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July 21, 2009
Charlotte Payne
-- ed.
[Title Page]
BY
HELEN LEIGH
OF
MIDDLEWICH
THE FOLLOWING
POEMS
ARE,
BY PERMISSION,
WITH HUMBLE RESPECT AND GRATITUDE,
INSCRIBED;
BY
THOUGH an Apology is undoubtedly requisite for the Publication of the following Sheets, I must confess that I have, in Reality, no plausible one to make, if declaring myself the Wife of a Country Curate, and Mother of seven Children, will not be deemed sufficient.
My most grateful Acknowledgments are due to those Ladies and Gentlemen who have so generously patronized this Work; and shall ever remain
Their most obliged
HENRY, a youth, by Nature form'd to please,
Possess'd of beauty, elegance and ease;
Was sprightly, sensible, good-natur'd, free;
And knew no want, for very rich was he:
Health bloom'd upon his cheek, but Pleasure's charms,
Tempted the youth to wanton in her arms.
Through Vanity's extensive wild he stray'd,
Dress'd gay, and each accomplishment display'd;
His gay companions soon conspir'd to bring
The youth to laugh at ev'ry serious thing;
To game till his estate was almost spent;
His constitution, next, to ruin went;
Reason was lost in the inebriate bowl,
And passion rul'd without the least controul:
Each sensual appetite must be obey'd,
While oaths profane his conversation sway'd:
Those places where the gay and great resort,
Where Vice prevails, and Fashion keeps her court,
All knew him well;—his folly, too, was known,
And ev'ry gamester mark'd him for his own:
The tavern, play-house, bagnio, and the fair,
In his destruction claim'd an equal share.
Thus by a course of guilty joys undone,
His fortune dissipated, honour gone;
His constitution ruin'd by disease;
The wretched youth, his end approaching sees;
Sees the dread gulph, Eternity, appear
Open before him; —See! he starts with fear;
Unutterable woe, his looks express,
While black despair, his actions all confess;
ON EDWARD's youthful form, the Graces smil'd,
While Virtue own'd him for her favourite child:
Instructed from his earliest years, to tread
The sacred paths, where Truth and Virtue lead:
Like HENRY, he was sensible and gay,
And Pleasure sought, but in a diff'rent way;
His fortune was not quite so large, 'tis true,
Yet he was rich, because his wants were few;
A pleasing independence he enjoy'd,
And was too wise to be the slave of Pride:
Strong were his passions, but by reason sway'd,
Religion's laws he never disobey'd;
Native benevolence possess'd his heart,
Of which, the smallest insect had a part;
From earth to heaven, he rais'd his wond'ring eyes,
And view'd the vast expanse, with glad surprise;
Observ'd the planets, while the moon serene,
With stars encircled, form'd a splendid scene;
"Far more magnificent, yon arch," he cry'd,
"Than RANELAGH'S gay dome, with all its pride."
At other times, as inclination sway'd,
The microscope another world display'd;
The air-pump yielded him extreme delight;
Thus Pleasure with instruction he'd unite;
In rational amusements spend his time,
While HENRY'S life was one continued crime.
He learn'd from Books the knowledge of mankind,
The various powers that sway the human mind;
But his chief study, and his greatest care,
Was his own conduct by those rules to square,
Of his small fortune, never too profuse,
A constant fund for charitable use
Was set apart;—for EDWARD never turn'd
The ear of deafness, when affliction mourn'd;
Oft to the orphan, be a parent prov'd,
Nor e'er cou'd see the widow's tears unmov'd;
Nor did the poor, his bounteous hand reliev'd,
Feel half that happiness, himself receiv'd.
O seize, ye affluent, this power to bless!
Earth has no joys, like comforting distress.
Tho' EDWARD'S soul by Virtue was possess'd,
Love was no stranger to his gentle breast;
He felt its animating force, for one
Who reign'd the mistress of his heart alone;
In her, he found that excellence he fought,
A mind like his, with ev'ry virtue fraught;
The bliss of MILTON'S wedded love he prov'd,
For life united to the fair he lov'd;
His joys she shar'd, his sorrows were her own,
Nor did he form a wish to her unknown;
Their children, by their bright example fir'd,
Trod in their paths, and were like them admir'd.
Thus EDWARD lives, respected and esteem'd
By all who know him;—and a blessing deem'd
To suffering indigence; friend of mankind,
Forward he looks, nor casts a wish behind;
LET not the title of my verse offend,
Nor let the Prude contract her rigid brow;
That helpless Innocence demands a friend,
Virtue herself will cheerfully allow:
And shou'd my pencil prove too weak to paint,
The ills attendant on the babe ere born;
Whose parents swerv'd from Virtue's mild restraint,
Forgive th' attempt, nor treat the Muse with scorn.
Yon rural farm, where Mirth was wont to dwell,
Of Melancholy, now appears the seat;
Solemn and silent as the hermit's cell—
Say what, my muse, has caus'd a change so great?
This hapless morn, an Infant first saw light,
Whose innocence a better fate might claim,
No joy attends its entrance into life,
No smile upon its mother's face appears,
She cannot smile, alas! she is no wife;
But vents the sorrows of her heart in tears.
No father flies to clasp it to his breast,
And bless the pow'r that gave it to his arms;
To see his form, in miniature, express'd,
Or trace, with ecstacy, its mother's charms.
Unhappy babe! thy father is thy foe!
Oft shall he wish thee number'd with the dead;
His crime entails on thee a load of woe,
And sorrow heaps on thy devoted head.
Torn from its mother's breast, by shame or pride,
No matter which—to hireling hands assign'd;
A parent's tenderness, when thus deny'd,
Can it be thought its nurse is over-kind?
Too many, like this infant may we see,
Expos'd, abandon'd, helpless and forlorn;
'Till death, misfortune's friend, has let them free,
From a rude world, which gave them nought but scorn.
Too many mothers,—horrid to relate!
Soon as their infants-breathe the vital air,
Deaf to their plaintive cries, their helpless state,
Led on by shame, and driv'n by despair,
Fell murderers become——Here cease, my pen,
And leave these wretched victims of despair;
But ah! what punishments await the men,
Who, in such depths of mis'ry, plunge the fair.
A MISER, thirsting after gain,
Had led a life of care and pain;
And, tho' his chests were cramm'd with gold,
Yet hunger, nakedness and cold,
Had quite worn out his meagre frame,
And death, in all his horrors came.
Food meet for worms, his carcase made,
One Penny in his mouth was laid,
His passage over Styx to pay,
As was the custom of that day;
His wealth, his glad relation's shar'd;
Yet grudg'd the penny they had spar'd.
Soon on the banks of Styx, his shade
Arriv'd; where Charon's boat convey'd,
Affrighted! Cerberus bark'd thrice,
Out rush'd the furies in a trice,
Seiz'd on the bold intruding shade,
And thence, to Minos' court convey'd
Him—there accus'd;—the judge long time
Spent, in examining the crime;
Likewise the punishment its due,
As being of a nature new.
Says he,—"What does this wretch deserve?—
"Tantalus' torments will not serve;
"Nor will the wheel of Ixion do—
"Shall he the rolling stone pursue,
"With Sisyphus?—or feel the pain
"Prometheus feels?—or pour, in vain,
"Water, the sieve-like jar to fill,
"With those, who did their husbands kill;
"Ægyptus' daughters?—hateful crew?
"Ah! no, these torments will not do,"
Stern Minos cries,—"But open wide yon door,
"I've greater punishments than these in store—
"To rend his avaricious soul in twain,
"I'll fend him hence, to his own world again,
"His own estate; to view his lavish heirs,
"Wasting the produce of his toils and cares:
"A fight like this, the wretch himself shall own,
"Exceeds each torment, in these regions known."
MARIA, from her infant years,
Was all her mother's hopes and fears;
To such a pitch that fondness grew,
Miss did—whate'er she chose to do;
Sole mistress of the nurs'ry, she
Indulg'd in ev'ry thing must be;
The maids, as order'd, still supply'd
Her wants, and trembl'd if she cry'd;
She must not cry, rather than that,
To pieces goes my Lady's hat;
Gauzes and ribbands form a broom,
And ostrich feathers sweep the room:
Nay, shou'd she feel a strong desire,
To see Sir Charles's wig on fire,
Rather than tears shou'd spoil her face,
Another soon supplies its place.
Under such government as this,
Can it be wonder'd at, that Miss
Soon grew above my Lady's hand,
Nor e'er wou'd brook a reprimand.
To Boarding-School now was sent;
But, 'twas thought proper, e'er she went,
To give the Governess her cue,
And tell her what she had to do:
"Dear Mrs. Sage," my Lady cries,
"Pray don't let reading spoil her eyes,
"Nor needle-work; and, do ye hear,
"Be sure you take the greatest care,
"That none e'er contradicts my child,
"She can't bear that, she's been so spoil'd"
The Governess, in hopes to please
Her Ladyship, to this agrees;
The Governess, to soothe her pride,
To reason with Maria try'd,
But all in vain, for, void of grace,
She slapp'd her Mistress in the face.
My Lady heard the tale, and smil'd;
Admir'd the spirit of the child;
Hop'd she'd excuse it—but she'd call
At school, next day, and settle all.
Accordingly, next day she goes,
To chide her daughter, you'll suppose;
Says she, "Maria, what I hear
"You've misbehav'd;—kiss me, my dear;
"Indeed it was not right to hit
(Then burst into a laughing fit)
"Your Governess upon the face;
"You ought to suffer some disgrace
"For such behaviour—nay, don't cry,
"I'll send you something, by and by,
"A fine gold watch; and see, what's here,
"Some pretty trinkets—take 'em dear,
"And give your Governess a kiss—"
With much ado, the stubborn Miss,
At length, consented to be friends,
And thus, my Lady's chiding ends.
But 'tis not very hard to guess,
How much this hurt her Governess;
However, she agreed at last,
No more to notice what had past,
Provided Miss, in future, wou'd
Be very tractable and good—
"Good!" cries my Lady, "to be sure!
"Have not I just been talking to her?
"She'll be much better, without doubt—"
This pass'd, as she was going out.
The sequel shew'd, how much improv'd,
Miss was, by being so reprov'd;
For ere another day was o'er,
She lock'd her Mistress out of door.
This treatment rous'd the gentle dame,
And to avoid still greater shame,
If children thus, must have their way,
Time will the blessed fruit display,
And wives become, they run astray.
A YOUNG Owl who, Narcissus-like, chanc'd to survey
Himself, in a stream which he found by the way;
Was so pleas'd with his person, so charm'd with his air,
That the bright God of Day, as he thought, was less fair;
Nor did Cynthia, his goddess, chaste queen of the night,
In his own dear opinion, appear half so bright:
Thus proud of his charms, he began to let forth,
In this curious oration, his honour, and worth.
"How oft to the Graces, sweet incense I've burn'd!
"At my birth, Cytherea my person adorn'd;
"I was clad in her cestus—gay Cupids around,
"With their wanton wings fann'd me—and now I am found
The conceited young Owl, thus with vanity fir'd,
With the young royal Eaglet, an union desir'd
And dispatches the Crow to the King of the Birds,
Who, not liking her errand, began to make words:
"What reception," says she, "can I hope from the King,
"Should he vouchsafe to hear the proposals I bring?
"Tis a match quite unequal—tho' nothing to me;
"But as yet, light and darkness, could never agree:
Thus reason'd his friend; but remonstrance was vain,
For the Owl in his error resolv'd to remain,
And again urg'd the Crow; who, to humour his pride,
Undertook the commission, threw reason aside,
And appear'd at the court—where her bus'ness made known,
She obtain'd first a smile, then this speech from the throne—
"If your Master expects an alliance with me,
"His fine face in the air, at mid-day, let me see."
'Twas enough for the Owl, who prepar'd for the flight,
On the wings of Ambition, not dreading the light;
But soon, with the radiance of Phœbus struck blind,
His way thro' the air, he no longer could find;
If to shine in a sphere that's above us we aim,
We may chance to encounter with nothing but shame:
Had the Owl, in some cavern, sought out for a wife,
Tis a hundred to one he'd been happy for life.
A BUTTERFLY, one morn in May,
With rainbow-wings, alert and gay,
As he was flutt'ring on a tree
Of honey-suckles, chanc'd to see,
A crawling Worm, attempt, with pain,
The top of a small twig to gain:
"Poor reptile!" says the Butterfly,
"How durst thou venture up so high?—
"Methinks thou wert by far more safe,
"When underneath yon cabbage-leaf."
The self-convicted Worm reply'd,
"My folly 'tis in vain to hide;
BUTTERFLY.
What have you seen, friend, may I ask,
To compensate this toilsome task?—
WORM.
Nothing, but that, go where I will,
I find myself a reptile still
And wonder, creatures such as we,
The beams of Sol should ever see:
O, had I wings like you, to fly
About, and bask beneath his eye;
At pleasure rove from flow'r to flow'r
To tip the dew—and seek some bow'r
When darkness comes—O! for such bliss—
Who would not cherish life like this?—
BUTTERFLY.
Your 'plaints are just—but patience, friend,
Another year your woes may end;
For, tho' my tale be strange, 'tis true,
Last winter I was such as you;
The Worm confest the tale was strange;
But, when assur'd that such a change,
Himself, with reason, might expect,
He spoke—in words to this effect:
"Henceforth, contented with my state,
"Patient, the happy change I'll wait,
"Rejoic'd to be a Worm, since I
"May one day shine a Butterfly."
THE seven Grecian sages,
Whose wisdom fame has spread,
Throughout succeeding ages,
At Athens, once, 'tis said,
Were met in consultation,
And this their grand debate,
What wonder in creation,
Might be esteem'd most great?
When one of high conceptions
Above the rest, propos'd,
What met with some exceptions,
Tho' none its truth oppos'd:
Th' Astronomer's opinion,
That ev'ry fixed star,
Through heaven's wide dominion,
Which seems so small from far;
Is like our sun in glory,
With planets moving round,
Where, tho' most strange the story,
Men, brutes, and plants abound.
A thought, thus all-inspiring,
Each breast with rapture fir'd;
And, Luna's orb admiring,
They earnestly desir'd,
Great Jupiter's direction,
A most amazing boon!
Three days for observation—
They ask'd, nor wish'd for more,
Thinking, by application,
Its regions to explore,
Ere half that time was wasted;
And promis'd to recite,
What joys above they tasted,
What wonders charm'd their fight.
Jove their petition granted,
And, on a mountain's top,
The vehicle they wanted,
Was quickly seen to drop:
Artists of reputation,
They took, to paint each scene
Found worthy observation,
And enter'd their machine
Mid thousands of spectators,
Assembl'd to admire,
These aerial navigators,
To distant worlds aspire.
Soon, with a rapid motion,
They soar aloft in air,
While birds, in wild commotion,
Attend a flight so rare:
But, Jove's own eagle guiding
Their wond'rous air-balloon,
Thro' num'rous dangers riding,
At length, they reach'd the moon:
Where, for their sole reception,
A palace was prepar'd,
Sumptuous, beyond conception—
On golden pillars rear'd.
On down of swans reposing,
With their strange journey tir'd,
They lay next morning dozing,
'Till half the day expir'd.
A table, most inviting,
Next met their ravish'd eye,
And, hunger's call exciting,
They all, with glad surprize,
Partook of the collation,
'Twas most delicious fare;
And, under such temptation,
What mortal cou'd forbear?—
Wines, rich as nectar, crowning
Their elegant repast—
All cares, in pleasure drowning,
The minutes flew too fast;
For night came, unexpected,
Their chief design forgot,
And, no one place inspected,
Save that delightful spot.
Soon as the rosy morning,
Had usher'd in the day,
The distant hills adorning,
With many a pleasing ray,
The travellers arising,
Determin'd to pursue,
(All sensual joys despising)
The scheme they had in view:
Their thoughts, on contemplation
Were now entirely bent,
And that day's observation,
Sure nothing cou'd prevent:
But, while they were concluding,
What road was best to take,
Some visitors intruding,
Their compliments to make,
Unhappily retarded,
The bus'ness of the day;
Wisdom was disregarded,
And Pleasure bore the sway.
The Ladies charms enchanting,
These strangers from the earth;
No requisite was wanting,
To furnish them with mirth:
Lost, to all sense of duty,
In gallantry and joy,
Our Grecians, slaves to Beauty,
Another day employ.
Their neighbours, envious growing,
Of such a joyous band,
Rude epithets bestowing,
Rush'd in, with sword in hand;
And bred so great a riot,
So much disturbance made,
That some, to purchase quiet,
To justice were convey'd:
As th' next day was appointed,
For hearing of the cause,
The Sages, unacquainted
With Luna, or her laws,
Against their inclinations,
The trial must attend;
And thus their observations
Attain'd a final end;
For the three days expiring,
So very wisely spent;
From Luna's sphere retiring,
To Greece again they went.
On terra firma landing,
The people all around,
With open mouths were standing—
In silence most profound,
Expecting strange relations,
Of what was heard and seen,
By seven such wise Grecians,
Who at the Moon had been.
The Sages soon related,
The whole of what they knew;
The ground was decorated
With flow'rs, of diff'rent hue:
Birds, on the trees, were singing—
They knew not of what kind;
And, for the flow'rets springing,
Cou'd no description find.
Thus, ignorance confessing,
In ev'ry place they came
They met contempt, depressing,
Disquietude and shame.
SO with Mankind 'tis often found;
They tread the world's fantastic round;
YOUNG Celia was beauteous, and blithe as the morn,
On her cheek bloom'd the lilly and rose,
And sweet was her breath as the blossoming thorn,
When, to hail spring returning it blows.
Her bosom, with love, and with tenderness glow'd,
But her Linnet was all her delight;
On the sweet little warbler that love she bestow'd,
And carest him from morning to night.
How oft wou'd she open the door of his cage,
From which he enraptur'd wou'd fly,
And, perch'd on her hand, her attention engage,
While her lover unheeded stood by!
Yet oft, the ingrate wou'd for Liberty pine,
As he saw from her window the grove;
And oft wou'd he wish his companions to join,
Again thro' the woodlands to rove.
Unrestrain'd by his Mistress, one Midsummer morn,
When Phœbus illumin'd the east,
He flew to some birds, who were perch'd on a thorn,
And forsook his wont seat on her breast.
"Ungrateful deserter!" cry'd Celia, "away,
"And meet the reward of your crime;
"For shou'd you escape the keen sportsman's survey,
"You'll die of Repentance in time.
"But ah! his departure I ever shall mourn,
"He was all that was charming and sweet;
"And shou'd the dear fugitive once more return,
"He shall still greater tenderness meet:
"But vain the suggestion!—for tho' he may fly,
"More quick from a gun flies the shot;
"And, so num'rous the engines, prepar'd to destroy,
"That death is most surley his lot."
Thus, with direful forebodings, was Celia opprest,
His loss often cost her a tear;
While he, far away from his mistress and rest,
Silly bird!—found destruction was near.
From a net, which was artfully spread to ensnare,
He saw a poor bird get away,
And, at some little distance, a kite in the air,
Apparently, eager of prey:
In deep consternation, his monstrous beak,
With wonder a while he survey'd,
Rejoic'd to escape it;—but found his mistake,
By his former vain notions betray'd.
Said he to himself, in disconsolate strain,
"How happy, the state I regret!
"Cou'd I my fair mistress's fondness regain—
"That fondness I ne'er can forget:
"I again shou'd be fed by her delicate hand,
"As three times I was yesterday,
"When she strok'd my smooth feathers—and now here I stand,
"Neglected—to hunger a prey.
"Ah! Celia, your bosom with kindness replete,
"Has been cruelly slung by my flight,
"But I'll haste to return, and abjure at your feet
"My crime, and be blest with your sight."
He spoke—and, like light'ning, flew back to the spot,
Where his mistress receiv'd him with joy;
He is faithful, she loves him—thus happy his lot,
He'll never more venture to fly.
Like this simple Linnet, how oft may we see,
The fond youth, and the love-stricken maid,
From their parents embraces imprudently flee,
By false notions of freedom betray'd!
'TWAS night—and darkness all around,
Her sable curtain spread,
When Claudio sought—and seeking found,
The mansions of the dead:
For having, in his own defence
Slain his invet'rate foe,
Ere he cou'd prove his innocence,
Elsewhere 'twas death to go.
A church's sacred portal gain'd,
He lean'd against the door—
Surpriz'd!—the door on which he lean'd
Flew open;—but what more
The wretched wanderer did affright,
Within the hallow'd dome,
Yet still had courage to draw near,
When, dreadful to behold!
He saw, what chill'd his heart with fear,
What made his blood run cold—
A beauteous Lady, clad in white,
With wild and frantic look,
Rose from the grave;—while, at the sight,
His frame with horror shook:
Who stepping, with a threat'ning tone,
And with a bloody knife,
To Claudio, almost turn'd to stone,
Almost bereft of life;
Demanded, what had brought him there,
At such an hour of night?
The truth, without reserve, confest,
And why he thither fled—
"Art thou, indeed, so much distrest?"
The beauteous phantom said.
"'Tis true, thou'rt in my pow'r," she cry'd,
"But fear no harm from me;
"I am—and own the deed with pride—
"A murderer like thee.
"A Lady of a noble race,
"By perjur'd man betray'd;
"And doom'd to mis'ry and disgrace,
"Tho' late a spotless maid.
"The wretch who won my virgin heart,
"Soon triumph'd o'er my fame;
"I hir'd a ruffian—had him slain—
"But not with that content,
"Still greater vengeance to obtain,
"I to the Sexton went;
"And purchas'd, with a purse of gold,
"Permission to explore
"His grave;—and here that heart behold,
"The perjur'd villain wore.
"From his vile breast, these hands have torn
"This heart—Revenge how sweet!"
She said—and with a look of scorn,
Stamp'd on it with her feet.
"Be this," she cry'd, "each traitor's doom
"Who our weak sex betrays;"
Then turn'd—and sought the Convent's gloom,
To end her wretched days.
ERE the arch rebel Cromwell's ruthless hand,
Had seiz'd, 'mong others, on Bellario's land;
Embolden'd by the wealth he then enjoy'd,
He sought the fair Miranda for his bride;
She own'd his worth, his loyalty approv'd,
And lov'd the youth—but knew not that she lov'd,
'Till dire misfortune round Bellario spread
Her train of ills, and all his hopes were fled:
When grief had seiz'd his soul; and anxious care
Stamp'd on his brow the image of despair,
'Twas then she dar'd a mutual flame confess,
And gave her hand, to snatch him from distress.
Behold him now, to affluence restor'd,
Peace, love and joy, attendants at his board;
Four smiling prattlers, as their mother fair,
Heighten each joy, and soften ev'ry care;
The charms of friendship, once again he proves,
If those are friends adversity removes;
While his fond heart, with gratitude o'erflows,
Since, to Miranda's love, such happiness he owes.
But ah! how fleeting are all earthly joys,
When one rude storm of fate each bliss destroys!
A base, designing, artful villain came,
His views conceal'd by friendship's sacred name;
Who play'd so well the wily serpent's part,
Twining around Bellario's honest heart,
That he, (ah! fatal confidence!) agreed,
For this pretended friend, to do a deed,
Bellario, gen'rous to a fault, believ'd
The wretch's artful tale, and was deceiv'd:
In short, he madly ventur'd to become
His surety for a most enormous sum:
When this was done, with speed the villain fled;
Leaving Bellario, with his flight half dead.
What cou'd he do?—the sum was very great;
To pay it, wou'd have took his whole estate.
His own imprudence, how did he arraign!
And, of his friend's ingratitude, complain!
Then, on his lips Miranda's name he found,
And gave a start—for death was in the sound.
"Wretch! that I am," he cry'd, "how shall I face
"Her I've o'erwhelm'd in mis'ry and disgrace?
"Shall she, who made me what I am—shall she
"Be told she's ruin'd—and be told by me?
"It cannot be—there's madness in the thought:
"Oh! what distress has this rash action brought
"On my sweet infants!—Can I live to see
"Them plung'd in want, and wretchedness, by me?
"Shall I be witness to their cries for bread;
"And, rotting in some jail, perchance be fed
"Myself, by that cold charity may give;
"Just what will serve, to make misfortune live?
"Scorn'd by the world—reproach'd by ev'ry friend—
"Distraction!—No—this hour my woes shall end."
Thus, sunk in misery, and lost to hope,
He charg'd a pistol—and secur'd a rope;
Miranda, startled with the noise he made,
Ran to his chamber—where she thought him laid
For rest upon the bed, as indispos'd;
But, what a scene was to her view expos'd!
A rope hung, from the cieling, firmly ty'd;
A pistol, with a letter by its side,
That gracious Providence which sav'd his life,
Prompted the gen'rous father of his wife,
To lend his aid to save him from distress;
Thus, as a Merchant, having great success,
To affluence and ease, once more, restor'd,
He liv'd to bless the goodness of the Lord.
FULL many a long and toilsome day,
And many a weary night,
Had HENRY add his Soldiers past,
In sad and dismal plight:—
Oppress'd with hunger, wet and cold,
On nuts and roots they fed;
Still on they march'd, tho' for twelve days,
No better food they had.
Bridges were broke to stop their course,
Trees, 'cross the roads were laid;
All which they patiently endur'd,
Fatigu'd, but not dismay'd:—
When, coming nigh to Agincourt,
They found a numerous host
Assembled to oppose their march,
And drive them from their coast:
Which, when the royal Henry saw,
He bade his horsemen light,
And the whole army kneeling down—
Oh what a noble sight!
With eyes and hands to Heaven rais'd,
Besought the Lord of Might,
To yield his blessing on their arms,
And aid them in the fight.
Now from the Gallic army came
Three heralds to the King,
Who, from their haughty generals,
Did a proud challenge bring;
In which, they battle offer'd him,
But left himself to name
The time, and place when they shou'd meet—
An answer, which became
Brittannia's chief, was soon return'd,
By English heralds brought;
Expressive of his daring soul,
With Spartan courage fraught.
He told them, "He a constant march
"Had kept, of late, they knew;
"Oft had they incommoded him,
"And might have fought him too:
"But, if a gen'ral battle was
"By their late challenge meant,
"They'd find him in the open field,
"Prepar'd for that event.
"That his chief care should always be,
"Never to do a thing
"Unworthy his exalted rank,
"Unworthy England's King.
"He did not mean to be the first
"To strike the hostile blow;
"But, if attack'd, they soon wou'd find,
"He dar'd to face a foe.
"That he his march to Calais, was
"Determin'd to pursue;
"And if to stop him they were bent,
"Much mischief might ensue:
"Therefore, he gave them this advice,
"And meant it for their good—
"To give him way—nor let those fields
"Be stain'd with Christian blood."
But, not with standing Henry's care,
And offers to restore
The town of Harfleur—wou'd they give
The thoughts of battle o'er:
Confiding in their mighty force,
They nam'd the fatal day,
Which, on themselves, destruction brought,
Confusion, and dismay.
And now, of battle sure, the King
Might ev'ry day be seen,
On horseback, clad in armour bright,
With countenance serene:
While his brave soldiers, to a man,
Resolv'd to stand their ground;
Altho' great disproportion was
Between the armies found.
A valiant Welchman, David Gam,
Who rode beside the King,
Was sent, the enemy to view,
And this report did bring—
"Please you my liege, there's quite enow,
"For us to kill and flay;
"Enow, to serve for prisoners,
"Enow, to run away."
Indeed, the odds were very great,
For Henry had not more,
At th' utmost, than ten thousand men,
Who, much fatigue had bore;
Whereas, the French commanders brought,
(As their own writers say)
Upwards of seven score thousand men,
Into the field that day—
Besides, the French were fresh and gay,
And always well supply'd
With food—while Britain's half-starv'd sons,
Provisions were deny'd.
Proud of these vast advantages,
And certain of success,
The English army to destroy,
They thought of nothing less:—
Nay more—this conquest wou'd repair,
Their former loss and shame;
When Poictiers, and Cressy's plains,
With Gallic blood did stream.
And now, like many others, who
Build castles in the air,
The French, most cruelly resolv'd
No living soul to spare;
Save Henry, and his gallant chiefs,
Who shou'd their triumph grace;
And be to Paris captive led,
Their honour to replace:—
Then, insolently vain, in scorn,
They of the King demand,
What he wou'd for his ransom give?
Who told 'em out of hand;
"He hop'd a few hours wou'd so far
"Reduce the Gallic pride,
"That France alone shou'd have the care,
"Due ransoms to provide."
Th' important morn approaching, brought
These boasters to the field,
As, to an easy victory,
Assur'd the King would yield:
But he, who knew their greatest strength,
Must in their horse consist,
Had artfully his archers plac'd,
Their power to resist;
Defended by sharp piles, or stakes,
Near seven feet in length;
Which, as they cou'd at pleasure move,
Serv'd to increase their strength:
Besides, two hundred bowmen bold,
All men of courage try'd,
He plac'd in a low meadow, where
The bushes wou'd them hide.
The army's flanks the woods secur'd,
And guarded ev'ry way;
In one of which, a troop of horse,
By the King's orders, lay
In ambush—ready to attack,
Whene'er the battle join'd,
The Gallic army in the rear,
And harrass them behind.
The van was by the Duke of York
Led up—who had desir'd
That station, as most dangerous,
With love of glory fir'd.
In the main battle, did the King
Most gracefully advance;
Compleat in armour shining bright;
The Royal Arms of France,
With England's quarter'd on his shield;
A splendid crown of gold,
Upon his glitt'ring helmet shone,
Wrought in th' imperial mold:
His horse, in sumptuous trappings drest,
A noble spirit warm'd;
Proud of the royal weight he bore,
His ev'ry movement charm'd.
The royal standard was before
The youthful King display'd,
And other banners with the wind,
In warlike order play'd.
While, on the other side, the French
Did in three lines advance—
The Dukes of Orleans and Bourbon,
And th' Constable of France,
Led up the first—the others were
Commanded by the prime
And flow'r of French nobility;
Who thought it not a time
To stay at home, when glory call'd;
For, on that fatal day,
Except the Dauphin and the King,
Few nobles kept away.
In order thus the armies stood,
No signal yet had broke
The bands which held the dogs of war;
When Henry thus bespoke
His valiant soldiers—while his words
And actions, both conspire,
To raise their courage to a pitch
Which envy shou'd admire—
"My lads," he cry'd, "ye now advance
"To Honour's glorious field;
"Nor doubt I, but your valourous deeds,
"Shall make the Gauls to yield:—
"For my part—England never shall
"For me a ransom pay;
"Nor haughty Frenchman proudly boast,
"I to his sword gave way:
"No!—Death or Victory be my fate!—
"I see it will be yours;
"The fury sparkling in your eyes,
"Britain's success insures.
"Amaz'd shall future ages stand,
"When told, the sword, the lance,
"And bow, such wond'rous deeds perform'd,
"Among the chief of France:
"Yet tho' these pow'rful instruments,
"May serve to purchase fame;
"'Tis God who gives the victory—
"Be prais'd, his holy name.
"And sure, a Providence divine,
"Is guardian of our fate;
"Angels, invisible, may shield
"Our heads, when dangers wait:
"For England's people on this day,
"At this most awful hour,
"Do, as appointed, keep a Fast,*
"And pray th' Almighty power,
"To bless our arms with victory,
"Then why shou'd we despair?
"But rush like lightning on our foes,
"And death or glory share."—
It is remarkable, that this battle happened on the very day observed throughout England as a general Fast, for the success of the British arms.
He ceas'd—triumphant shouts were heard;
Each soldier seem'd inspir'd;
Each caught a ray from Britain's sun,
And were what they admir'd:—
"Lead on"—they cry'd—"to battle lead"—
And tho' the King wou'd fain
Have kept his advantageous ground,
He found 'twas all in vain:—
Then, leaping boldly from his horse,
Resolving to partake
Of ev'ry danger with his men,
He cry'd—"Now let us break
"Through th' army of our enemies,
"On this propitious day;
"And, trusting to the aid of Heav'n,
"Their arrogance repay."
At his command the standards mov'd;
The archers on the right
And left, advancing on the foe—
An old experienced Knight,
Sir Thomas Erpingham by name,
Who did a truncheon bear,
First led the way—and signal gave,
By throwing in the air
The truncheon which his hand contain'd,
While the whole army gave
A shout—that seem'd to rend the skies,
And pierce each rocky cave.—
Then did the archers in the van
Begin, with all their might,
To use their bows—and, as their dress
Was for that purpose light;
They with such strength and nimbleness,
Their yard-long arrows sent;
So irresistible their force,
They pierc'd where-e'er they went;
While the two hundred bow-men brave,
In ambush, wonders wrought;
Their ev'ry arrow wing'd with death,
A sure destruction brought—
A thousand Gallic horse, against
The archers in the van,
Bravely advanc'd —but were so gall'd,
That on they madly ran
In much disorder;—while the ranks
Behind them, pressing sore,
(The files being closely straitened)
On those which went before;
Order no more cou'd be observ'd,
Confusion reign'd around;
Their horses, both with arrows pierc'd,
And sinking in the ground,
(Which chiefly did of mire consist)
Outrageous soon became;
Each art, in vain, their riders us'd
Their steeds again to tame.
Soon as the archers saw the French
Advance, with fury fraught,
They all behind their pointed piles
Retir'd, as quick as thought:—
Where, cover'd both in front and flank,
They safe from danger stood;
And saw their haughty enemies,
Immerg'd in seas of blood.
Their horses spurr'd, rush'd on the piles,
(Each sharp as pointed sword)
With which their shoulders, breasts, and sides,
Most mis'rably were gor'd:—
Some flounc'd, some plung'd, some on the spikes
Their frighted riders threw,
Where, cruelly impal'd, they hung—
A shocking sight to view!
Of dying, and of wounded men,
How dreadful were the cries!
Their armour, clattering, as they fell,
Made a most hideous noise—
Still adding horror to the scene;
While, thro' the yielding air,
A tempest black of arrows flew,
O'erwhelming with despair
The Gallic troops; no longer proof
Against the English force;
On their main body, back they fell;
Their last—and sad resource!
The archers saw their order broke;
And, ere their ranks cou'd close,
Each grasp'd the sword and battle-axe,
And flung away their bows—
Then, boldly rushing on the foe,
A horrid fight ensu'd,
Which ended not, until the French
Were routed, and subdu'd.
Mean time, the gallant Henry fought.
In front of all his men,
Against the second Gallic line;
(Which firm had stood, 'till then)
Not only, as their General;
But was alike expos'd
To danger, with each private man;
And soon, a band compos'd
Of eighteen Gallic gentlemen,
All resolutely bent,
To take away his precious life,
Approach'd—with that intent;
And, boldly daring, nigh the King
So very closely prest,
That one of them, with battle-axe,
Struck him upon the crest;
But this rash action cost them dear,
For, on the self-same ground,
Meant to be stain'd with royal blood,
Themselves a death-bed found.
There too—th' heroic David Gam
Immortaliz'd his name;
Defending of his Prince—he fell;
His kinsmen did the same.
Henry was sensible how much
He to their service ow'd—
And, ere their eyes were sunk in death,
Knighthood on them bestow'd:
'Twas all he cou'd—for still the fight
Was vig'rously maintain'd;
And soon, another dreadful scene,
His royal bosom pain'd:—
Struck down with battle axes, lay
Extended on the ground,
His valiant brother, Glocester's Duke,
Deprest with many a wound;
But the brave King preserv'd his life,
At th' hazard of his own;
While two, in armour like to his,
Were kill'd—their names unknown.
The English, by their glorious King
Encourag'd—now broke thro'
The French battalions—when the horse
From ambush, came in view;
And rushing—with a mighty shout,
Attack'd them in the rear;
Those troops had yet good order kept,
But now they fled for fear:
Seeing the two first lines give way,
They no resistance made;
But Alenson's courageous Duke
A nobler soul display'd—
Soon as he saw the battle lost,
To kill the King he try'd;
And pressing thro' the thickest fight,
The royal hero spy'd:
"I am the Duke of Alenson"—
He cry'd—"thy greatest foe"—
Then aim'd his sword at Henry's head,
And struck a furious blow;
Which cleav'd the crown, his helmet's crest,
But did no farther harm;
Altho' this bold attempt soon rais'd
A great, and dire alarm,
And so far th' English Lion rous'd,
That, instantly, he threw
The brave Alenson on the ground,
And his two foll'wers flew.
But those who were about the King,
Enrag'd! beyond all bounds!
Dispatch'd the enterprizing Duke,
With many mortal wounds;
While Henry's gen'rous soul was pain'd;
But vain was all his care!
Tho' he cry'd out, to spare his life,
His life they wou'd not spare.
Full three hours did the battle last,
And dreadful hours were they!
For many a noble Lord of France,
Resign'd his breath that day.
And, tho' the English victors were,
And those who were not slain
Were pris'ners made—yet, Henry felt
Compassion's tend'rest pain,
When he survey'd the bloody field
Next day, in passing thro',
Where heaps of carcasses were found,
And blood in streams did flow.
Nor did he quit the horrid scene,
Without due rev'rence paid,
To that Almighty power, who had
Such vast distinction made:
So far preserv'd his subjects' lives,
That most of them remain'd;
And own'd the battle of Agincourt—
Heaven, not his arms, had gain'd.
A PHYSICIAN of eminence, some years ago,
Was call'd in, to attend on a Lady of fashion,
Who had long been admir'd—and the toast of each Beau,
Tho' now, her sunk features excited compassion.
The Doctor no sooner the Lady had ey'd,
Than he begg'd—"She for once would his freedom forgive,
"If he stept, from the rules of good-breeding, aside,
"To mention the terms upon which she might live."
"By all means"—cry'd the Lady—"for surely no word
"A Physician may utter, shou'd e'er give offence;
"Punctilio, in illness, is always absurd,
"And shews either Doctor, or Patient want sense."
"Why then, my dear Lady, I cannot resist
"Pronouncing this truth, like a plain honest man;
"That if, in the use of white paint you persist,
"No med'cine will save you, do all that I can."
You astonish me, Doctor! but, such is my case,
That I may as well die, as leave painting alone;
For, shou'd I appear with my natural face
Amongst my acquaintance—I shou'd not be known.
THOU first of Monarchs, and thou best of men,
Accept the tribute of my artless pen;
An humble Shepherdess for pardon craves,
While thus her wont obscurity she leaves;
Embolden'd by his clemency alone,
To bend before the mighty Achmet's throne.
This remote corner of thy wide domain,
Has often felt the blessings of thy reign;
And here the great, the joyful news is spread,
That thou, the beauteous partner of thy bed,
Hast, from her late captivity, regain'd—
We hail thy happiness, with joy unfeign'd;
O! cou'dst thou, Achmet, for a while lay down
The pomp of state, and burthen of a crown;
And, like a swain, in humble garb array'd,
Leave thy gay court—our rustic soil to tread,
Here wou'dst thou find true misery display'd;
But, since we ne'er can hope to see that day,
Let thy poor slave the piteous scene pourtray,
Behold yon venerable group of swains,
Driving their flocks, to water, o'er the plains
Mark next, those pretty babes, whose flaxen hair,
Is to th' hot sun, and beating rain, left bare;
Their little lips distain'd with berries rude,
Which, hapless fate! is now their only food;
Their father's bow no sustenance can yield,
Each cot forsaken for the hostile field.
Ah! pretty innocents, who now shall form
Your tender minds, or shield you from each storm?
See! Achmet, see! that sad but lovely troop
Of virgins;—see how the pale lillies droop!
No longer on their cheeks the rose appears;
Their brilliant eyes are dimm'd with falling tears:—
For them no more, the choicest flow'rs are pull'd;
No more for them, the mellow fruit is cull'd:—
All sad and gloomy now appear the groves
Through which, their swains once sweetly breath'd their loves,
In soft persuasive notes—now heard no more,
Since, from their home, accursed war has bore
Each lover, and each bridegroom far away,
And left these comfortless—to grief a prey.
Once more (if thou canst bear the sight), look where
A train of dames, more wretched still, appear;
These, Achmet, these were once the happy wives
Of worthy husbands—peaceful was their lives;
In wedded love, unmingled bliss they found,
And sweet Content sat smiling all around;
But now, O sad reverse! they're doom'd to feel
Far greater woes than language can reveal—
When, with the morn, the rising sun appears,
The glorious prospect aggravates their fears;
For, ere his setting beams the West shall gild,
Their kind protectors' blood may stain the field:
Oh! dreadful thought! what horrors dost thou bring!
What heart is proof against thy pow'rful sting?
The measure of our woe is nigh complete—
Help then, O Achmet! help, ere 'tis too late;
Give us our friends, while they are thine to give,
So shall thy name to future ages live;
How, "When fierce tyrants kindled guilty war,
"Achmet, tho' seated in triumphal car—
Bade war, with its attending horrors, cease,
"And—in the height of Victory—made Peace."
YE furious Duellists, who, with the sword,
Glory your private quarrels to decide,
To check each haughty look, or hasty word,
Which hurts your vanity, or wounds your pride,
Listen a moment to my rustic rhymes;
No fulsome sermon courts th' averted eye;
But a faint picture of the present times,
Where fashion teaches mortals how to die.
Too oft the tidings of the day relate,
How, in Hyde-Park, or some like fatal place,
A youth, by sword or pistol, met his fate;
Taught, by false honour, thus to shun disgrace.
To meet the King of Terrors, void of fear,
All pure and spotless should our manners be;
The saint, whose breast of ev'ry crime is clear,
Trembles at his approach, and stern decree.
But mad the wretch, who dares encounter death,
Thirsting for blood, his murd'rous weapon rais'd
Against another's life; and yield his breath,
When guilt, infernal guilt, his soul has seiz'd.
The Greeks and Romans, who, by turns, subdu'd
The world, and gave it laws; for courage fam'd,
Never destroy'd each other, nor imbru'd
Their hands in blood, when war no more was nam'd.
And shall a nation, where the Arts refin'd,
Where Genius, Sentiment, and Learning dwell,
Be to such wanton cruelty inclin'd?
Forbid it Heav'n! and blast the views of Hell.
When wise Gustavus*
Sweden's sceptre sway'd,
To such a height this horrid practice rose,
That through his army, Duelling was made
The common method of chastizing foes;
Till by a just, tho' a severe decree,
The Monarch doom'd the first that should offend,
To suffer death, of whatsoe'er degree,
Firmly resolv'd his edict to defend.
Soon after which a quarrel rose between
Two officers of rank, who knew the King—
Knew him inflexible; nor cou'd they screen
Themselves, beneath distinction's gaudy wing.
But both agreed an audience to request,
And beg the King's permission to decide
The fatal diff'rence, which their souls possest,
Like men of honour, and of courage try'd.
Gustavus Adolphus.
The King comply'd with their request but blam'd
Them much, for violating Nature's laws;
Yet promis'd, at the time and place they nam'd,
Himself to see them terminate their cause.
The morn arriv'd; the King attended came
By a small body of his troops, who form'd
A circle round the combatants for fame,
As though he meant to see the fight perform'd
"Now fight," he cry'd, "'till one of you be slain;"
Then, turning to the Provost-Marshall, said,
"That neither of our justice shall complain,
"Soon as one falls, strike off the other's head."
Justly astonish'd, at their Sovereign's feet,
Upon their bended knees the heroes fell;
Implor'd his pardon; he, in accents sweet,
Bade them embrace, and friends for ever dwell.
This both assented to, with thanks sincere,
And, ever after, link'd in friendship's chain;
They bless'd their gracious Sovereign's pious care,
Nor did the King less satisfaction gain.
O! had such salutary laws prevail'd
Where Liffy rolls along its limpid stream,
O'Brien had not his sad fate bewail'd,
Nor his misfortune been the Muse's theme.
Born in Hibernia, heir to wealth immense,
O'Brien was in Dublin college bred;
Where his high birth, large fortune, and good sense,
In all amusements render'd him the head.
Youths, of the first distinction, daily strove
In his esteem to gain the highest place;
He, too, the charms of friendship wish'd to prove,
And found a friend, adorn'd with ev'ry grace.
Butler, of equal rank and age, possest
One of the most benevolent of hearts;
And, with superior understanding blest,
He was, besides, esteem'd a youth of parts.
In him was all that fancy could devise,
When the the heroes of romance pourtray'd;
Form'd to engage the heart, and charm the eyes,
In all the pride of youthful bloom array'd:
With him a friendship, of the warmest kind,
O'Brien form'd;—ah! little did he think
Such a connection, with his kindred mind,
Would ever lead him to destruction's brink.
Each had a sister, virtuous, young and fair,
Their hearts in unison together beat;
The sun ne'er rose on a more beauteous pair,
And Hymen promis'd happiness compleat:
For each fond youth grew ardently in love
With the sweet sister of his dearest friend;
Nor did the fair their lovers disapprove—
The nuptial day was fix'd, their cares to end.
But ah! the eve of that much-wish'd-for day,
The joyful youths imprudently agreed,
Amongst their friends to pass some hours away
In social mirth; when, as ill fate decreed,
A simple argument arose, between
Butler, and one whom he esteem'd his friend;
O'Brien thought he*
much too warm had been,
And gently did the other's cause defend.
From slight debates what mischiefs may ensue!
O'Brien saw the gathering storm arise;
Saw his lov'd Butler's fatal rage renew,
Vindictive fury flashing from his eyes.
Butler.
Quarrels of friends are always most severe;
Butler's warm temper could not bear rebuke;
'Twas cutting—from a friend he held so dear—
An injury too great to overlook.
On poor O'Brien's head a torrent pour'd;
Of harsh invectives, and reproaches keen;
His heart was pierc'd—his placid temper sour'd—
Reason gave way, and passion took the rein:
Words produc'd words—at length the public lie,
From Butler, ended this their dire dispute;
No means now left, but one, to satisfy
The phantom honour—ev'ry tongue was mute:—
In short, a challenge past; and both agreed,
Next morning, in the Phœnix Park, to meet;
Revenge was now their object—love must bleed—
Friendship be sacrific'd at honour's feet.
But, when the hours of cool reflection came,
And reason re-assum'd her vacant throne,
The wretched youths, o'erwhelm'd with grief and shame,
Saw all their schemes of happiness o'erthrown.
Anger was gone—and love, once more, prevail'd;
Friendship's all-powerful voice again was heard;
But ah! their fatal challenge was reveal'd,
And tyrant custom honour's laws preferr'd.
The dreaded morn, replete with horrors, came;
Each, with their seconds, their appointment kept:
One had a cold—the other glow'd with shame—
An both—spite of their care to hide it—wept.
Trembling, they took their ground, and both cry'd "Fire,"
Three several times—resolv'd to stand the shot;
Death was, to both, an object of desire,
And how obtain'd, just then, it matter'd not.
The seconds, unconcern'd, the conflict view'd;
And, all-unfeeling, mark'd each falling tear;
At length O'Brien's, with an accent rude,
Cry'd out, "The fellows are o'ercome with fear."
This, in an instant, rous'd their sleeping ire;
Both fir'd—and sad O'Brien liv'd, to tell
How, by his cruel hand, misfortune dire!
His dearest friend, his much-lov'd Butler, fell.
When, to his destin'd bride, Maria, came
The fatal tidings of her brother's death,
Convulsions seiz'd upon her tender frame,
And the grim tyrant snatch'd her fleeting breath.
Charlotte no sooner heard the horrid tale,
Than, in despair, her bridal robes she tore;
Her tortur'd intellects began to fail,
And sense forsook her, to return no more.
But how O'Brien wept, and tore his hair!
His friend he'd murder'd, and his bride was dead—
His sister mad—life was not worth his care,
For ev'ry comfort was with Butler fled.
In this distress, on suicide intent,
A worthy prelate timely interpos'd;
Who try'd, by admonition, to prevent
The dreadful deed, to which he seem'd dispos'd.
Religion taught him to revere his God,
And to abhor his meditated crime:
Calmly submitting to affliction's rod,
He waited, patiently, the Scythe of Time.