrand amidst the rest, still prizing life, With all its hopes, its dangers, doubts at strife. Again the fiend despair possess'd his heart, And each brave sailor felt its deadly smart: 'T were vain to think the feeble bark could live, Long shield from danger, long protection give; Hour after hour rebuff the raging storm, Fight with the waves, of waves the very scorn. E'en now to rocks the furious winds convey, The light boat shivers on the stony way; Their stay is gone....it flies....no more they see, No more behold than sky and open sea. Now the poor brothers in misfortune claim No other bulwark than the stormy main; Some this way dash'd, and some another borne, Some to, some from, the shelving cliffs are blown; Bertrand, the wretched Bertrand, pants for breath, And ev'ry sense is lost in that of death. Sudden he sinks, then with as sudden rise, Seems with the soaring waves to mount the skies; Then quickly dash'd upon the rocky steep, Senseless he sinks into the arms of sleep; Oppression and fatigue his eyelids close, Night draws her curtain, nature seeks repose. The storm abates, the winds forget to wage, Or in the conflict lose their force to rage, Thunder is silent, light'nings flash no more, Smoothly the current ripples on the shore; Still'd is the rattling of the falling leaves, Ceas'd the rude brushing of the ripen'd sheaves, Hush'd the deep murm'ring round the cottage fire, Which damp'd each youthful innocent desire; Yet still in each anticipating mind Calm horror springs, known but to souls refin'd. Such as when war has spread its dire alarms, When peace returns with renovating charms, Speaks to the soldier rest, joy to the swain, Ease to the mariner, the artist gain; Here still reflection drops the pitying tear O'er every victor's consecrated bier, And in the tempest ceas'd, the battle won, Sees hundreds slain, and thousands counts undone. The morning blush'd, in peace and glory drest, Sol's scorching rays chas'd sleep from Bertrand breast; Wak'd in amaze, the past appear'd a dream, But truth, conviction, brought surrounding scenes. Stretch'd in the arms of death, on the dead shore, A seaman lay, his toil, his dangers o'er; And here and there wrecks of the vessel lost Shew'd the vain strength of art, in tempest tost. "Father of mercies!" grateful Bertrand cried, "Thou who in wonder sav'dst me from the tide! Thou whom the creature ne'er can recompense! Thou with whose aid man never can dispense! Though now by hunger's potent claims opprest, By thirst consum'd, I'll hush each doubt to rest; Patient await my death, if death thou'lt give, Or, if thou deign'st, in thee, religion live..... But, bliss unlook'd for! hope no more betray.... Yes, 't is a bark! it comes, it steers this way!" Eager he waves a signal in the air; And, in the torture of suspense and fear, Forgetting each resolve, he sinks opprest, Blind to the messengers of peace and rest. The gen'rous mariners, who come to save The feeble Bertrand from a hapless grave, Gain the steep summit; now with feeling care The death-like load within their arms they bear: Their mercy to the dead they e'en extend, And pay the last sad duties of a friend; Drop o'er the sinking corpse the pitying tear, Which seem'd to speak him son or father dear. Thought, painful thought, they too might one day prove Alike this fate, the need of fellow-love, Soften'd each manly soul, with tender sense Held o'er each nature sweet pre-eminence. They reach the deck; with eager haste prepare Relief for Bertrand; quick the feeling fair, Whom Heav'n directed here, the form surround, Whom Heav'n had will'd in wonder should be found. First to commiserate see Lucia come, E'er prompt to sooth th' afflicted mourner's doom: But what unlook'd-for joy, surprise, and fear, Oppress each sense in Bertrand's image dear!.... She sees, she calls, she clasps her long-lost lord, And, seeing, doubts him but in death restor'd. The voice electric acts, he moves again, Lost in sensations of hope, bliss, and pain. "Oh! tell me," as he clasp'd th' enraptur'd maid, As the big tear more than his words convey'd, "By what mischance, good fortune, do I see Truth in thy image, on the faithless sea? Moment unlook'd for! worth a world of pain; All that I prize on earth I hold again. Eternal Pow'r! whose ever-wond'rous ways Claim, justly claim, the creature's boundless praise, If future life devoted to thy cause Can speak my gratitude, thy due applause, That future life I dedicate to thee: Hence from the world's vain pomp, its pride I'm free..... But whither dost thou roam? whence art thou here?" "No captive, Bertrand, but a volunteer, Devoted to thy fate, to love sincere. Firm I resolv'd to Albion to go, No more to vainly weep, deplore thy woe, But search thee out, a tender soother prove, Assuage thy sorrows, if not to remove. This ready bark assists the honour'd cause, Love bade me spurn cold caution's coward laws.... Bade thy peace prove its first peculiar care; Bade me ne'er rest whilst thou ne'er rest didst share. To ransom thee our lands, our states I've sold; For this each gem thou gav'st revers'd to gold: Were these found insufficient for mine aim, To give thee liberty, life's precious fame, Then I'd resolved to sympathise and share With thee one equal home, one common fare: That, should thy lot be e'er the prison's gloom, There would I pleasure seek, there fix my doom; Leave the vain world, the virtuous find in thee: Thus, tho' love led, 't was not from interest free." "Oh, faith divine! oh, memorable day! Some god, some angel, led thee on thy way; Inspir'd the thought, and rais'd thy drooping heart, To act the heroine with the christian's part. How lost to bliss are those who ne'er have prov'd What 't is to love, in virtue to be lov'd! With thee, my Lucia, wheresoe'er I roam, Of rest secure, of happiness and home, Without thee France I'd e'en a desert deem; Yet with thee deserts would elysium seem: To England bound, content we there will go, There patient wait till peace the nations know; Till with the laurel olive shall combine; Till warring kingdoms shall in concord join; Till battle, tumult, dread alarm shall cease; Till France, till Albion seal the bond of peace." THE REQUEST. TO A LADY. HOW shall I, my friend, all your bounty repay? How e'en my due sense of that bounty pourtray? I seek, long have sought, an occasion to prove 'T is no sordid ingrate you zealously serve. When my heart would its gratitude warmly display, My tongue, fondly fearful, opposes the lay; To the pen I've recourse, in hopes 't will be kind, And truly avow what I bear in my mind. No time from the tablet of mem'ry shall rase, No future impression your kindness efface: Yet words you'll think vain; they are vain too I say, For the soul of sensation in words dies away; A proof I 'd bestow, yet in fortune too poor To give what I owe, and what else you'd ensure. A simple acknowledgment deign to receive, Till hope shall no longer my wishes deceive: Till fate shall empower to repay as I ought; Be grateful in deed, as in word and in thought. You know, my good friend, I possess a small art, The life-inform'd trait on dead soil to impart: Let me take you then off in a good-natur'd way; You shall smile, and your sweetness I'll only betray. Or have you some lover, whose shade you'd preserve, That no time, that no absence, his charms could remove? Would you not that he knew? His face I can steal, With impunity too, should ill-nature reveal. No crime, I think, justice the theft could e'er deem; It could none or to honour, humanity, seem: From the stealer of hearts 't is the evil ensues, And, shame! that the law the base thief ne'er pursues. I vote for reform; sure, ye will who 've lost... You, my sisters, I pity, who 've prov'd to your cost, That the want of a heart can ne'er be supplied, Do n't you think, now, that hanging the rogue should betide? I mean, when, intending your bliss to impair, He runs off with your happiness, leaves you despair. The case is quite alter'd...I 'm just, be it known, When in chace of your heart he loses his own. Agree to this, won't ye, my sisters, who prove How sweet 's the exchange, when ye gain love for love? Though the mould'ring traits I preserve from decay, I steal not a grain of original clay. Thus the art I profess I can innocent prove; Nay, 't is useful, in waking remembrance and love, In preserving from time the bloom of our youth, In shielding from death the idea of worth. But no more of digression; 't is time I return To my object and end, intent you should learn. Though e'en not by thanks I your friendship have paid, Though in no way my grateful sensations pourtray'd, The hope to repay next my heart shall e'er live, Till fortune prove kind, you conviction receive. SONNET TO HOPE. OH! bear me, Hope, on thy light wing, Thou ever-flatt'ring vision, bear; Raise every sense to pleasure's spring, Undamp'd by wint'ry cold despair. Thy sun-shine will revive my heart, Bright joy and all its sweets impart; Shall dissipate the clouds of grief, Shall bid me seek and find relief. Care shall not then disparage youth, Nor ever chill invention's source; But peace shall bloom, as lasting truth, And aid each step to virtue's course: No fear shall then, with mad controul, Invert the order of my soul; Each passion shall serenely glide, Dejection thou shalt, Hope, deride. Yet ere I give mine heart to thee, Ah! tell me, ere I own thy power, True to thy promise wilt thou be? Befriend me in affliction's hour? E'er just to expectation prove? Or, like the false friend, only serve When fortune smiles; the very hour We need the least of friendship's power? E'en so; unveil'd, and brought to light, I view thee with deceit array'd, Just as the transient meteor bright, As quickly lost in night's dark shade: Thou'lt gain the soul, and then betray, Forsake it in oppression's day; A while thou'lt cheer the drooping heart, And heal, but to redound the smart. Go then, thou treacherous phantom, go, No longer welcome to my breast; Seek not to interrupt my woe; With thee is found no real rest. Thou'lt give a momentary ease, Suspend the pang but to increase; Thou'lt give a time for grief to form, To render doubly dire the storm. Hence, no more mine heart thou'lt warm, Nor aught but certainty shall ever charm. ONELOQUENCE. OH, Eloquence! enchanting maid! At whose shrine thousand hopes are laid! Realms have confess'd thy powerful sway, And sovereigns e'en thy laws obey. Without thy soft persuasive art, The hopes of love would languish in the heart. Then but half-own'd were friendship's powers, Then but half-charming social hours. Without thy all-emphatic aid, Tyrants had double slaughter made; Pity had mourn'd oppression's rage, And unrewarded virtue sunk in age. Through thee the orphan's claims first reach the heart, And in each nerve sensations new impart: 'T is in thy soil first heav'nly mercy grew, 'T is there she holds her sovereign empire too: And like a summer softening shower, Which temporises in the scorching hour, Soft balm she pours in every bleeding wound, Corrects, refines, and soothes, where'er she's found. 'T is on her pinnacle Religion soars, Elysium mounts, and God in heaven adores; Glides through the regions of immeasur'd space, And opes the bounds prescrib'd by time and place. From her faith grows; she gives conviction life; Peace first she sow'd on earth, and buried strife: Through her we breathe each fervour of the soul, And truth's bright influence spread from pole to pole. She planted liberty on Britain's isle, And caus'd the lonely hut with joy to smile: Nations she joins in bonds of social bliss, And seals in every state the joys of peace. LINES WRITTEN ON THE PRISON-WALLS BY ONE OF THE VICTIMS OF ROBESPIERRE. LA fleur laissant tomber, sa tête languissante, Semble dire au zephir, Pourquoi m'éveilles tu? Zephir, ta vapeur bienfaisante Ne rendra point la vie à mon front abattu. Je languis; le matin a ma tige epuisée, Apporte vainement le tribut de ses pleurs, Et les bienfaits de la rosée Ne ranimeront point l'éclat de mes couleurs. Il approche le noir orage! Sous l'effort ennemi d'un soufle detesté Je verrai périr mon feuillage. Demain le voyageur, temoin de ma beauté, De ma beauté sitôt flétrie, Viendra pour me revoir; Oh, regrets superflus! Il viendra, mais dans la prairie Ses yeux ne me trouveront plus. TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING. THE flower when cut down in its prime, as it dies, Seems to say to the zephyrs that round its form play, In vain would ye raise me, for life swiftly flies, My strength and my beauty untimely decay; I droop, am forlorn; Not the smiles of the morn Can my charms e'er restore, health awaken again. In the noon-tide of life, in my bloom, I decline; The tears of the sky on my head shower in vain, Vain the dews all their sweets in my bosom resign. The night quick approaches, the storm gathers round; The breath of a pestilence hated Disperses the plants which in friendship surround, And the fairer each flower, the worse fated. Vain for me smiles the morn, I droop, am forlorn: The traveller who saw me of late on the plain, Who Heaven oft for me would implore, With rapturous hope, to review me again, Shall return...shall return, to behold me no more. THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. CHILL December's blasts blew keen, Clouds obscur'd the rising day, Nature no longer smil'd in green, The vapid leaf forsook the spray: Then on the thorn, Of all forlorn, A blooming rose appear'd; No sister bud adorn'd its side, No genial warmth its bosom cheer'd, In storms it sprung, it liv'd, and died. Omen dire! as stories tell, That some who near it grew Must soon to life bid long farewel: It chanc'd to omen true. Here liv'd a maid, Beneath the shade, And the day she came on earth, As her beauties saw the light, This lonely rose, too, own'd its birth... An emblem of her lovelier sight. Alike the day of birth and death, A mother's care she never knew; The hour that gave fair Ellen breath, The parent bid to life adieu: Alone she grew, No sister true, No guardian-brother near; No kindred's love-protecting power, Nor friend, to share delight, to cheer, To sympathise in sorrow's hour. Like the Christmas rose, forlorn, Of the warm sun, no fortune smil'd; She sprung in poverty's cold morn, A moment wint'ry age beguil'd. The father taught Her infant heart To vibrate to each honest measure; Oft would her mother's worth proclaim, Point to the spot where laid his treasure, And bid her seek an equal name. She lov'd, she sought, rever'd the sod, She fenc'd it from each vagrant foot; There oft at morn she early trod, Implanted there each fragrant root. By parting day, Or lunar ray, Near the tomb she'd fervent pray; And this one, tender, pious strain, Enchanted listeners often say, She would repeat...repeat again... "Though I ne'er saw thee, parent dear, Like God, invisible to me, Whom, next to him, I love, revere, How oft I sigh with thee to be! Ah! cast an eye From yonder sky: Thou liv'st, we know, in heavenly love; Ah! gain then, for the wanderer here, Gain favour from above, Gain her thy grace, thy truth sincere! "That, though below, depriv'd of thee, We may in heaven delight; That, when cold death the soul shall free, Thou'lt bless our raptur'd sight. Haste then, decay, Thou mould'ring clay! Haste! quickly grant our souls' desire, Nor longer bar our wish'd embrace; But let the mother, child, and sire, Alike behold their Maker's face!" Near the gently-dashing stream, By her aged parent's side, On the lute she'd swell the theme: Softening o'er the wave, it died. Enchanting lays! Her Maker's praise! No more on earth they seem'd to stray! 'T was rapturous virtue's heavenly strain, That charm'd each mortal sense away, And sooth'd to peace each care and pain. Now she would lead him o'er the lawn, To view the harvest's ripening sweet; Rise with the lark, at early dawn, And quick prepare his taste to greet. Ah, cherish'd sire! Each wish, desire, Anticipated, lov'd, obey'd! How bless'd, though poor! how bless'd thy lot, With this superior virtuous maid, Fair Ellen, of the thatch-roof'd cot! Too soon the storm of fate arose... Too soon obscur'd their peace by care; As, on the blossom, east wind blows, And blasts the promise of the year. A neighbouring swain, Of wealthy fame, With envy eyed December's rose; Tempting he oft would seek the fair, His power, his riches, love, disclose, And faith, eternal faith, he'd swear. But what to one temptation proves, Another ne'er may charm; And when we truly virtue love, Can pleasure's power disarm. 'All hearts are vain,' 's The lasting strain; Yet, sure, Religion shall preserve In some humility's controul, Correct ambitious mean self-love, And truly dignify the soul. Empower'd by fortune, skill'd in art, He tried each means to lure, deceive; But firm in God repos'd her heart, She scorn'd his vows, nor would believe. By angels lov'd, By God approv'd, Her faithful conscience said, And what would mortal more desire? Could e'er to merit more be paid? Alike to Ellen and her sire. The parent fear'd a foe so great; For, painful thought! too well he knew, That vice is sanction'd oft by state, Nor dare the poor the rich pursue. The Robin came Athwart the plain, The guileless messenger of sorrow, Lit on the thatch-roof'd humble cot, Foreboding long, from eve to morrow, Misfortune to their peaceful lot. It blush'd...perchance it blush'd to tell That vice should virtue's peace assail; That, e'en where lowly worth might dwell, Power and pride would seek prevail. Now on the thorn, Of leaves forlorn, Again the Christmas rose appear'd; No sister-bud adorn'd its side, No genial warmth its bosom cheer'd, In storms it sprung, it liv'd, and died. Again the rich youth tempting came; Again fair Ellen spurn'd each proffer; But he'd resolv'd he'd not, in vain, Neglected love unheeded offer: He form'd a plan, Degrading man, To bear from off the parent stem Its only rose, its sole delight, All that it claim'd in this one gem, All that could cheer its wint'ry night. Forgetting, as he pluck'd the flower, Depriv'd of its parental aid, 'T would lifeless shrink the very hour To the keen blast, to woe betray'd. One fatal day, Conceal'd he lay, 'T was near the grave, the hallow'd sod, The sacred spot where virtue laid, For there he'd learnt at eve she trod, And there her vows devotion paid. With ready force, with aiding power, The thief approached as Ellen came; Believ'd the lovely prize secure.... Believ'd, approach'd, devoid of shame. He seiz'd the maid, She shriek'd for aid; There quick some neighbouring shepherds flew. Guilt, ever coward, soon retreated... The sire had heard the voice he knew... He came...he found all hope defeated. Fear sudden check'd life's trembling source, Death each sensation chill'd, Arrested heavenly virtue's course, With grief a father's bosom fill'd. In horrors wild He clasp'd his child; Like her, he sunk...no art could save... Vain every effort to restore. They own'd but one, one common grave... One equal loss must worth deplore. Pluck'd was the rose, it droop'd, it died; The parent-stem no more array'd, Stripp'd of its ornament and pride, Mourn'd, shrunk, and in the storm decay'd. Ye luckless three, Yet bless'd are ye: In fairer realms, in heaven above, Your trial and your cares are o'er; There shall ye live in endless love, There will ye meet, to part no more. How different then the murderer's fate! Whom though no laws may seek t' undo, Yet vengeance high his steps shall wait, The hand of Heaven his crime pursue. Should he e'er claim A father's name, Some wretch, like him, may try to steal His only hope, his all betray; For oft such crime such vengeance feels, Though late, though distant prove the day. The rose that blew in winter's morn, Which death's cold hand so early chill'd, The stem that droop'd, of joy forlorn, Are now with life, with glory fill'd: Beyond the tomb, For e'er they bloom, Beyond the reach, the power of crime; Far from the storms of wint'ry fate, Secure they grow in Eden's clime, In one unvaried heavenly state. STANZAS. IN all the torture of suspense, I think, my friend, of you; And oft I ask, with doubt and fear, If you, as wont, are true? If, Mira, you believe the same.... Ah, surely, no, I sigh; Or ne'er you'd give a bosom pain That could your joy supply. Say, has some foe, with wily art, Pourtray'd me false to you and virtue; Perceiv'd the way to wound your heart, And learnt your partial love of duty? Or has insinuating envy gain'd, By seeming all that worth could be, The love, the friendship once I claim'd, Once hop'd would lasting prove to me? Ah! tell me, if I aught have done, Or heedless said, or guilty penn'd? Or how, how else my peace undone? Why am I call'd no longer friend? Deign but to ease the doubts you taught; You gave the pain, and you can heal: No common worth my friendship bought, No common sorrow 't is I feel. Yet still I seek but to renew, With pleasure, double share of pain; Bitter the sweet shall still pursue, The fear to lose defraud the gain. AMBITION, A PASTORAL. In the Manner of SHENSTONE. AH! ye shepherds, who live on the plain, Unknowing the cares of the great, Unknowing what woes on the main Attend the poor mariner's fate; Give ear to my tale, 't was love led me astray: By experience ere knowledge we gain, Beware of false hope; with the passion 't will play, For the end of its promise is pain. Learn from me that no absence will ease, Add no balm to the wounds of the heart, When only one object can please, E'en the one that the pang did impart. I delight but in her who rejected my lay, Who despis'd every vow that I made, Who caus'd me to wander, to sorrow a prey, Ever lost to the sweets of the glade. No rival I'd then to contend, My flocks and my herds were not few; But pride would not led her descend, To say to my love she'd be true. She wish'd to forsake the sweet vale, To be rais'd to an higher estate; No more listen to each shepherd's tale, But mix with the proud and the great. Ah! why should I love one so frail? Too late I call reason to aid: Why should misery my fortune assail? Why ambition attend such a maid? Alas! 't was her fault, but she owned no more, While charms she in thousands possess'd; Could charity less than one failing look o'er? Nay, love is half blind at the best. I shall never forget the fond day, When once she prov'd kind, when she danc'd, When she gave me her hand, ah, how gay! E'en lighter than air I advanc'd. I date from that moment the source of my woe, The kindness did cruelty prove; No partial esteem caus'd her favour to show, But caprice, undirected by love. I painted my passion, I painted my grief, Yet, alas! they were never conceal'd; For, mine eyes told too plain, when my heart sought relief, Had my tongue ne'er its sorrow reveal'd. I forsook, in despair, the place of my birth, Abandon'd each good, once enjoy'd; My pipe and my crook are conceal'd in the earth, My poor flocks, by neglect, are destroy'd. In hopes to forget her I tempted the main, Yet in vain was I wafted afar; My sorrows increas'd as I thought of the plain, My sighs pass'd unnumber'd in air. I saw the poor mariner's toil, and I thought Much greater the weight that I bore; Tho' with hardships extreme their toil is oft fraught, Yet 't is sweet to the woes I deplore. I return'd to the vale, and Florella had fled, Was united to one of degree; With sorrow I learnt, tho' despis'd, that the maid Had seal'd, in this union, her own misery. She had no affection for this haughty swain, She had wedded his wealth, his riches, his power; She finds that contentment she cannot thence gain, Her cheek fades...she lingers each hour. Ah! beware, ye proud fair, how ye e'er seek to vie To be rich, to be splendid, and great: Pomp never with peace can your bosoms supply, Nor alone e'er make happy your state. From nought but from virtue we bliss ever know; On an union so form'd no care would intrude, Each hope of the heart would in unison grow, No fear for the future the present o'ercloud. And, ye shepherds, ere passion is rooted too deep, Be sure that the fair will return you your love, Ere that love shall condemn you to sorrow, and weep, Let the maid share your joy, and your misery prove. I Iov'd, was despis'd, was rejected, and scorn'd; Despair is my portion, my claim upon earth: By my fate, oh, ye shepherds! then ever be warn'd, And found your esteem on the basis of worth. THE VISION OF TRUTH AND JUSTICE. YE proud, ye learned, who all rules confute, Ye wiser still, who precedence dispute, Ye most judicious, who all ranks would level, The wise to ignorant, the good to evil; With whom Equality's the general cry, Who secret, solely, for distinction sigh; Ye who on fortune's smiles your merit fix, Who make respect a groom to coach and six; Ye who give wealth what but to virtue's due, List, for I speak impartially true; Methought I heard some learned visions say, And not too proud to heed, I turn'd that way: I saw fair Justice, on a throne she sat, Truth on the right, and on the left was Fate; Crowds gather'd round, crowds were already plac'd, All ranks, degrees, alike the circle grac'd. Each heart beat high, the visions came to prove, Whose right was precedence, distinction, love; Fate, though attendant, had resign'd her power, And Truth and Justice rul'd the present hour. Oh joyous day! most in their mind were just, Faithful to duty, sacred to their trust; And with conviction strong, of genuine right, Numbers advanced; Truth's undeceiving light Shew'd to the modest but misguided mind, Its credit came from friends and friendship blind. The claim annulled ere half the ordeal past, All mortar shrinks ere 't is by temp'ring cast. But few such merit here could claim as this, Perceive the error, and retreat in peace. A troop appear'd, equality they claim'd, A troop that sigh'd sincerely to be fam'd. These had nor fortune, talent, judgment, sense, Nor aught that could ensure pre-eminence. These with the sharpen'd edge of shallow wit E'er point, where beauty, genius, virtue sit. In vain around was light of Justice thrown, They saw their neighbours' faults, but not their own; What was bestow'd, to shield them from the storm, They us'd the weak to oppress, the good deform. It was not general good of state they sought, But that they something, something should be thought; Painful to them was contrast to be seen, In wealth, in titles, shape, or air, or mien. Soon before these behold the nobles enter, And poor Equality they leave in centre. Scornful they look upon the demiton, Cry, "Do ye know our rank, impatient throng? We must be first, let Truth our station learn, Justice will honour us, or can't discern." Next powerful Wealth approach'd, and cry'd aloud, "The man's a fool who's of a title proud; 'T is solid riches that should interest give, The weighty purse make men in honour live; I 'states can purchase, Indian gems display, 'T is Wealth that should, 't is Wealth shall bear the day." "Know," with a sneer exclaims offended Pride, "Such ill-got wealth I scorn, and thee deride; Know, from a noble race, a race renown'd, I came; their glory the fair lineage crown'd. 'T is from my blood that I precedence claim, Demand distinction from my very name." "Pshaw, pshaw," replies the Wit, "pray, what's your blood? A hog's, for aught I know, is twice as good. Hadst thou but wit, thou might'st admittance gain Where real substances luxurious reign; On name and family thou canst not dine; Thy blood is poor, compar'd to wit or wine. I form in every circle the bright jest, I give to every feast its proper zest. I now claim honours before wealth or rank, Let Name, let Family, then take the flank." "What," said the Lawyer, "dost thou then presume To ask precedence? thou a very plume! Dost thou to general, private, safety tend? Redress the injur'd, and the poor befriend?" "Why," said the Poet, "tho' you make a pother, I ne'er knew Lawyers did the one or t' other. I merit first the laurel wreath of Fame, And hope to have in future age a name; I by my song inspire and warm the heart, I sympathise with woe; I peace impart." "What thou, with ever woeful, whining rant, Claim laurels? Better hadst thou cabbage plant; Methinks thy labours then would useful prove: 'Faith, that old-fashion'd thing thou talk'st of, Love," The tradesman cries, "can never give thee bread, 'T was long since buried with the buried dead. We take our wives by weight, nor heed the mind, Nor look to beauty, but of special kind. A fig to care how soul or body's made, Money's the life as well as soul of trade; 'T is in her trade that England's glory rests, Then we in honour should be first confest." "What," said the Artist, "wouldst thou then persuade That British glory springs on fustian trade? Glory is mine, I save from tyrant Death, I give to canvass all, in fact, but breath; The mem'ry aid, and distant still preserve, Th' expressive trait that chain'd the heart in love; Now pity here, now there revenge descry, Passion's 'soft embers' in the melting eye; Now wake humanity, now fire the soul, Now bid the hero in each act controul; I honour's cause exalt, religion aid, And bring to light what words but half convey'd. 'T is art, 't is science, dignified should reign, Fortune must yield to genius' nobler claim. The man who founds on paltry wealth his pride, The truly generous soul must e'er deride." "Artist most eloquent," rejoin'd a Tar, Who'd boldly fought and conquer'd in the war; "Thy claims to mine must e'er inferior prove, I guard the nation's rights, her rights improve; Without me peace you ne'er had had again, And thou, poor artist, long hadst daub'd in vain; Without me foreign realms ye ne'er had known, Nor known the frigid from the torrid zone; Without me, commerce, arts, and wealth must cease, A nation's plenty, and the land's increase. Let truth, let justice, the due laurel give, Let British tars the first in honour live." Here loud applauses 'midst the circus rang, But 't was some kindred powers who this began. And see now bursting through the noisy group, A sage Philosopher harangues the troop: "Ill-judging mortals, cease, applause give o'er, I have a right none ever had before; A right from high, God gave me to discern, How on their orbits wand'ring planets turn; How spheres revolve, how night succeeds the day, How seasons change, and e'en how realms decay. I taught the mariner his noble art, I gave the passport to each distant part; And from the theories divine I give, Men learn in wisdom, virtue's path to live." "Here," the Physician cries, "pray what's your theory? Mere drugs, that none digest, and all men weary; Essential practice Justice must require, And without this none glory should desire. 'T is I, the guardian of your life and health, Who merit precedence, distinction, wealth; Man but for me would be disease's prey, Nor own one comfort in this load of clay; For what's your wisdom, what's your name, your gold, If we relief, in sickness, pain, with-hold? These would avail you nought, ye still were poor, If wanting health, with all Peruvia's store. Give then, fair Truth, oh! give us honour due... The Scripture says ye should, and e'er says true." "Shall he who makes the body but his care," Cries the Preceptor, "more distinction share Than he who thwarts diseases of the mind, Who vice corrects, and every thought refines? If guardians of the frail, the mortal part Demand the sanction of the noble heart, Sure he who guides, directs th' immortal soul Has a superior claim in honour's roll! Know that the mind will e'er o'er health prevail, And injure one, the other you assail. If we give sense, that sense will e'er preserve From pleasures holding sickness in reserve." "As for your sense," replies the simple swain, "What is 't without our labour in the main? Say, can thy precepts fertilise the land? Will it in bounty yield at thy command? No; 't is the Husbandman, who sows the earth, Should be first honour'd by impartial Truth; Without him, man would lose his life's support, And nature's wants the mind's improvement thwart; A noble peasantry 's a nation's pride." He spoke; but the last words in tumult died. A buskin'd Hero came, inspiring wonder, As thus he echoed, in a voice of thunder: "Hence with all clowns! the 'hero comes, he 'comes, 'Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;' 'T is I who give to life its charm, Ennui and all her train disarm; I too can wake each sense to pity, 'In lowly suit, and plaintive ditty.' I too can play the lover's part, As much the lover in my heart, As those who niggardly pretend, Who passion feign for interest's end. I shew the follies of the day, And hence youth learn the better way. I ridicule what none else should, or dare, I set the mode, the gape, the gaze, the stare; Genius profound is mine, or how pourtray, To nature true, each genius of the day; Now be a demi-god, complete a devil, Now shine in works of grace, and now in evil?" He spoke, and, speaking, sought applause around, But heard alone the critic's hissing sound; Who, too oft eager to dispute the lays Of well-deserv'd or ill-deserved praise, Exclaim'd, "Sure Justice ne'er can be so blind As to give laurels to the puppet kind! Truth ne'er would sanction such a mad decision, They're wanting in the rules of nice precision. A mimic race, who wear all shapes in turn, E'er teaching others what themselves should learn; Now ranting in a scene of soft distress, Wearing my lord's instead of bumpkin's dress; And even they, the few who reach, perfection, 'T is thro' the critic's note and nice inspection. Books but for me had long beguil'd mankind, Nor sense, nor sentiment, had been refin'd." "What," cries the Author, "dost thou then pretend Reason to aid, or virtue to befriend? Go! thou mean snarler at each very letter, Go try to form each fancied error better. Thyself an author first thou ought'st to prove, Ere others' claims thou seekest to remove; None ought to criticise who cannot write, Or talk of colours with the loss of sight. 'T is stripes, not laurels, that thou shouldst rcceive, For thief thou art, who dost a world deceive; Rob real genius of its sterling worth; And as the east wind nips the buds of earth, Thou chill'st each effort of the rising soul, And hold'st o'er fire and fancy dread controul. To words more than to sense ye give attention, And with the failing ne'er the merit mention; Let authors, who instruct from age to age, Be first enroll'd on fame's transcendent page." "You're wanting charity," retorts the Priest, "And prove yourself of critics not the least: Critics with critics ever will dispute, And authors' wisdom authors still confute. 'T is I, religion's advocate, should share The first of honours, crowns immortal wear; All earthly claims must ever yield to mine, All pay devotion at so fair a shrine. I free the heart from vanity and strife, I raise desire beyond this transient life; I intercede for kings, for subjects pray, I check the follies of the youthful day; I for your health, your woes petition; then,"— "Then," said the Clerk, "in time I say amen; For without this prayers would imperfect prove, To gain your wishes or insure you love. Clerks, sure, as clients, ought to have their due, Abetting virtue, to her followers true." Thus for precedence half the world contend, Whilst each depreciates his common friend; Blind to the good that each on each bestow, The mutual aids that each from each e'er know. Each lives on each dependent, howe'er great, However high, however low, their state: As limbs supported by the body's aid, As is the body by the limbs convey'd. "Mortals," said Justice, "having heard each claim, Each separate candidate for power and fame, List now, we speak impartially true, And come to give mankind on earth their due. "I judge in order, as disputes began. First let me know, Equality, thy plan. Wouldst thou that men alike should fortune share, One common portion be the mean, the fair? This we might grant; yet know, a very day Would such equality no more display; For struggling industry must rise superior, And creeping indolence e'er prove inferior. Or wouldst thou only bear the form, the name, Tho' poor, be equal call'd, respected same? Rank in the name of citizen each youth Who boasts his wealth, his titles, and his birth? This thou mightst have, in homage equal seem, Yet would not reason count thee this a dream? Seeing superior fortune, virtue, sense, Thy heart would sigh for their pre-eminence. View the chief consul now in triumph's hour, By name a citizen, a king in power; The sons of Gallia yield to his demands, And act, or rest, as Buonapart' commands; His subjects servants, equal tho' their name, Still they are less in power, and less in fame; Each ever citizens are call'd, 't is true, Yet serve a king as other nations do. Does then equality pervade their land? The sceptre's held but in a different hand; Consul, or king, alike may comprehend The common father, and the general friend; 'T is but the different usage of their powers, That good, or ill, to any state procures. Some must be chief, some have, and e'er will be: A God in heaven we own, on earth we see In every nation some who bear a name, Tho' not of king, who act and rule the same: No true equality thou'lt e'er discern, Found not with nature, wheresoe'er you turn; God shall exalt, ordain, and man obey, As spheres revolve, as night succeeds the day. Has he a talent given? he adds desire, An emulation, an electric fire; A stimulus to act; nor wills man store, Unwrought, unpolish'd, the bequested ore; And virtue, talent, sense, in truth bestow A claim to precedence and power below. Rank has respect, has homage and submission, The form, at least, e'er varying to condition; Rank exacts this, but can exact no more, If in rank great ye be in honour poor: But if from noble deeds, from worth, ye claim Titled pre-eminence with power and fame, Ye now may venture to the sun-bright mirror, I weigh you in the balance void of error." A troop advanc'd, a troop as quick retreated, The self-deficient seen, all hope defeated; Some bore the test of the all-searching light, And in the balance pois'd the needed weight. Hood, Nelson, Duncan, Vincent, Howe, appear'd; Methought their presence every bosom cheer'd. The visions smil'd, around their temples wreath'd Laurels by honour, gratitude, bequeath'd. Truth first enroll'd this patriotic band, And hail'd them saviours of our favour'd land. Wealth quick approach'd with ardent hope for fame; "Whence the demand?" as swift the query came. If but from hoards, from weight of gold proceeding, Deep cunning, little honesty or breeding; And if from ancestors the wealth be thine, The hard-scrap'd pebbles of a saving line; Who pinch'd themselves for unborn children's ease, Check'd present wants the future whim to please; Take what in truth thou only canst deserve, To dress, to eat, to drink, without reserve; Say now, to-day, thou'rt rich, adorn'd, and great, That, if to-morrow, lost to pomp and state, Wouldst thou, then poor, not think thou hadst a right To love, respect, in cold affliction's night, As when dame Fortune spread for thee her charms, And each sensation cheer'd, illum'd, and warm'd? Tho' lost thy wealth, yet thou art still the same: Respect on wealth ask'd, is a tarnish'd claim; From thine own industry if thou hast risen, From virtuous efforts, from the gifts of Heaven; We grant a share of fame on this condition, If right employ'd thy wealth, we make addition: Mean still thou art if wanting in that duty, 'T is the good use that constitutes the beauty; For wealth we can no just distinction make, We love not mortals for their species' sake. Yet in the world such love often prevails, Hence thirst of riches virtue's cause assails; For, seeing these rise into power and fame, Gain an undue respect, and bear a name, Most to be rich try at th' expence of virtue, And quit for paltry gold the path of duty." "Now to great folks, to ancient names allied," A troop exclaim'd, "blood, birth, is on our side; 'T was with the Conqueror we landed here, Strangers, like him, to any coward fear Like him our ancestors had nobly fought, And by their valour England's glory bought." "Ye then," said Truth, "are surely their disgrace, The last weak shoots, a poor degenerate race; Their great example should have taught you better, Than to fix honour as 't were on a letter. Why are ye not like them in action great? Why rest inactive in an active state? Think ye that judgment would for remnants give What for the chief part men ask and receive? Shall each poor stream that from the Thames may flow Bear its fam'd import, and its honours know? Say, had thine ancestors prov'd man's disgrace, Wert thou and thine a much superior race? Wouldst thou their deeds should draw upon thee shame, Attaint the glory of thy fairer fame? If so it were, it still unjust must be; Thou then wert free from blame, thou now art free From claim to merit, if thou hast not run In the same radiant path, thy sires begun. Let those who have preserv'd their father's name, Those only now ask honour, power, or fame. One stood the test, but one superior soul, Whose name forgot, you'll find in honour's roll." The Wit next came, yet shunn'd the prying light; The claim, the claimant, vanish'd out of sight: Wit, with no solid sense, no worth-built power, Shines but the transient meteor of an hour. As before Judgment, so from Sol's bright rays The vision flies, in night but seen the blaze. Lawyers in order call'd, to try the test, And here the world their grand dislike confess'd; All, as inspir'd, aloud in one voice cried, "The devil's self as well may now be tried! For other devils none need ever know, When these by ill luck take our states in tow." But Truth and Justice, void of vulgar error, Held to the tribe the bright impartial mirror; Amazement seem'd pervading every breast, When some, tho' only few, bore virtue's test. Lawyers dismiss'd in sighing, plaintive strain, A numerous race of muse-befriended came, Whose hollow eyes, lean cheeks, and languid looks Bespoke them unbefriended by the cooks; Of fortune poor, of course as poor in fame, For thin-clad merit rarely gains a name. These silent ask'd, could Justice then refuse To grant a tribute to an honest muse? She with Parnassian wreaths a fruit entwin'd, A gift of fortune grac'd the rich in mind; But mark, to virtue only render'd sweet, To those in honour as in genius great. A merchant train now ask'd for rank and place, Calling their use the true essential grace; Right, Justice, Truth, with emphasis exclaim, "To-day, ne'er doubt it, you will gain a name. If commerce flourish, England's glory rests, And half her bulwark ye her sons confest; Not now with scorn regarded by the great, Not the poor refuse, but the props of state. Yet ere I give thee honours from our shrine, And render weightier those fat sides of thine, Ye must be tried ere ye can reach your due, The mirror tells who have to trust been true. Some who in trade had made an ample store, Possessing much, still sigh'd, and try'd for more; Of pure religion, philosophic art, They took no heed, for interest was their heart; Forgetting arts ere commerce half supply, And but for these her strength, her riches die; Were they unknown, all then must trades commence, And trade for all the land could ne'er dispense; Poor then would be each individual share, Round dimpled cheeks would yield to lines of care. Know, God ordain'd that each should each assist, The richer aid the poorer to subsist; And in the varied parts that form a whole, Bade every separate part in each controul. Where'er you see superior worth and sense, There Truth, there Justice, stamp pre-eminence: But yet, where genius without virtue shines, E'er with the laurel cypress we entwine; To shew superior parts lead more astray, If bright discretion guide not on the way. Un'dorn'd with wit, worth in whatever state We crown, we rank amongst the truly great. Ye who in Truth's bright mirror now are frighted, Retreat, let your good brethren be knighted." She said, and a new train of merchants came, Who pass'd the ordeal, reach'd the height of fame. They'd built on honesty, they reap'd content... Sweet is the fruit which grows from life well spent. And now methought another train appear'd, When the new honour'd had the passage clear'd; Who lightly tripping with ac'demic grace, Nor man nor woman seem'd, in shape or face. Justice, amaz'd, was lost, as how to name them, When looking at their canes, their canes proclaim'd them; So finely deck'd with varied bows of ribbon, Pronounc'd, they meanly took a trade from women. "Men milliners!" Truth, Justice, loud exclaim... "Men milliners presume to ask for fame!" Loud peals of laughter rung the crowded hall, All was light mirth, derision, transport all, That might have dyed each fribble's cheek with shame, But they were dyed with rouge of different name. "Most noble race!" th' impartial goddess cried, "You shall be honour'd, and need not be tried; So obvious your merit, 't were a sin To bid you take the mirror and look in. Come, let me twine then round your manly brow, Light and profuse shall be the honours due: Blond lace and bobbins deck'd each hero's head, Whilst veils concealing beauties, beauties shed; Then artificial flowers the bosom grac'd, And on the brain gay wavering plumes were plac'd; Sweet emblem of their ever-wav'ring mind, Which chang'd with fashion, with the changing wind: O'er their fair hands the milk of roses pour'd, And far-fam'd essence on their drapery shower'd; Then sent them forth amidst the gaping crowd, Who spurn'd, who hooted, and then laugh'd aloud. The fribbles, shock'd at such a trying scene, Conceal'd their slender selves behind a screen. Next came the Artist, in pursuit of fame, In hope to find a substance with a name. "Ere I can judge thy merit, let me scan Thy works," said Justice, "this must be my plan; For, if thy pencil tend not to improve The power of virtue, as the force of love, Thou'lt reap from us nor honours, wealth, nor fame, Thou hast not then a right, an honest claim." Those who had misus'd talent, ill spent time, With whom deformity was mark'd as crime, She gave the fool's cap, and the ass's ears, With books to better teach in future years. Those whom she laurel'd were the happy few Who copied nature, were to nature true; Whose every touch morality convey'd, Who inspir'd virtue as they vice pourtray'd. Now were in order call'd a train of tars, Who counted honours in their very scars. "Well founded," Justice cries, "appears your claim; Yet ere you reach precedence, power, and fame, That ardour which you say you have display'd Shall nicely in the glass be tried, betray'd. If any here possess a coward heart, We give him leave unprov'd to now depart; If any when the fight, death's form, drew near, Lopp'd their frail courage from the twigs of fear; Since all must know that flying were in vain, That death's the cry, or victory, on the main; That, seeing no alternative, ye made Of dire necessity a dastard shade; Powerful enough to hide the real soul, The selfish motives that might hold controul: Approach who will, the mirror waits to show For whom to cull, with whom shall honour grow." But one amidst this veteran troop retir'd, All seem'd with double hope and ardour fir'd; No fairer claim was ever brought to view, Truth quick referr'd them to the balance due; She set their names in honour's golden line, Bade England render homage at their shrine. "You physiognomist," the goddess said, "Who all indicative the face have made, Tell me who most to favour ye pretend, The courtier, merchant, lover, or the friend? Not sure the lover; for he e'er grows blind, Nor sees defects in air, or shape, or mind; Nay, ever fyoible he converts to charms, And thy fam'd science reason's power disarms; And should it aid you how to choose a friend, Whom to esteem, whom trust, or whom commend, The want ye find ere you the knowledge gain, Nice judgment need, before you can attain. For you, ye happy philosophic band, Who've trod the path o'er seas to distant land, None can your claims dispute: then move ye on, And reap the honours ye have justly won." "To him that thwarts disease, who health restores, "We ope," said Justice, "our most precious stores; And these we give proportion'd to your sense, These to your virtue equally dispense; Each good effected by your healing power We now repay, and blessings on you shower. The world, we own, is oft unjust to you, And quacks will gain the poor physician's due. As prov'd your skill, we now precedence give, Bid Esculapius' sons in honour live. "Ye tutors, ye whom just we justly name, Friends to mankind, to virtue, heaven the same; Oh noble art! perhaps of arts most hard, Least understood, and poor in man's regard; A task unthankful, since the world will say, You're fully recompens'd in scanty pay. But when to worth ye raise the dawning soul, When every precept holds its due controul; Sown by your care, when seed matur'd shall shoot, When virtue blossoms on the cultur'd root; Say, can ye have a sweeter recompense? Or what reward can joy like this dispense? Enough 't is sure, the mind is satisfied, But wants, corporeal wants must be supplied. Mortal ye are, unequally ye're paid: By fashion, worth's true birth-right is betray'd; Presuming folly eats luxurious bread, Whilst humble merit is but barely fed. Yet tutors, oft to selfishness inclin'd, So fond of ease, ne'er need to mar the mind; These want a conscience, and, with this defect, Can have no right to teach, none to respect. And ye who now ask for reward and fame, Reflect, ere Truth shall tell, are ye the same? Have you in teaching given your pupils aught But simple precept? But, by precept taught, Have you ne'er set th' example to pursue, That from the living light they copy true? Do ye but regulated lessons teach? As, I's a pronoun, there're nine parts of speech. Without enquiry why you give the name, Call I a pronoun, whence a pronoun came? Know, any dunce can hear a child a task, Look on the book, when done, no further ask; But on to proof, as is, as prov'd your merit, Ye sure reward and glory shall inherit." The humble peasant's claim the next was found, Tho' lowly and unknown, he now was crown'd. Those who were just in every given measure, Who had not basely hoarded nature's treasure; Who in monopoly had had no share, Nor render'd nutriment in war so dear... With golden sheaves their brows the goddess bound, With earthly honours and distinction crown'd. Now to their trial were the Critics brought, Found more with malice than with justice fraught; For private pique oft pamper'd judgment's rules, And partial interest merit gave to fools. But as to generalise was not the plan, But to reward the individual man; Truth some discover'd by pure reason led, And Justice plac'd the laurel on their head. Authors who'd greatly wrote in virtue's cause, Now glory gain'd, now liv'd in due applause; No envy pluck'd from merit well-won bays, None durst dispute, for Truth bestow'd their praise. Next came a worthy train of half-starv'd Priests, Who long had mourn'd and sigh'd to be redrest; But twenty pounds a-year they gain'd for preaching, But twenty pounds for truth, for gospel teaching. Shame! that a state no better recompense... Shame! that ye not more equally dispense The gifts of fortune to the sons of sense. Sure, ye should shield them from the vulgar's scorn, If not with luxury, with pomp adorn. Shall priests then beg, who Heaven intreat for you? Is 't thus ye honour God, religion too? Some ye invest with every earthly good, And leave their equal brethren wanting food. 'Twixt vice and virtue no distinction's made: Hence honesty becomes a starving trade; And oft, too oft, for want of fostering care, It droops its head, and sickens in despair; Or, worse, on self revenges, dire mistake! Quits the straight road, the course of folly takes; Says in a phrensied moment, Virtue's vain, And only Vice respect and homage gains. Forgetting all the love it claims on high, The prayer that reaches heaven, th' expressive sigh, That asks redress, redress that shall be found: As now we worth crown, it shall sure be crown'd. Approach, ye most oppress'd! Whilst Justice reigns, Ye may at least expect more noble gains. We see your merit, give you fortune due, And twine the laurel round your hallow'd brow. To those who justly preach and different act, That they no more should preach we now enact; Actors they are, a guilty kind they prove, Who for their flock can ne'er gain heavenly love. Nay, 't is a mockery of God and man, Oppos'd to reason as to virtue's plan. Last came the Clerk with long and solemn face, To end the tale, the service past to grace; A hearty Amen he pronounc'd aloud, And had a share of honour in the crowd. Now equal virtues equal honours gain'd, And equal merits equally were fam'd; There was equality of equal parts, There reign'd the true equality of hearts. But yet distinction was, e'er will be seen In state, and fortune, as in mind and mien; The good, the wise, were charm'd, they gain'd the day, They bore the prize of precedence away. "Such is," said Truth, "but right, and such will prove: Yet know the All-seeing Power, the God of love, Virtue will oft afflict the more to try, Till life and all its transient glories fly; With-hold your recompense, to double joy, Bliss to bestow unmix'd with base alloy. Some men ye see oft rise from lowest state, Whilst others fall from fortune's topmost height; Some too, thro' life, alternate changes prove, Feel in each woe or good their Maker's love. Would ye ask why Vice oft with power is drest, Whilst Virtue unregarded sinks opprest? Because, perhaps, no real bliss is found In all the pomp and pride which these surround; And that, that Honour, howsoe'er she live, Shall joy in conscience, in herself receive; Or for some cause none rightly comprehends, God bliss to one, to others evil sends. Nor is it requisite we this should know: Enough for man if peace with virtue grow; Enough he rests secure in heav'n to find Noble reward, if noble be his mind; Enough we resignation learn below, And to the wond'ring fates in rev'rence bow; Enough we fix on virtue, then the soul Enough that reason, passion's rein controul; Enough to know that Justice, Truth, shall reign, When all that sleep in death shall live again; 'When time shall fly, eternity begin,' When judgment rises 'gainst the works of sin." They said—they flew—they gain'd their native sky: My heart pursu'd them, and I sigh'd to fly; But Fate forbad: she wak'd me from the dream, And turn'd my thoughts, from heaven to earthly scenes. SONNET TO SPRING. OH! fairy-liveried Spring, return, And glad our eyes with living green! How welcome is thy lenient sun, The friend of mirth, the foe to spleen! Then lengthening days attend thy way, And airy pleasures greet thy stay. Rosy May shall flow'rets bring, The cheerful choristers shall vie, To grace thy glad approach, O Spring! To soothe the ear, to charm the eye: Zephyrs shall thousand sweets convey To bowers where Love and Friendship stray. Brown Exercise shall health restore, New life and vigour shall impart; The invalid shall droop no more, Hope shall revive the sick'ning heart; Despair no more possess the soul, But cheerfulness alone controul. The evening promenade shall charm, Doubly delight the expanding mind; Its temper'd heat shall gaily warm Pure converse, heighten joys refin'd. Laura, what votive sweets for me! In thy song what melody! The vagrant bee shall sip the dew Of every fragrant flower; Oh Laura! I shall love but you, And own no other power. I have a choice, but they have none... Coquettes must one day droop forlorn. The bark which Winter tied in port, Shall now be wafted o'er the main, With winds and waves, fore'er at sport, Till anchor'd safe at home again; Treasures from distant lands shall bring, To wait again returning Spring. The gardener with joy shall glow, To see his long-sown produce shoot; Inhale the sweets his flowers bestow, And watch the rising of the latent root: Soon shall the rose the stem adorn, And vie the blushes of the morn. Ah! let us, Laura, whilst we love, A lesson draw from Spring's gay prime; The charms of youth and health improve, And blessings store for our declining time: Then, when the winter of our life shall come, If we've cull'd virtue, peace shall wrap our tomb. HENRY AND EUDORA. HENRY three years had his Eudora woo'd, No care, no grief, had this triennial strew'd, When to the battle call'd from peaceful home, Midst war, midst slaughter and disease, to roam. Equal their fortunes, equal were their minds, Equal in constant love, in hope refin'd. Unus'd the fair to courts, to pomp, or show, The rouge which grac'd her cheek was health's pure glow. Merit she oft would raise from lone distress, The orphan's wants delighted to redress; Each thought, each act, in charity approv'd, Scandal she knew not, for she virtue lov'd; Of grace, of wit, of worth, alike possest, Still was humility her cherish'd guest. Exterior charms may lustre add to virtue, Yet only charms of mind can finish beauty... A truth by those own'd, those by wisdom blest... Liv'd in Eudora, and by her confest. Such was the maid whom Henry's soul subdu'd; He wore her chains, and of her chains was proud. Tho' gentler feelings sway'd the warrior's mind, Glory yet claim'd a share, a power refin'd: His very passion own'd cool reason's power, Reason sustain'd him in the trying hour. When his expected summons was arriv'd, He scorn'd to shrink, ev'n if of hope depriv'd. "Now," he exclaim'd, "the parting hour is come, Say, ye three sisters, what shall be my doom? Shall I in battle die a glorious death? Or shall dread pestilence exhaust my breath? Shall I be shipwreck'd in the stormy main? Or, oh! inspiring thought! return again... Return, be welcom'd by the voice of love; Return, and justice, fame, my steps approve; Return, and seal the vow to Heaven I've made; From toil return, by truth, affection paid? Whate'er my fate, receive, just God, my prayer... Oh, let thy servant know no coward fear! Let me ne'er shrink when in my country's cause, Let love and honour prove my sacred laws! Power thou hast given me: e'er let mercy guide, Sway each command, and be its influence wide. And shouldst thou victory grant my native land, Should Gallia's troops disperse at thy command, May the lost numbers of the slain be few In our own hosts...our adversaries too! When at our feet we see a prostrate foe, Let not Britannia's sons e'er strike the blow. Let justice be our standard, heaven our guard, Glory our laurels, peace our bright reward. But my Eudora comes, I see, forlorn; She comes, her own, her Henry's loss to mourn. "Oh! say," she cried, "lov'd partner of my heart, When in confusion's hour thou bear'st a part, When war shall thunder horrors on thine head, And thousands living mix with thousands dead, Who then shall comfort to thy bosom bring, Where, in affliction, consolation spring? Who shall peace whisper to my boding breast, Who lull each founded fear and doubt to rest? Yet, oh! when danger stalks around thy form, Threatens to leave me e'en of hope forlorn, Let not Eudora then possess thy soul, Let thine own safety then alone controul. Or should she ever, in Truth's form array'd, Glance by thy side thy sleeping vision's shade, Think in thy welfare she alone will live, Nor in thy absence pleasure e'er receive. Thy trivial wounds to her deep source of grief, Thy speedy cure alone shall give relief. For the last time...the very thought is death... Perhaps thou, Henry, here mayst draw thy breath; For the last time I hold thee to my heart, Feel but the more to mourn how dear thou art! For the last time may see thy form, or hear Thy voice, rapt music to my listening ear. Oh, Henry, still more wretched I may see, Behold thee lost to love, forgetting me. Thou in the battle mayst thy faith abjure; Say, canst thou vow to love till life's last hour?" HENRY. "Rest thou, fair spirit, who shalt courage give, That as the rock my love shall firmly live; Thy ever-present thought shall Henry save, If not from death, from an inglorious grave. Ah! rest assur'd, no time shall e'er efface The cherish'd passion, ne'er thy worth erase; Ne'er thy lov'd image from my soul depart, Too deeply graven in this faithful heart: Thy perfect semblance next that heart I'll wear, In death's convulsive grasp retain it there. Yet ere from thee, from Albion, I depart, Hope let me give thee...what I feel impart: Something assures me we shall meet again... Oh! may that trust in Heaven prove not in vain!" EUDORA. "Go, Henry, then, nor let my tears controul The generous ardour of thy daring soul. Go, gather laurels; them I will entwine... Around thy brows shall thousand glories shine. Go, noble friend; the hope thou giv'st I'll claim, Nor by vain plaints distract thy search of fame." HENRY. "Rest then assur'd each post shall bring thee word I live in faith, and look for my reward." Sudden he flew like lightning o'er the plain, Nor even ventur'd to revert again: Too well he knew the influence that bound His lingering heart to yonder favour'd ground. Eudora's eyes pursu'd the wandering chief, The sight outstretch'd long vainly sought relief. At length, with trembling steps, she homeward turns, Forgets resolve, in cheerless sorrow mourns... "Ah, say, fond nymph! where now thy boasted pow'r, To charm with hope each solitary hour? Years didst thou feel the pangs which parting gave, And oft these murm'rings died upon the wave: "How long shall war o'er heav'n-born peace prevail, And stern oppression hold Astræa's scale? Must Henry's name, to every Briton dear, Be still remember'd with a sigh or tear?" Oft would she tune the lute with this lov'd strain; Oft would surrounding echoes name the swain: "From heroes sprung in story great, For thee I hope, for thee I mourn; To my heart in ancient state, Dearest Henry, soon return. Ah! to see that happy day, How my throbbing bosom burns! My lute shall tune the joyful lay, When he for whom I mourn returns." Not vain her prayers: soon gentle peace proclaim'd Returning hosts, by courage, mercy fam'd: The fav'ring winds quick waft them o'er the main, The father, husband, sees his all again. As to the shore with eager haste they fly, Some cherish'd object waiting there descry; To gentler feelings each his soul resigns, Now paid by love, at past woe ne'er repines. Truth courage pays, affection toil and strife, And the sire clasps his child, the spouse his wife. Oh joy ineffable! supreme delight! Like the sun's splendor that succeeds the night. Oh! mayst thou, Peace, long o'er this isle prevail! May ports confess thy pow'r, each swelling sail! Commerce shall flourish, arts in glory live, And 'neath thine olive branch shall worth revive. But let me turn to her whose joys exceed, If it were possible, her Henry's speed. Now safely wafted to the shore, Where horror, discord stalks no more; Yet ere his footsteps homeward stray, Impatient love still chides his stay. Eudora hears of his approach, And stamps on time unjust reproach. At length she sees her swain appear, And, woman-like, still harbours fear; In eager haste she clasps him to her heart, And dares to whisper what fond love imparts. EUDORA. "Am I then, Henry, to thy heart the same? Now, rais'd by glory, dost thou own the flame? Is thy desire for honours satisfied? Or does the warrior's wish love's weakness chide? Say, to mine every hope still art thou true? Wilt thou soon ratify each gentle vow? Does the soft passion glow as warm as ever, And wilt thou never change?....Fond hope says, Never." HENRY. "Doubt not, Eudora, of my faith and truth, Nor doubt the pow'r of virtue's matchless worth; Doubt not my heart doth still remain the same, Nor doubt thy love to merit gave me fame." EUDORA. "Enough; thy word mine every fear removes, Which love creates, the passion doubly proves. Humanity shall now assert her claim, And ask in reason's voice, in pity's name, If great the loss by which our troops have won; Were thousands slain, or are but few undone?" HENRY. "On Gallia's plain was seen Oppression's form, In human slaughter led the rising storm; E'en infants murder'd sunk, so dire the rage, And beauty, mangled, fell with hoary age. Yet soon, in justice to our honour'd cause, We vict'ry gain'd, for mercy gain'd applause. Yet still too dear we ev'ry conquest find; Still retrospection pains the feeling mind." EUDORA. "How didst thou 'scape the fury of the day? What god, what angel, led thee on thy way? Oh, ruling Pow'r! great source of bliss supreme! Shall not thy praise be e'er our constant theme? Oh! let us join, in adoration join, Our ev'ry thought, our ev'ry deed combine, To render homage to that Pow'r above, Author of life, Preserver of our love!" HENRY. "Yes, thou fair pattern of religion, we Our God will thank, and then united be." SONNET TO FRIENDSHIP. OH, heav'nly Friendship! virtue's aid, Whose voice can soothe e'en pain to peace! In courtly scenes, in silent shades, Thy form shall ev'ry joy increase. In thy lov'd bosom will I lodge mine ev'ry woe, mine ev'ry grief; Thy sympathy shall ease each pang: communication gives relief. Thou shalt advise, and I will lend A raptur'd ear to ev'ry word; When the instructive tale shall end, Ah! what must then be thy reward? In thy distress I'll grateful prove, and shed for thee the friendly tear, I'll think of all thy former truth, and grateful save thee from despair. Reserve we'll banish, all alarms Shall fly each social tête-à-tête; No envy base defraud the charms Which e'er on real friendship wait: No lynx-ey'd caution then shall hold the hour of converse; no restraint Shall check the ever-rising thought, or gay imagination taint. Ah, what were life without thy pow'r! What all the pride, the pomp of state! We ne'er could well enjoy an hour; Imperfect were each gift of fate: But, ah! how sweet with thee to seek the lonely cot, the distant cell, And mild contentment's bliss implant where worth oppress'd and mis'ry dwell. Shouldst thou before me, Mary, go To regions of ethereal space, And leave me here a prey to woe, To mourn each buried worth and grace; Thy semblance next my heart I'll wear, that heart where all thy precepts rest, When time would ev'ry feature steal, it shall renew thy mem'ry blest. I'll seek thee in each fav'rite haunt, I 'll daily to thy tomb repair, There will the drooping willow plant, An emblem of the grief I bear. No flow'r shall wither on the sod; the tears on it I shed for you Shall trace their way to ev'ry root, and grateful prove as ev'ning dew. And if it be my fate to leave This earth ere thee, dear cherish'd maid, I in thy mem'ry too may live, E'en till thy last sad debt be paid. Ah! may we both together quit this load of life, this mould'ring clay, Seek, hand in hand, the realms of bliss, and find eternal day! THE SAILOR. WHEN lull'd or rock'd upon the wave, The sailor ne'er thinks danger near; Though storms and tempests dire may rave, He never owns a coward fear. The midnight's gloom, the winter's cold, Alike he braves, to doubt a stranger; His hardship past, though seldom told, The sailor laughs at every danger. Now up aloft he hies with pleasure, Nor thinks one step may prove his death; To God he recommends each treasure, And hopes till life's last parting breath. Brave, honest race, you never shrink Before the cannon's deaf'ning rattle; Of future mis'ry seldom think, Or dread the fate of war and battle. Yet these stout hearts, our isle's support, Feel for a fellow-tar's hard sorrow; They rarely with misfortune sport, Revenge ne'er harbour o'er the morrow, Careless of want, from av'rice free, They to each hapless shipmate lend The needed purse, with heart-felt glee; They gain with labour, and with pleasure spend. Should fate on earth decree a doom Less kind, perhaps, than what they sought, Some friend shall leave them starboard room In heav'n, the gen'ral hop'd-for port. THE WINDING-SHEET. PENSIVE as I sat at night, By the taper's glimm'ring light, Distant then from all I lov'd, Thought reverted where they mov'd; Days and weeks I'd number'd o'er, And from Mira heard no more, As wont; no welcome letter came, No dear impression of her name: Doubt, suspense, my heart oppress'd, Care, intruding, banish'd rest. Lonely as I sat at night, By the taper's glimm'ring light, Alas! there came a winding-sheet, To render all my fears more great; For ancient dames have often said, Approaching death is hence betray'd. At length, the long-wish'd letter came, But came not to relieve my pain; It news of Mira's illness brought, And doubled, every painful thought: The omen then I fancied true, And bad to every hope adieu. Absent love will quick resort To aught that gives its fears support; From airy doubt we torment draw, Enough a feather, shade, or straw. The winding-sheet I thought upon, And griev'd as if my friend were gone; I griev'd as much as news had come She rested in the silent tomb: Beyond a doubt I thought her fate, Beyond a doubt my joyless state. Dreams to my woe yet added reason, I dreamt of fruit, fruit out of season. Ere long a second letter came, And Mira still remain'd the same; But yet my heart no hope possess'd, The taper still in death was dress'd: The deathwatch too I heard at night, Sure 't was enough alone to fright. Another letter!...farewel, pain! For Mira lives, in health again. Farewel, ye winding-sheets, say I, No more ye shall with grief supply. Rely no more, good folks, on dreams, No more on shades and insect themes; I'll ne'er on old wives' tales depend, In future reason shall befriend. How many precious tears I 've lost! How many pleasing moments cross'd! How wasted time in idle woe! Time that I ne'er again shall know. I 've now a cause of grief, indeed, A cause from superstition freed; To think of all I might have done, If winding-sheets I ne'er had known; If women ne'er had tapers given Pow'r to foretell the will of Heaven. But hence, ye shades, hence, hence, away! I'll wiser be another day. Too much, ye dreams, I 've lost by you... Three pounds in weight...I vow 't is true: Good lack! I ne'er will fret again, Till certainty itself shall pain. THE PURCHASE. YE modern artists, hard indeed your case is! Ye must be dead ere valued are your graces. Ye modern beauties, times are hard with you! Your shades are more esteem'd than selves, I vow. Would you know whence I talk upon the matter? From seeing, hearing, and a love of chatter. Let those who nonsense like give heed, I say, And those who do n't, why, then, pass over they. Patience not needed, for I'll brief relate Factum factorum. I proceed to state... The connoisseurs assembled t' other day, With hopes to something learn...I mark'd their way... In troops too would-be judges thither came, Who, by their preaching, lost to taste their claim. A sale of paintings drew the concourse round, And those who lov'd the arts were thither found. Soon to the point, to purchase, they proceed, And I, with ready ear, to all gave heed. There were fam'd works, of Michael Angelo, Reubens, Teniers, Zoers, and Corregio, With Titian, Guido, Raphael, and a race Whose names, whose very names, convey'd a grace, Attach'd to works that were by others done, But which e'en wise heads took for real ones; Copies which 'scap'd original defect, And hence were more complete in each respect. A saint to sale, amidst the rest, was brought, An antique call'd, and in a moment bought. Four thousand pounds, it griev'd mine heart to see, Because 't was ancient call'd, bestow'd with glee. But presently disputes were heard around, And fancied errors in the piece were found. Some swore 't was but a daub; while others said They ne'er beheld the like by paint pourtray'd; The artist here the art had e'en surpass'd; 'T was perfect nature on the canvas cast. Those revil'd much who knew the matter least, To make some think they understood the best. A stranger comes...enchanted with the view, Exclaims, no copy ever was so true. "A copy!" cries, enrag'd, the connoisseur; "Where will you, then, th' original procure?" "Patience, good sir," the other quick replies, "For what I say is just...I claim the prize. These twenty years th' original is mine, So well preserv'd, you see no taint of time. Artists from far and near have prais'd the piece, Have copied...but ne'er copied like to this. You seem to doubt...proof ocular I'll give, And, seeing, then you cannot but believe." "Move on, I follow...if deceived here, 'T is the first time I 've paid for copies dear." "Why, if your copy prove minutely true, You, will not surely of your purchase rue." "Yes, if no eye a diff'rence can discern, I'll have the right one, and distinction learn." "But for that one, believe not I will take The trifle you have paid for your mistake." "If double wilt content you, that I offer, Will add the copy too...no paltry proffer." "Agreed, sir, if th' original consent"... "Why, what d' you mean?...do you give speech to paint?" "No, you mistake...th' original is living... My child, the precious gift of bounteous Heaven, The first of masters' bright peculiar care, A finish'd excellence! exceeding fair! It was a modern did the piece you bought, My daughter's image...she inspir'd the thought. The cunning artist fix'd an ancient's name, Knowing the rage, to give his picture fame; He, here and there, the wrecks of time pourtray'd, With the accommodating pencil's aid: 'T would seem, too, worms have ate the upper part, Sure worms of more than mere instinctive art The havoc made, and through the canvas wrought, That hence imperfect, it were higher thought. "You say, you know what is, what is not right, So cannot blame, unless you blame your sight. It is the moderns you should now befriend; Ancients have had their day, and had their end." With shame, regret, vexation, and surprise, "The worthy amateur emphatic cries, "Sir! sir! I 'd have you know"...then laughs aloud... The joke subdued him, though his soul was proud. "Sir," rejoin'd t' other, "will you not receive Conviction of the truth?...I do n't deceive.... Come, you will see the real picture, living, Her look, her voice, her air itself is heaven; Her virtues and superior charms of mind, A lovely chef d'œuvre, in all refin'd: If the weak shadow thus impress your soul, How shall the stronger substance then controul?" "No, sir; enough I've seen to-day of beauty; But if your daughter have, with wit and virtue, An equal fortune...second thought, I'll go"... "Oh! Mr. Connoisseur, you judge then so; You'll buy the copy, and the self buy you... This is odd traffic, though 't be common now: You'd give four thousand, if she had been paint, Yet double ask to take the living saint: Why, sir, you're mad! Dead beauty's of no use; Alive, perchance, it may to good conduce. But, sir, to shew you that some folks have reason, I tell you plain, your courtship 's out of season: My child, with but small fortune to command, Has made her purchase in a real friend. Adieu, good sir, your love is out of season; Try 'gainst we meet again to grow in reason; In future let the modern artists share Your praise, and, ere the dead, the living fair. THE STORM. THE storm arose, the billows dash'd around, Wrecks and the wreck'd increas'd the horrors round; In death's cold form here was a parent laid, And here a son, an aged mother's aid, And here the husband who each tie supply'd, Kinsman, friend, brother, guardian, and guide. Ah, fatal day! that hundreds shall deplore, Till life, till feeling, cease to vibrate more; Till every chain that bound affection here, Be lost, dissolv'd, in nature's common bier. The * Hope lay stranded in the searchless deep; The tars her hopeless fate, their master's, weep: Death in the wreck he now resolv'd to brave, To meet with hope a joyless wat'ry grave. In her he own'd his all, his whole support; From her he peace deriv'd, and pleasure sought;

* The name of the ship.

From her a num'rous family he rear'd, And a lov'd mother's aged bosom cheer'd; With her, subsistence, plenty, peace, were lost, And ev'ry joy he deem'd for e'er o'ercast. Rash, fatal reas'ning! but 't were vain t' implore, For reason, all that charm'd, could charm no more; Useless united eloquence had prov'd To save the master, father, friend, belov'd. In the long-boat th' afflicted tars depart, Each lost his hope to move their owner's heart: Soon they in safety gain the wish'd-for shore, There anchor cast, unship the lab'ring oar. They kiss the hallow'd earth; now earth, now life Grow doubly dear, their home, the faithful wife; Their rapt'rous joy they only temper'd find In the dire thought of him they'd left behind. They bear the tidings to his wretched spouse... She faints with horror at the cruel news, Her shrieking children gather round her form, Believe their parent dead, themselves forlorn. Ellen, whose mind beam'd in th' expressive mien, Ellen their first-born, that day seventeen, Tries every pow'r affliction can suggest To soothe the sorrows of a mother's breast. "Dear guardian angel of our tender years! Let hope, let doubt," she cries, "remove your fears, Till certainty in all its evil come, And fix alike in finish'd woe our doom. The ship still lives, still let us hope in heaven From every prior mercy, bounty given. For you, for us, for virtue's cherish'd sake, Sure he our father to his care will take; If not the vessel, yet the master save From an untimely, from a wat'ry grave. Say ye that none our parent can persuade To quit the wreck, which death's cold horrors shade? Ah! were we near, we surely could prevail, He would, as wont, our ev'ry tear bewail, He'd not refuse his wife's, his daughter's pray'rs: I'll go—implore—I'll banish all my fears; What filial love suggests I can express, "The wife's, the mother's feelings too, I guess; What you would say, shall Ellen doubly urge, Nor till my purpose gain'd, will quit the surge. The pilot safe shall guard me from the shore, Tho' the winds howl, the dashing billows roar; Nay, were my life to be the sacrifice, I could resign it, and e'en then rejoice." In eager haste each sister soul she clasp'd, Bade each adieu with like impassion'd haste; Tears were the only answers she receiv'd, They hop'd, they fear'd, yet none the vow believ'd. But Ellen to the shore, the pilot flew, And eloquently told each sorrow true; Her artless tale, the generous intent, Impress his soul to aid, he vows consent. Tho' the storm thicken'd, and the gathering clouds Seem'd as if bursting on surrounding shrouds, Loud claps of thunder shook the trembling earth, Nature look'd wild, as fancied in its birth, Torrents of rain gush'd down the mountain's side, And herbs, fruits, sweeping, mingled with the tide; There seem'd a gen'ral wreck, yet Ellen goes, Nor female fear, nor even human knows. Such is thy mighty force, oh love divine! Such courage virtue gives, such faith is thine! They leave the rocky margin of the deep, Swiftly their oars o'er rattling breakers leap, Sometimes the Hope they see, sometimes they lose The sight of Hope, and hope no more repose. Now the waves swell, and dashing o'er their head, Promise to each a joyless, wat'ry bed; Now in the deep a moment lost, they see No more of day, no more of misery; Quick on the surface soon again they float, Borne by the winds, of winds the idle sport: Now this way dash'd, now thither fiercely blown, Now the bark turns...they seem for ever gone... Half turns, and swifter still returns again, And now they stedfast glide the calming main. Nearer and nearer, soon the Hope they reach, And distant leave unseen the rocky beach. A while the storm abates...oh, glad surprise! Bright hope arises, gloomy sorrow flies: They see the father, welcome is the sight! 'T was fortune's smile in dark affliction's night. They gain the deck...the parent clasps his child... She faints...her ev'ry thought, her joy was wild. The father cried, "I dream! yet sure behold... Yes! 't is lov'd Ellen that I really hold! Oh! wherefore didst thou tempt the treach'rous main? I guess the purpose, yet the toil is vain. Seek not, my child, to make me waver here, Or doubly prize whate'er my soul held dear: With Hope I 've liv'd, and now with Hope will die; Swift then, my Ellen, from these horrors fly." "Oh! canst thou, cruel father, leave a wife A prey to all the cares of want and strife? Wilt thou she be a widow ere God wills? E'en at the name my boding bosom thrills. 'T is in thy life she lives, here pleasures spring; Then think thy death her death must hourly bring. Thou too wilt bring with sorrow to the grave Thy drooping parent, whom thou years might'st save. And would'st thou leave thy children too forlorn, Thy fate, their mother's, and their own to mourn? Thy deed on us may Heaven's high vengeance draw... Is 't not oppos'd to nature's, virtue's law? Who shall provide us bread, our youth protect, Our claims, our innocence, our sex respect? Say, can our tender age e'er brook the pow'r Of sorrow, poverty, and misery's hour? Haste then, my father, now the storm abates; Haste! let us quit this scene, where death awaits." "Ah! think not, Ellen, think not I can bear To see you starve each long revolving year. I lose mine all e'en ere the morning's tide; No more for all I love, no more provide; And since no hope is left for me on earth, I'll seek above your claims, the claims of worth." "No hope, my father! do you then dispute The pow'r of God...his word, his truth confute? Shall he 'who clothes the lilies of the field' His faithful servant not from mis'ry shield? Yet know, if you refuse our common pray'r, Resolve to plunge us all in deep despair, To Heav'n I vow, here kneeling pledge my faith, If you not dread, I cannot dread his wrath... I vow to share your fate, with you die here, Nor, woman-like, own e'en a prudent fear. Here will I wait, like you, th' approaching hour, The gulph shall swallow us in mighty pow'r; And since a parent's life I cannot save, With joy I'll welcome death, a wat'ry grave: In thine embrace my soul I will resign, And with thee leave a joyless desert clime. See! the storm gathers; see! our end now comes, Death quick approaches, ev'ry sense benumbs. Now, now's the time, my father...yet resolv'd? Another moment, and we're both involv'd." Onward he steps, and seems to half consent, Then again wavers in the wish'd intent. Ellen, with new-born strength, clasps her faint sire, Leaps in the bark, and gains her soul's desire. Away the pilot rows, in joyous thought, Darts o'er the wave, and gains the shore he sought. Heav'n seem'd to favour the heroic design; The glory of the day was, Ellen, thine! Yet ere they reach'd that earth, now like to heaven, So little once to hope that earth was given, Hope they saw sink, never to rise again, Ne'er proudly scour the lawless dashing main, Ne'er spread her sails, or catch the rising breeze, Export or import o'er the distant seas. The master seem'd half-speechless, lost in grief, Nor to his mis'ry found complete relief, Till, clasping in his arms his anxious wife, That wife so lately lost to all in life; From infant lips sweet carols now he hears, Joy, love, affection, ev'ry welcome cheers. Could he!...Ah no! he never did repent That to lov'd Ellen's wish he gave consent. Ah! what superior bliss, dear maid, was thine! In bliss resulting from thy deed divine! Oh, happiness! shall they who seek thee here, E'er dream to find thee but in virtue's sphere? Can they who, knowing what thou truly art, E'er quit thy path for pleasures dearly bought? Or, virtue knowing, when in sorrow's hour, Not find a balm to woe, to grief a cure? Yes, though by sickness, fortune's frowns oppress'd, The heart that owns thee still is truly bless'd. THE SLAVE. I WAS torn from my friends, from my country, from home, From all that by nature was dear, From the land where a race of my fathers were born, Where I knew not oppression nor fear. Till the White, discontent with what Heaven allow'd, Avariciously bent upon gain, Of feature, complexion, too partially proud, Of his wit, science, knowledge, how vain! Alas! if extension of mind not conduce To improvement in virtue, to mercy's mild sway, Sure its beauty is lost, and its honour and use As nature enwrapp'd in the clay, Like the bow I extend, with no aim to pursue, And exert the keen arrow at will, Yet lost is the force, with no object in view, If no foe we subdue by our skill. And if pride, and if av'rice, with knowledge can reign, If vice and if passion controul, The depth of your learning, religion, proves vain, She demands the true worth of the soul. From the practice you swerve of the precepts you preach, How doubly then guilty are you, Whom God has empower'd the weak mind to teach, Who the right know, the wrong e'er pursue. I was torn from my friends, from my country, from home, From what than all these was more dear, Condemn'd from my wife, from my children to roam, From love, from affection sincere. Once fair liberty's child, I rang'd o'er the plain, By love only wak'd in the morn; But now, by barbarity's heart-freezing strain, I rise ere the sun, of all comfort forlorn. A slave to proud rulers, who mercy ne'er knew, The scourge must weak nature revive, When the thoughts of our parting, our long, long adieu, Bid my strength fail, nor care more to live. But time, which wrecks all, shall break misery's chain, Death the tyrant I serve shall subdue; The stroke shall conduct him to anguish and pain, Shall lead me to bliss...my lov'd Cora, to you. Oppression can ne'er long remain upon earth, And he who exerts the rude sway, For himself to eternal oppression gives birth, When the weak pow'r of man dies away. Oh! ye brothers of Afric, who mourn a like fate, Who are sever'd from all that you love, Reflect then how transient your cold wint'ry state, Lasting 'day-spring' succeeds it above. Oh, Cora! the hours which I once pass'd with you, Were a picture of life, joy to come; As the gay scene of nature surpasses art's view, So superior shall then be our doom. By the forms that attend me in visions by night, By the voice that sounds deep in mine ear, I know that my Cora e'en now dwells in light, And the hopes of affection sincere. Oh, soothing reflection! thou light'nest my woe, No bondage, no slav'ry she proves; One only regret she in heaven can know, Lost when death shall unite us above. Oh! welcome, sharp lash, sweet precursor to bliss, To grief my infallible cure; Ev'ry stroke but conducts me the nearer to peace, The severer, the sooner ensures. DUET. GENTLE shepherd, where d' you stray? Turn, ah! turn your steps this way; Hark, I've got a word to say, Hear me, then, and hear to-day. Time flies, Your beauty dies: If my pray'rs, my love you scorn, You may live, may live to mourn; Should none else sue, your charms decay, You'll sigh, and think upon to-day. Mistaken Colin, 't is in vain You tune to me the love-lorn strain; I can ne'er believe your pain, You my heart shall never gain. Time flies, Occasion dies: Quickly seek some other fair, For of love I will beware; Men of late have treach'rous grown, Love will make to more than one. Do you list to vague report? Some may wander but in sport; Say, what can charm, our age support, If heart to heart can ne'er resort? Time flies, Occasion dies: What is life without a friend? Who better can your claims defend, Than the lover, than the swain, Who sighs but to be lov'd again? Only beauty 't is you praise, Yet how transient are its rays! When no more, your love decays, Or your love on others strays. Beauty flies, Such passion dies: Love is but a fleeting dream, If virtue bind not your esteem; No other tie can lasting prove... Adieu then, Colin, to your love. Ah! turn, dear maid, nor further stray, For something else I have to say; My love in life shall ne'er decay, Nor will I e'er to others stray. Fancy flies, True love ne'er dies: Though your beauties I admire, 'T was your virtues rais'd the fire: I own that beauty's but a flower; I feel your worth's superior power. Ah! now you play the fox's part, But 't will not do to gain my heart; True love is ever void of art, Looks more than words betray the smart. The tell-tale eyes The soul surprise: A rover in your face I read, And fame has said...has said indeed, You love to many nymphs have made, And many vows you have betray'd. Ah! trust not fame, she speaks not true; I never lov'd a maid but you: I might, perchance, in frolic vow, But never serious was till now. Time flies, And fame lyes: If you list to her, and tarry, Never, never then you'll marry; Faith eternal I profess, Can I more? or would you less? The faith which now to me you swear, You have sworn to other fair; I'll ne'er have you, I declare; Deceivers ne'er my heart shall share. Your passion flies, False are sighs: A little less of warm profession, A little more of cool discretion. Return, return then to the maid Whom by vows you have betray'd. Haughty nymph! perchance you'll mourn, For, slighted once, I ne'er return; You may sigh, may sigh forlorn, May sigh for Colin to return. Time flies, Occasion dies: I will seek some fairer fair, Who my worthy heart shall share; You're nought uncommon, I declare, Now I see you as you are. Go, seek the heart, the heart you've won, Pity I for you have none; Never would I list to one Who has others' peace undone. Her life flies, Her beauty dies: No gen'rous nymph will e'er approve A youth who could so faithless prove. Would you but my friendship gain, Return, and love the maid again; I will then, if that will do, I will love both her and you. Time flies, Occasion dies: Restore, restore, haste, haste away, Too late may be another day. EJACULATION. THOUGH Heav'n's all-ruling pow'r should cause to cease The joys of plenty and the earth's increase; Though vines and all the labours of the field Should ne'er again their golden harvests yield; Though daily man by pestilence should fall, And herds lie bleating in the tainted stall; Yet thee, O Israel's God! in all thy ways, The just shall worship, glorify, and praise. Thou gav'st us life, and from thy power divine We come, we go, we life and all resign; Through thee we move, enjoy, we rise and fall, Of thousand worlds the God, the light of all; Alike of ev'ry age the rock, the guard, The christian's hope, defender, and reward. Guide thou, great Spirit! guide my youth aright, That retrospection brighten age's night; That, when thy sov'reign power shall call me hence, I own nor doubt, nor fear, nor dread suspense; That when the last trump wakes to joy the just, When virtue springs in triumph from the dust, I may enraptur'd hail the glorious hour, With angels laud and magnify thy pow'r. Eternal Saviour! life-informing soul! Who canst our ev'ry will and deed controul! Oh! never let me then ungrateful prove, Forget thee, God! whom first I ought to love. Oh! in distress, e'er raise my heart to thee, Thou'lt whisper peace, though worlds should war with me. Thou know'st each motive that pervades my heart, If right assist, if wrong my wishes thwart; Let by thine hand, I need not mortal fear, Or doubt the welfare of each future year. Ethereal author of each heart-felt joy, Of pleasure, transport, bliss, without alloy! Assur'd of thy protection, shall I stray, Or ever faint in dark affliction's day? Can I...ah, never, sure!...ungrateful prove; Forget thee, God! whom first I ought to love? LINES, ON THE DEATH OF MISS M.B.W. IS then each hope for ever fled, And ev'ry fond delusion o'er? Alas! that knell too truly said That Mary lives on earth no more. No Æsculapian art could save, No fost'ring care her health restore; Heav'n doom'd her early to the grave, And in her doom bade worth deplore. Oh! promise fair of virtue great, By wisdom, genius, beauty grac'd, By ev'ry charm!...Relentless fate! How soon hath death each charm defac'd! Just in the joyful spring of life, In all the bloom of youthful pride, So yields the rose-bud to the knife, In vain the weak the strong defied. Oh! source of many an anxious fear, Child of our hope, our love, our joy! What deep regret pursues thy bier! How ting'd thy memory with alloy! When all that fortune's smiles could give, Or all a parent's love bestow, Invited thee on earth to live; All that could mortal wait below. Yet what at best is earthly bliss? What every transitory good? Ah! what to tasting heav'nly peace, By thee, dear spirit, understood? Some kindred angel mourn'd thy stay Upon this chequer'd scene of earth, And pitying Heaven, who heard her lay, Thy passport sent to realms of worth. There bless'd with her who gave thee life, Bless'd with that heav'nly-smiling train, Who led thee from this world of strife, With "Welcome, Mary, home again! But though religion, reason's voice, Would bid us each regret resign, Would bid us at thy fate rejoice, Still fond affection dares repine; Still Nature's claims superior rise, Her sighs still murmur o'er thy bier, Her hope pursues thee to the skies, A hope to every virtue dear... The hope to meet thee in that happier state, Where pain, nor death, nor care, shall more await; Where all is joy, security, and rest, Bless'd beyond measure, beyond fancy blest: That hope alone that blossoms in the grave, Can sooth the pangs that parting with thee gave. Time swiftly flies, the lapse of years is o'er, And all that mourn for thee are soon no more; How soon we know not...day succeeds the night, Earth fades away, and glory springs to light, Yet faith in sorrow rests secure of this, Her woes are transient, and eternal bliss. FINIS. Printed by T. Davison, White-friars.