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ANNA MAT [...]

B [...]ton Publiſhed Belknap & Hall 179 [...]

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THE BRITISH ALBUM. A COLLECTION OF POEMS.

Oft from her careleſs hand the Wand'ring Muſe

Scatters luxuriant ſweets, which well might form

A living wreath to deck the brows of Time.

ANON.

[printer's or publisher's device]

PRINTED AT THE Apollo Preſs, IN BOSTON, BY BELKNAP AND HALL. SOLD AT THEIR OFFICE STATE STREET, AND AT THE SEVERAL BOOKSTORES. MDCCXCIII.

[]

THE BRITISH ALBUM. CONTAINING THE POEMS OF DELLA CRUSCA, ANNA MATILDA, ARLEY, BENEDICT, THE BARD, &c. &c. &c.

REVISED AND CORRECTED BY THEIR RESPECTIVE AUTHORS.

FIRST AMERICAN EDITION, FROM THE FOURTH LONDON EDITION.

BOSTON: PRINTED BY AND FOR BELKNAP AND HALL, STATE STREET. 1793.

TO RICHARD BR INSLEY SHERIDAN, ESQ.

[]

SIR,

As theſe Poems were originally inſcrib⯑ed, by permiſſion, with your name, I beg leave to offer them to you again in a more complete, finiſhed, and correct ſtate.

By ſo doing, I not only gratify the private ſentiments of reſpect, which I feel for your charac⯑ter and talents, but I render juſtice alſo to the ſuperior excellence of the Poetry itſelf; for thoſe Productions will neceſſarily be allowed to poſſeſs intrinſic merit, and to deſerve their fame, which have received the ſanction of the beſt Critic, the firſt Scholar, and the moſt admired Genius of the Age.

I have the honour to be, SIR, Your moſt obedient humble Servant, THE EDITOR.

Dec. 20, 1789.

PREFACE.

[]

THE reputation of the following POEMS is ſo well eſtabliſhed, that it would be uſeleſs to ſay more of them at preſent, than what may be neceſſary to gratify future curioſity. It is there⯑fore ſufficient to obſerve, that through the medium of a DAILY PRINT, they were firſt preſented to the Public, and obtained that general notice, to which they are ſo eminently, and ſo juſtly en⯑titled.

It ought, however, to be recorded, of the cele⯑brated correſpondence between DELLA CRUSCA and ANNA MATILDA, that its genuine enthu⯑ſiaſm aroſe entirely from poetical Sympathy; for till immediately before the publication of The In⯑terview, they were totally unacquainted with each other, and reciprocally unknown.

THE ADIEU AND RECAL TO LOVE.

[]

Go, idle Boy! I quit thy pow'r;
Thy couch of many a thorn and flow'r;
Thy twanging bow, thine arrow keen,
Deceitful Beauty's timid mien;
The feign'd ſurprize, the roguiſh leer,
The tender ſmile, the thrilling tear,
Have now no pangs, no joys for me,
So fare thee well, for I am free!
Then flutter hence on wanton wing,
Or lave thee in yon lucid ſpring,
Or take thy bev'rage from the roſe,
Or on Louiſa's breaſt repoſe:
I wiſh thee well for pleaſures paſt,
Yet bleſs the hour, I'm free at laſt.

But ſure, methinks, the alter'd day
Scatters around a mournful ray;
And chilling ev'ry zephyr blows,
And ev'ry ſtream untuneful flows;
[2] No rapture ſwells the linnet's voice,
No more the vocal groves rejoice;
And e'en thy ſong, ſweet Bird of Eve!
With whom I lov'd ſo oft to grieve,
Now ſcarce regarded meets my ear,
Unanſwer'd by a ſigh or tear.
No more with devious ſtep I chooſe
To bruſh the mountain's morning dews;
"To drink the ſpirit of the breeze,"
Or wander midſt o'er-arching trees;
Or woo with undiſturb'd delight,
The pale-cheek'd Virgin of the Night,
That piercing thro' the leafy bow'r,
Throws on the ground a ſilv'ry ſhow'r.
Alas! is all this boaſted eaſe
To loſe each warm deſire to pleaſe,
No ſweet ſolicitude to know,
For others' bliſs, for others' woe,
A frozen apathy to find,
A ſad vacuity of mind?
O haſten back, then, heavenly Boy,
And with thine anguiſh bring thy joy!
Return with all thy torments here,
And let me hope, and doubt, and fear.
O rend my heart with ev'ry pain!
But let me, let me love again.

DELLA CRUSCA.

June 29, 1787.

TO DELLA CRUSCA. THE PEN.

[]

O! SEIZE again thy golden quill,
And with its point my boſom thrill;
With magic touch explore my heart,
And bid the tear of paſſion ſtart.
Thy golden quill APOLLO gave—
Drench'd firſt in bright Aonia's wave:
He Snatch'd it flutt'ring thro' the ſky,
Borne on the vapour of a ſigh;
It fell from Cupid's burniſh'd wing
As forcefully he drew the ſtring;
Which ſent his keeneſt, ſureſt dart
Thro' a rebellious frozen heart;
That had till then defy'd his pow'r,
And vacant beat thro' each dull hour.

Be worthy then the ſacred loan;
Seated on Fancy's air-built throne;
Immerſe it in her rainbow hues,
Nor, what the Godheads bid, refuſe.
[4] APOLLO, CUPID, ſhall inſpire,
And aid thee with their blended ſire.
The one, poetic language give,
The other, bid thy paſſion live;
With ſoft ideas fill thy lays,
And crown with LOVE thy wintry days!

ANNA MATILDA.

July 10, 1787.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

[]

I KNOW thee well, enchanting Maid,
I've mark'd thee in the ſilent glade,
I've ſeen thee on the mountain's height,
I've met thee in the ſtorms of night;
I've view'd thee on the wild beach run
To gaze upon the ſetting ſun;
Then ſtop aghaſt, his ray no more,
To hear th' impetuous ſurge's roar.
Haſt thou not ſtood with rapt'ious eye
To trace the ſtary worlds on high,
T' obſerve the moon's weak creſcent throw
O'er hills, and woods, a glimm'ring glow:
Or, all beſide ſome wizard ſtream,
To watch its undulating beam?

O well thy form divine I know—
When youthful errors brought me woe;
When all was dreary to behold,
And many a boſom-friend grew cold;
[6] Thou, thou unlike the ſummer crew
That from my adverſe fortune flew,
Cam'ſt with melodious voice, to cheer
My throbbing heart, and check the tear.
From thee I learnt, 'twas vain to ſcan
The low ingratitude of Man;
Thou bad'ſt me Fancy's wilds to rove,
And ſeek th' extatic bow'r of Love.
When on his couch I threw me down,
I ſaw thee weave a myrtle crown,
And blend it with the ſhining hair
Of her the Faireſt of the Fair.
For this, may ev'ry wand'ring gale
The eſſence of the roſe exhale.
And pour the fragrance on thy breaſt,
And gently fan thy charms to reſt.
Soon as the purple ſlumbers ſly
The op'ning radiance of thine eye,
Strike, ſtrike again the magic lyre,
With all thy pathos, all thy fire;
With all that ſweetly-warbled grace,
Which proves thee of celeſtial race.
O then, in varying colours dreſt,
And living glory ſtand confeſt,
Shake from thy locks ambroſial dew,
And thrill each pulſe of joy a-new;
With glowing ardours rouſe my ſoul,
And bid the tides of Paſſion roll.
[7] But think no longer in diſguiſe
To ſcreen thy beauty from mine eyes;
Nor deign a borrow'd name to uſe,
For well I know thou art the MUSE!

DELLA CRUSCA.

July 31, 1787.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

[]

THOU bid'ſt!—"my purple ſlumbers fly!"
Day's radiance pours upon my eye,
I wake—I live! the ſenſe o'erpays,
The trivial griefs of early days.
What! tho' the roſe-bud on my cheek
Has ſhed its leaves, which late ſo ſleek,
Spoke youth, and joy—and careleſs thought,
By guilt, or fear, or ſhame un-ſmote:
My blooming ſoul is yet in youth,
Its lively ſenſe atteſts the truth.

O! I can wander yet, and taſte
The beauties of the flow'ry waſte;
The nightingale's deep ſwell can feel,
Whilſt from my lids the ſoft drops ſteal;
Rapt! gaze upon the gem-deck'd night,
And mark the clear moon's ſilent flight;
Whilſt the ſlow river's crumpled wave
Repeats the quiv'ring beams ſhe gave.

[9]Not yet, the pencil ſtrives in vain,
To wake upon the canvas plain,
All the ſtrong paſſions of the mind,
Or hint the ſentiment refin'd;
To its ſweet magic yet I bow,
As when Youth deck'd my poliſh'd brow.
The chiſel's feath'ry touch to trace,
Thro' the nerv'd form, or ſoften'd grace,
Is lent me ſtill. Still I admire,
And kindle at the Poet's fire—
My torch, at Della Cruſca's light,
And diſtant follow his ſuperiour flight.

O Time! ſince theſe are left me ſtill,
Of leſſer thefts e'en take thy fill:
Yes, ſteal the luſtre from my eye,
And bid the ſoft Carnation fly:
My treſſes ſprinkle with thy ſnow,
Which boaſted once the auburn glow;
Warp the ſlim form that was ador'd
By him, ſo lov'd my boſom's Lord—
But leave me, when all theſe you ſteal,
The mind to taſte, the nerve to feel!

ANNA MATILDA.

Aug. 4, 1787.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

[]

AND art thou then, alas! like me,
OFFSPRING of frail mortality?
Muſt ruthleſs Time's rude touch efface
Each lovely feature's varying grace?
And muſt tow'rds earth that form incline,
And e'en thoſe eyes forbear to ſhine?
Yet, when with icy hand he throws,
Amongſt thine auburn locks, his ſnows,
The freezing influence ne'er ſhall dart,
To chill thy warmly-beating heart;
And ſcorning Death's oblivious hour,
Thou ſhalt exult—beyond his pow'r.

Methinks, as Paſſion drives along,
As frantic grown, I feel thy Song;
Eager I'd traverſe LYBIA's plain,
The tawny Lion's dread domain
To meet thee there: nor flagging Fear,
Should ever on my cheek appear:
For e'en the Foreſt King obeys
Majeſtic WOMAN's potent gaze.
[11] Or left on ſome reſourceleſs ſhore,
Where never ceaſing billows roar;
Which teeming clouds, and heavy hail,
And furious hurricanes aſſail,
Far to the Pole—while half the year,
On Ebon throne ſits NIGHT ſevere;
And to her ſolitary court,
Sea-fowl, and monſters fierce reſort—
E'en there, MATILDA! there with thee,
Impending horrors all ſhould flee;
Thy luſtre of poetic ray,
Should wake an artificial day.

Sure thou wert never doom'd to know
What pangs from care and danger flow;
But faireſt ſcenes thy thoughts employ,
And Art, and Science, bring thee joy.
The quick'ning ſenſe, the throb divine,
Fancy, and feeling, all are thine;
'Tis thine, by bluſhing Summer led,
A ſhower of roſes round thee ſhed,
To hie thee forth at Morn's advance,
In wild exceſs of rapt'rous trance;
And ſee the Sun's proud deluge ſtream,
In copious tides of golden beam;
While faint his Siſter-orb on high,
Fades to a vapour of the ſky.

[12]When gradual evening comes, to hide,
In ſabling ſhades, CREATION's pride;
When heaving hills, and foreſts drear,
And leſs'ning towns, but ſcarce appear;
While the laſt ling'ring weſtern glow,
Hangs on the lucid lake below.
Then trivial joys (I deem) forgot,
Thou lov'ſt to ſeek the humble cot,
To ſcatter Comfort's balm around,
And heal pale Poverty's deep wound;
Drive ſickneſs from the languid bed,
Raiſe the lorn Widow's drooping head:
Render the new-made Mother bleſt,
And ſnatch the infant to thy breaſt.

O ANNA, then, if true thou ſay,
Thy radiant beauties ſteal away,
Yet ſhall I never fail to find
Eternal beauties in thy mind.
To thoſe I offer up my vows,
And Love which Virtue's ſelf allows;
Unknown, again thou art ador'd
As once by him, thy boſom's "Lord."

DELLA CRUSCA.

Aug. 21, 1787.

ELEGY, Written on the PLAIN OF FONTENOY.

[]

CHILL blows the blaſt, and Twilight's dewy hand
Draws in the Weſt her duſky veil away;
A deeper ſhadow ſteals along the land,
And NATURE muſes at the DEATH OF DAY!

Near this bleak Waſte no friendly manſion rears
Its walls, where Mirth, and ſocial joys reſound,
But each dim object melts the ſoul to tears,
While Horror treads the ſcatter'd bones around.

As thus, alone and comfortleſs I roam,
Wet with the driz'ling ſhow'r; I ſigh ſincere,
I caſt a fond look tow'rds my native home,
And think what valiant BRITONS periſh'd here.

Yes, the time was, nor very far the date,
When carnage here her crimſon toil began;
When Nations' Standards wav'd in threat'ning ſtate,
And Man the murd'rer, met the murd'rer Man.

[14]

For WAR is MURDER, tho' the voice of Kings

Has ſtyl'd it Juſtice, ſtyl'd it Glory too!

Yet from worſt motives, fierce Ambition ſprings,

And there, fix'd prejudice is all we view.

But ſure, 'tis Heaven's immutable decree,
For thouſands ev'ry age in fight to fall;
Some NAT'RAL CAUSE prevails, we cannot ſee,
And that is FATE, which we Ambition call.

O let th' aſpiring warrior think with grief,
That as produc'd by CHYMIC art refin'd;
So glitt'ring CONQUEST, from the laurel-leaf
Extracts a GEN'RAL POISON for Mankind.

Here let him wander at the midnight hour,
Theſe morbid rains, theſe gelid gales to meet;
And mourn like me, the ravages of Pow'r!
And feel like me, that vict'ry is defeat!

Nor deem, ye vain! that e'er I mean to ſwell
My feeble verſe with many a ſounding Name;
Of ſuch, the mercenary Bard may tell,
And call ſuch dreary deſolation, Fame.

The genuine Muſe removes the thin diſguiſe,
That cheats the World, whene'er ſhe deigns to ſing;
And full as meritorious to her eyes
Seems the Poor Soldier, as the Mighty king!

[15]

Alike I ſhun in labour'd ſtrain to ſhow,

How BRITAIN more than triumph'd, tho' ſhe fled,

Where LOUIS ſtood, where ſtalk'd the column ſlow;

I turn from theſe, and DWELL UPON THE DEAD.

Yet much my beating breaſt reſpects the brave;
Too well I love them, not to mourn their fate,
Why ſhould they ſeek for greatneſs in the Grave?
Their hearts are noble—and in life they're great.

Nor think 'tis but in war the Brave excel,—
TO VALOUR EV'RY VIRTUE IS ALLIED!
Here faithful Friendſhip 'mid the Battle fell,
And Love, true Love, in bitter anguiſh died.

Alas! the ſolemn ſlaughter I retrace,
That checks life's current circling thro' my veins;
Bath'd in moiſt ſorrow, many a beauteous face;
And gave a grief, perhaps that ſtill remains.

I can no more—an agony too keen
Abſorbs my ſenſes, and my mind ſubdues;
Hard were that heart which here could beat ſerene,
Or the juſt tribute of a pang refuſe.

But lo! thro' yonder op'ning clouds afar
Shoots the bright planet's ſanguinary ray
That bears thy name, FICTITIOUS LORD OF WAR!
And with red luſtre guides my lonely way.

[16]

Then FONTENOY, farewel! Yet much I fear,

(Wherever chance my courſe compels) to find

Diſcord and blood—the thrilling ſounds I hear,

"The noiſe of battle hurtles in the wind."

From barb'rous Turkey to Britannia's ſhore,
Oppoſing int'reſts into rage increaſe:
Deſtruction rears her ſceptre, tumults roar,
Ah! where ſhall hapleſs man repoſe in peace!

DELLA CRUSCA.

Oct. 15, 1787.

STANZAS TO DELLA CRUSCA.

[]

HUSH'D, be each ruder note!—Soft ſilence ſpread,
With ermine hand, thy cobweb robe around;
Attention! pillow my reclining head,
Whilſt eagerly I catch the golden ſound.

Ha! What a tone was that, which floating near,
Seem'd Harmony's full ſoul—whoſe is the lyre?
Which ſeizing thus on my enraptur'd ear,
Chills with its force, yet melts me with its fire.

Ah, dull of heart! thy Minſtrel's touch not know,
What Bard but DELLA CRUSCA boaſts ſuch ſkill?
From him alone, thoſe melting notes can flow—
He, only knows adroitly thus to trill.

[18]

Well have I left the Groves, which ſighing wave

Amidſt November's blaſts their naked arms,

Whilſt their red leaves fall flutt'ring to their grave,

And give again to duſt May's vernal charms.

Well have I left the air-emboſom'd hills,
Where ſprightly Health in verdant buſkin plays;
Forſaken fallow meads, and circling mills,
And thyme-dreſs'd heaths, where the ſoft ſtock yet ſtrays.

Obſcuring ſmoke, and air impure I greet,
With the coarſe din that Tread and Folly form,
For here the Muſe's Son again I meet—
I catch his notes amidſt the vulgar ſtorm.

His notes now bear me, penſive, to the Plain,
Cloth'd by a verdure drawn from Britain's heart;
Whoſe heroes bled ſuperior to their pain,
Sunk, crown'd with glory, and contemn'd the ſmart.

Soft, as he leads me round th' enſanguin'd fields,
The laurel'd ſhades forſake their graſſy tomb,
The burſting ſod its palid inmate yields,
And o'er th' immortal waſte their ſpirits roam.

Obedient to the Muſe the acts revive
Which Time long paſt had veil'd from mortal ken
Embattled ſquandrons ruſh, as when alive,
And ſhadowy fulchions gleam o'er ſhadowy men.

[19]

Ah, who art thou, who thus with frantic air

Fly'ſt fearleſs to ſupport that bleeding youth:

Bind'ſt his deep gaſhes with thy glowing hair,

And dieſt beſide him, to atteſt thy truth?

"His Siſter I: an orphan'd pair, we griev'd,
For Parents long at reſt within the grave,
By a falſe Guardian of our wealth bereav'd—
The little ALL parental care could ſave.

Chill look'd the world, and chilly grew our hearts,
Oh! where ſhall Poverty expect a ſmile?
Groſs lawleſs Love aſſum'd its ready arts,
And all beſet was I, with fraud and Guile.

My Henry ſought the war, and drop'd the tears
Of love fraternal as he bade farewel;
But fear, ſoon made me riſe above my fears,
I follow'd—and Fate tolls our mutual knell,"

Chaſte Maiden reſt; and brighter ſpring the green,
That decorates the turf thy bloom will feed!
And oh, in ſofteſt mercy 'twas I ween,
To worth like thine, a Brother's grave's decreed.

The dreadful ſhriek of Death now darts around,
The hollow winds repeat each tortur'd ſigh,
Deep bitter groans, ſtill deeper groans reſound,
Whilſt Fathers, Brothers, Lovers, Huſbands die.

[20]

Turn from this ſpot, bleſt Bard! thy mental eye;

To hamlets, cities, empires bend its beam!

'Twill there ſuch multiplying deaths deſcry,

That all before thee'll but an abſtract ſeem.

Why waſte thy tears o'er this contracted Plain?
The ſky which canopies the ſons of breath,
Sees the whole Earth one ſcene of mortal pain,
The vaſt, the univerſal BED OF DEATH!

Where, do not Huſbands, Fathers, dying moan?
Where, do not Mothers, Siſters, Orphans weep?
Where, is not heard the laſt expiring groan,
Or the deep throttle of the deathful Sleep!

If as Philoſophy doth often muſe,
A ſtate of war, is natural ſtate to man,
BATTLE's the ſickneſs bravery would chooſe—
Nobleſt DISEASE in Nature's various plan!

Let vulgar ſouls ſtoop to the fever's rage,
Or ſlow, beneath pale atrophy depart,
With Gout and Scroupula weak variance wage,
Or ſink, with ſorrow cank'ring at the heart;

[21]

Theſe, be to common Minds, th' unwiſh'd decree!

The FIRM ſelect an illneſs more ſublime;

By languid pains, ſcorn their high ſouls to free,

But ſeek the Sword's ſwift edge, and ſpurn at Time.

ANNA MATILDA.

Sat. Nov. 17th, 1787.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

[]

ON the ſea-ſhore with folded arms I ſtood,
The Sun juſt ſinking ſhot a level ray,
Luxuriant crimſon glow'd upon the flood,
And the curl'd turf was ting'd with golden ſpray.

Far off I faintly track'd the feath'ry ſail;
When thy ſweet numbers caught my yielded ear,
Borne on the boſom of the flutt'ring gale,
They ſtruck my heart—and rous'd me to a tear.

Yet flow'd no bitter anguiſh from mine eye,
A while remembrance left my wayward ſtate;
And the ſoft cadence of thy warbled ſigh,
Pour'd healing balm into the wounds of Fate.

What tho' grim Winter's deſolating frown,
The wild waves uproar when rough Eurus blows,
The tangled foreſt, and the deſert down,
Be all the folace DELLA CRUSCA knows:

[23]

Yet from MATILDA's pure celeſtial fire,

One ruby ſpark ſhall to his gloom be given,

Lur'd by its light, his fancy may aſpire,

And catch a ray of bliſs—a glimpſe of Heaven.

Vain in the morn of life, and thoughtleſs too,
He ruſh'd impetuous, as ſtrong paſſion drove,
But ſoon each flatt'ring proſpect fled his view,
Deceiv'd by Friendſhip much, but more by Love.

Yes, he has lov'd to Tranſport's dire exceſs,
Has felt the potent eye inflict the wound;
Has felt the female voice each pulſe oppreſs,
And grown a breathleſs ſtatue at the ſound.

But why recal the moments that are fled?
For ever fled, like yonder ſweeping blaſt;
With Love, each active principle is dead,
And all, except its ſad regret, is paſt.

Ah! had he met thee in his happier hour,
Ere yet he languiſh'd in the gripe of Care,
Thy Minſtrel then had fondly own'd thy pow'r,
Thy Minſtrel then might have eſcap'd Deſpair.

O diff'rent lot! for he who daily grieves,
Then with thy beauty bleſt, and gen'rous mind,
Had not, like ſallow Autumn's falling leaves,
Been ſhrunk, alas! and ſcatter'd in the wind.

[24]

Haply, he had not roam'd for ling'ring years

On many a rugged Alp, and foreign ſhore;

He ne'er had known the cauſe of all his tears,

The cheriſh'd cauſe, that bids him—hope no more.

He would have led thee with attentive gaze,
Where the brown Hamlet's neighb'ring ſhades re⯑tire,
Have hung entranc'd upon thy living lays,
And ſwept with feebler hand a kindred lyre.

While the dear Song ſtreſs had melodious ſtole
O'er ev'ry ſenſe, and charm'd each nerve to reſt,
Thy Bard, in ſilent ecſtaſy of ſoul.
Had ſtrain'd the dearer Woman to his breaſt.

Or had ſhe ſaid, that War's the worthieſt grave,
He would have felt his proud heart burn the while
Have dar'd, perhaps, to ruſh among the brave,
Have gain'd, perhaps, the glory—of a ſmile.

And 'tis moſt true, while Time's relentleſs hand,
With ſickly graſp drags others to the tomb,
The Soldier ſcorns to wait the dull command,
But ſprings impatient to a nobler doom.

Tho' on the plain he lies, outſtretch'd and pale,
Without one friend his ſtedfaſt eyes to cloſe
Yet on his honour'd corſe ſhall many a gale,
Waft the moiſt fragrance of the weeping roſe.

[25]

O'er that dread ſpot, the melancholy Moon

Shall pauſe a-while, a ſadder beam to ſhed,

And ſtarry Night, amidſt her awful noon,

Sprinkle light dews upon his hallow'd head.

There too the ſolitary Bird ſhall ſwell
With long-drawn melody her plaintive throat,
While diſtant echo from reſponſive cell,
Shall oft with fading force return the note.

Such recompenſe be Valour's due alone!
To me, no proffer'd meed muſt e'er belong,
To me, who trod the vale of life unknown,
Whoſe proudeſt boaſt was but an idle ſong.

DELLA CRUSCA.

Dec. 5, 1787.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

[]

I HATE the tardy Elegiac lay—
Chooſe me a meaſure jocund as the day!
Such days as near the ides of June
Meet the Lark's elab'rate tune,
When his downy fringed breaſt
Ambitious on a cloud to reſt,
He ſoars aloft; and from his gurgling throat
Darts to the earth the piercing note—
Which ſoftly falling with the dews of morn
(That bleſs the ſcented pink, and ſnowy thorn)
Expands upon the Zephyr's wing,
And wakes the burniſh'd finch, and linnet ſweet to ſing.

And be thy lines irregular and free,
Poetic chains ſhould fall before ſuch Bards as thee.
Scorn the dull laws that pinch thee round,
Raiſing about thy verſe a mound,
O'er which thy muſe, ſo lofty! dares not bound.
Bid her in verſe meand'ring ſport;
Her footſteps quick, or long, or ſhort,
Juſt as her various impulſe wills—
Scorning the frigid ſquare, which her fine fervour chills.

[27]And in thy verſe meand'ring wild,
Thou, who art FANCY's favourite Child,
May'ſt ſweetly paint the long paſt hour,
When, the ſlave of Cupid's power,
Thou couldſt the tear of rapture weep,
And feed on Agony, and baniſh Sleep.

Ha! didſt thou, favour'd mortal, taſte
All that adorns our life's dull waſte?
Haſt THOU known Love's enchanting pain—
Its hopes, its woes, and yet complain?
Thy ſenſes, at a voice, been loſt,
Thy madd'ning ſoul in tumults toſt?
Ecſtatic wiſhes fire thy brain—
Theſe, haſt thou known, and yet complain?
Thou then deſerv'ſt ne'er more to FEEL;—
Thy nerves be rigid, hence, as ſteel!
Their fine vibrations all deſtroy'd,
Thy future days a taſteleſs void!
Ne'er ſhalt thou know again to ſigh,
Or, on a ſoft idea die;
Ne'er on a recollection gaſp;
Thy arms, the air—drawn charmer, never graſp.

Vapid Content her poppies round thee ſtrew,
Whilſt to the bliſs of TASTE thou bidſt adieu!
To vulgar comforts be thou hence confin'd,
And the ſhrunk bays be from thy brow untwin'd.
[28] Thy ſtatue torn from Cupid's hallow'd niche
But in return thou ſhalt be dull, and rich;
The Muſes hence diſown thy rebel lay—
But thou in Aldermanic gown, their ſcorn repay;
Crimſon'd, and furr'd, the higheſt honours dare,
And on thy laurels tread—a PLUMP LORD MAYOR!

ANNA MATILDA.

Dec. 20, 1787.

ODE TO PRUDENCE.

[]

WHERE didſt thou hide thee, CAUTIOUS POW'R,
When firſt my vent'rous Youth began?
Thou cam'ſt not to the feſtive bow'r,
Nor at the genial board wert found;
And when the liquid grape went round,
Thou never ſhow'dſt thy warning face,
The wantonneſs of mirth to chaſe,
And tell of ſhort life's ſhad'wy ſpan:
Nor then didſt propheſy of woe,
To chill my breaſt's impetuous glow;
But provident, and ſhrewd, from me afar,
THOU SUNK'ST TO SOBER REST, WITH DAY'S RETIRING STAR!

'Tis true, indeed, I thought with ſcorn,
Thy miſerable maxims quaint,
Were but of ſour Suſpicion born:
[30] "Let ſelfiſh ſouls," I madly cried,
"Submit to ſuch a coward guide,
Be't mine to ſeek the ſportive vale,
With Friends, whoſe truth can never fail,
And baniſh thence each baſe reſtraint!"
Dull that I was—I feel it now,
And offer late th' imploring vow:
Too well convinc'd, who dare thy vengeance urge,
Can ne'er, alas! eſcape an agonizing ſcourge!

Ah! wilt thou, deign then, to receive
Thy Foe, profeſs'd for many a year?
And wilt thou teach him, not to grieve?
Forget the weakneſs of paſt time,
When frantic Paſſion was his crime;
When to imperious charms a prey,
His Morn of Life ſtole ſwift away,
Yet gemm'd by Love's delicious Tear,
That bath'd his Boſom with delight;
Tho' ſometimes on the Gales of Night,
He heard thy whiſper'd threat aſpire,
How could he heed it then—was not his heart on fire?

But now to gain thy frugal ſmile,
Each wonted tranſport I forego,
No more ſhall Beauty's ſelf beguile,
Altho' her blue Orbs ſofter ſtream
Than the clear Moon's enchanting beam;
[31] Tho' her ſtill varying charms ariſe,
As to the haſt'ning Trav'ller's eyes,
HELVETIA's ſummer proſpects ſhow:
Or ſhould MEEK WORTH to me repair,
And tell a Tale of deep Deſpair,
I'd ſtrive to bid each fond emotion ſleep,
Yes, I would turn away!—BUT I WOULD TURN TO WEEP!

Then, as with decent ſtep and mien,
I tread the path of fair repute,
Thy Civic hand ſhall oft be ſeen,
To freight me with the ſordid Ore,
Which moſt thy Votaries adore,
Then, then ſhall FLAGGING FANCY die,
Then all my lov'd illuſions fly,
Then will I break my ruſtic Flute:
And as the marble-hearted crowd,
Be vainly rich, and meanly proud;
Until I fix, like yonder blighted Thorn,
That, deck'd WITH GOLDEN BEAMS, NO VER⯑NAL SWEETS ADORN.

DELLA CRUSCA.

ODE TO DEATH.

[]

THOU, whoſe remorſeleſs rage,
Nor vows, nor tears aſſuage,
TRIUMPHANT DEATH!—to thee I raiſe
The burſting notes of dauntleſs praiſe!—
Methinks on yonder murky cloud
Thou ſit'ſt, in majeſty ſevere!
Thy regal robe a ghaſtly ſhroud!
Thy right arm lifts th' inſatiate ſpear!
Such was thy glance, when, erſt as from the plain,
Where INDUS rolls his burning ſand,
Young AMMON led the victor train,
In glowing luſt of fierce command:
As vain he cried with thund'ring voice,
"The World is mine, rejoice, rejoice,
"The World I've won!" Thou gav'ſt the wither⯑ing nod,
Thy FIAT ſmote his heart,—he ſunk,—a ſenſeleſs clod!

[33]"And art thou great?"—Mankind replies
With ſad aſſent of mingling ſighs!
Sighs, that ſwell the biting gales
Which ſweep o'er LAPLAND's frozen vales!
And the red TROPICS' whirlwind heat
Is with the ſad aſſent replete!
How fierce yon Tyrant's plumy creſt!
A blaze of gold illumes his breaſt,
In pomp of threat'ning pow'r elate,
He madly dares to ſpurn at Fate!
But—when Night, with ſhadowy robe,
Hangs upon the darken'd globe,
In his chamber,—ſad,—alone,
By ſtarts, he pours the fearful groan!
From flatt'ring crowds retir'd—he bows the knee,
And mutters forth a pray'r—becauſe he THINKS OF THEE.

GAYLY ſmiles the NUPTIAL BOW'R,
Bedeck'd with many an od'rous flow'r!
While the ſpouſal pair advance,
Mixing oft the melting gaze,
In fondeſt ecſtacy of praiſe.
Ah! ſhort deluſive trance!
What tho' the feſtival be there;—
The rapt Bard's warblings fill the air;
And joy and harmony combine!
TOUCH BUT THY TALISMAN, and ALL IS THINE!
[34] Th' inſenſate lovers fix in icy fold,
And on his throbbing lyre, the Minſtrel's hand is cold!

'Tis THOU canſt quench the Eagle's ſight
That ſtems the cataract of light!
Forbid the vernal buds to blow—
Bend th' obedient foreſt low—
And tame the monſters of the main!
Such is thy potent reign!
O'er earth, and air, and ſea!
Yet, art thou ſtill DISDAIN'D BY ME.
And, I have reaſon for my ſcorn;—
Do I not hate the riſing morn!
The gariſh noon; the eve ſerene;
The freſh'ning breeze; the ſportive green;
The painted pleaſures' throng'd reſort;
And all the ſplendors of the court!
And has not SORROW choſe to dwell
Within my hot heart's central cell;
And are not Hope's weak viſions o'er,
Can Love, or Rapture reach me more?
Then tho' I ſcorn thy ſtroke—I call thee FRIEND,
For in thy calm embrace, my weary woes ſhall end.

DELLA CRUSCA.

ELEGY ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF DECEMBER, MDCCLXXXVII.

[]

YES, I will climb yon rough Rock's giddy height,
That o'er the Ocean bends his brow ſevere;—
And as I muſe on TIME'S NEGLECTED FLIGHT,
Wait the laſt ſunſhine of the parting Year!

Why do the winds ſo ſadly ſeem to rave?
Why broods ſuch ſolemn horror o'er the deep?
It is, that FANCY points the yawning grave;—
And ſick'ning, ſhudders at the pond'rous ſleep!

For O! ſince LAST DECEMBER's hoary head
Bow'd to Oblivion's wave, and ſunk beneath,
From this ſtrange World what flutt'ring crowds are fled
To throng the caverns of relentleſs Death!

[36]

And every tranſitory ſhade is loſt,

That in its courſe was fondly call'd "TO-DAY!"

Spring's ſweets are gone! and Summer's flow'ry boaſt!

And Autumn's purple honours paſs'd away!

And now, tho' WINTER, in rude mantle dreſt,
Extends his icy ſceptre o'er the plain!
Soon ſhall he ſink on APRIL's dewy breaſt!
And laughing MAY ſhall re-aſſume her reign!

But MAN, when once his bright day's ſluſh is o'er,
And Youth's too-fleeting pleaſures take their wing,
Muſt on life's ſcene re-vegetate no more,
But leap its gulph, to find a ſecond Spring.

And can that ſomething each man calls "HIM⯑SELF,"
'Midſt this wide miracle of earth and ſky,
Waſte the ſwift moments in the toil for pelf,—
Nor raiſe one thought to Nature's Majeſty;

On the Globe's ſurface creep, a grov'ling worm!
Nor joy the noon-tide radiance to behold,—
Nor trace the Mighty Hand that guides the ſtorm,—
But deem exiſtence relative to gold?

Ah! ſince this awful Now remains for me,
To think, to breathe, to wonder at the whole,
To move, to touch, to taſte, to hear, to ſee,
To call the myſtic conſciouſneſs, my Soul;

[37]

Fain would I ſeek a-while the ſportive ſhade,

Ere the ſcene cloſe upon this doubtful ſtate;

Catch every painted phantom ere it fade,

And leave the vaſt Uncertainty to Fate.

But GRIEF IS MINE—yet can I quit the crew
Whoſe boſoms burn with avarice and pride,
In yon blue vault to quench my thirſty view,
Or tell my feelings to the boiſt'rous tide.

For are there not, as journeying on we go,
With pilgrim ſtep thro' an unfriendly vale,
Oppreſſion, Malice, Cruelty, and Woe,
And do not Falſehood's venom'd ſhafts aſſail?

Were it not nobler far, with ſocial love,
As fellow-trav'lers in a rugged road,
That each the other's evils ſhould remove,
And with joint force ſuſtain the gen'ral load?

O! while ſuch fancied happineſs I trace,
A glow of gladneſs runs thro' ev'ry vein;
Rapture's warm tear ſteals ſilent down my face,
And thus I wake the philanthropic ſtrain.

Long, long, may Britain's gen'rous Iſle be bleſt
With foreign fame, domeſtic joys increaſe;
At ev'ry inſult, ſhake the warlike creſt;
Then weave her laurels in the Bow'r of Peace!

[38]

Bleſt be her Sons in hardy valour bold,

And all who haunt meek Learning's ſacred ſhade;

Th' aſpiring young; and the repoſing old;

The modeſt matron; and th' enchanting maid!

And may the BARD upon HIMSELF beſtow
One humble wiſh, that ſoon his cares ſhall end;
With the dead year, reſign his weight of woe!
Or with the thorns of life, at leaſt ſome roſes blend!

DELLA CRUSCA.

INVOCATION TO HORROR.

[]

FAR be remov'd each painted ſcene!
What is to me the ſapphire ſky?
What is to me the earth's ſoft dye?
Or fragrant vales which ſink between
Thoſe velvet hills? yes, there I ſee—
(Why do thoſe beauties burſt on me?)
Pearl-dropping groves bow to the ſun;
Seizing his beams, bright rivers run
That dart redoubled day:
Hope ye vain ſcenes, to catch the mind
To torpid ſorrow all reſign'd,
Or bid my heart be gay?
Falſe are thoſe hopes!—I turn—I fly,
Where no enchantment meets the eye,
Or ſoft ideas ſtray.

HORROR! I call thee from the mould'ring tower,

The murky church-yard, and forſaken bower,

[40]Where 'midſt unwholeſome damps
The vap'ry gleamy lamps
Of ignes fatui, ſhew the thick-wove night,
Where morbid MELANCHOLY ſits,
And weeps, and ſings, and raves by fits,
And to her boſom ſtrains, the fancied ſprite.

Or, if amidſt the arctic gloom
Thou toileſt at thy ſable loom,
Forming the hideous phantoms of Deſpair—
Inſtant thy griſly labours leave,
With raven wing the concave cleave,
Where floats, ſelf borne, the denſe noctural air.

Oh! bear me to th' impending cliff,
Under whoſe brow the daſhing ſkiff
Beholds Thee ſeated on thy rocky throne;
There, 'midſt the ſhrieking wild wind's roar,
Thy influence, HORROR, I'll adore,
And at thy magic touch congeal to ſtone.

Oh! hide the Moon's obtruſive orb,
The gleams of ev'ry ſtar abſorb,
And let CREATION be a moment thine!
Bid billows daſh; let whirlwinds roar,
And the ſtern, rocky-pointed ſhore,
The ſtranded bark, back to the waves reſign!
[41]Then, whilſt from yonder turbid cloud,
Thou roll'ſt thy thunders long, and loud,
And light'nings flaſh upon the deep below,
Let the expiring Seaman's cry,
The Pilot's agonizing ſigh
Mingle, and in the dreadful chorus flow!

HORROR! far back thou dat'ſt thy reign;
Ere KINGS th' hiſtoric page could ſtain
With records black, or deeds of lawleſs power:
Ere empires Alexanders curſt,
Or Faction, madd'ning Caeſars nurſt,
The ſrighted World receiv'd thy awful dower!

Whoſe pen JEHOVAH's ſelf inſpir'd;
He, who in eloquence attir'd,
Led Iſrael's ſquadrons o'er the earth,
Grandly terrific paints thy birth.
Th' ALMIGHTY 'midſt his fulgent ſeat on high,
Where glowing Seraphs round his footſtool fly,
Beheld the wanton cities of the plain,
With acts of deadly name his laws diſdain;
He gave the irrevocable ſign,
Which mark'd to man the hate divine;
And ſudden from the ſtarting ſky,
The Angels of his wrath did fly!
[42] Then HORROR! thou preſided'ſt o'er the whole,
And fill'd, and rapt, each ſelf-accuſing ſoul!
Thou didſt aſcend to guide the burning ſhower;
On THEE th' Omnipotent beſtow'd the hour!

'Twas thine to ſcourge the ſinful land,
'Twas thine to toſs the fiery brand;
Beneath thy glance the temples fell
And mountains crumbled at thy yell.
ONCE MORE thou'lt triumph in a fiery ſtorm
ONCE MORE the Earth behold thy direful form;
Then ſhalt thou ſeek, as holy prophets tell,
Thy native throne, amidſt th' eternal ſhades of HELL!

ANNA MATILDA.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

[]

To THEE, a Stranger dares addreſs his theme!
To thee, proud Miſtreſs of APOLLO's lyre;
One ray emitted from the golden gleam,
Prompted by LOVE, would "ſet the World on fire."

Adorn then LOVE, in fancy-tinctur'd veſt,
Camelion like, anon of various hue;
By "Penſeroſo," and "Allegro" dreſt—
Such Genius claim'd, when ſhe Idalia drew.

I ſee the Pencil on the canvas ſhine!
REYNOLDS admires! in Science then proceed;
The name of Poet, Painter, both are thine,
We view the ſpeaking painting—as we read.

REUBEN.

TO REUBEN.

[]

'MIDST the proud fervor of the day,
Whilſt the ſun darts a torrid ray,
The humble daiſy ſinks her head
And faints upon her lowly bed;
But when moiſt eve hath quench'd his fire,
And treads the fields in cool attire,
The daiſy ſpreads again her bloom,
And offers up her mild perſume.

Thus your recuſcitating praiſe,
Breathed life upon my dying lays.
REYNOLDS ADMIRES! flatt'ry ſo ſweet,
With bluſhing vanity I meet;
But, Bard polite! how hard the taſk,
Which with ſuch elegance you aſk.
When DIDO bade ENEAS tell
The woes he knew to paint ſo well—
Did he not tell the Queen, ſhe tore
His cloſing wounds, and drew freſh gore
From ſtabs that time had almoſt heal'd?—
Such, REUBEN, ſuch, the thorn conceal'd.
[45] Within your verſes' ſlow'ry ſpell,
Which, barb'rous! dares my pen compel.

Yet how deſcribe the various god,
T' whom PROTEUS' ſelf's a heavy clod?
Diff'ring in ev'ry diff'ring heart,
Scorning to play a conſtant part.
A tyger!—tyrant!—ſuch is he,
Whom painted with bandeau you ſee,
With downy wings, and childiſh face,
As tho' of the bleſt Cherub's race—
But oh! a ſerpent in diſguiſe,
And as the lynx, his piercing eyes!
A raging fire, a deadly pain,
That gentleſt heart-ſtrings moſt will ſtrain;
A fever, tempeſt, madneſs he—
Of all life's ills—A DREAD EPITOME!

Ha! doſt thou fear, and wilt thou run?
The little monſter try to ſhun?
And wilt thou REUBEN, too ſucceed—
And ſhall thy boſom never bleed,
Never his poiſon'd ranckling dart
Quiver within thy burning heart?
Oh, hapleſs man!—oh, wretched fate!
Fly to love's altar ere too late,
And deprecate the doom accurſt,
Or bid that heart with ſorrow burſt.
[46] Welcome the deadly fiery pain,
That gentleſt heart-ſtrings moſt will ſtrain—
MADNESS IS HIS—but 'tis replete
With all that makes life's bleſſings ſweet;—
A TYRANT he, but oh! his chains
Are richer than an empire's gains!
Sweet the delirium which by love is ſpread,
Whate'er the paths his raptur'd vot'ries tread!
He paints the miſt which hangs upon the eve.
With colours clearer than the ſun can give;
'Tis he who lends the nightingale its trills,
When her rich pipe the Empyrean fills;
Oh! 'tis the ſoftneſs in his heart
Which makes the lover in her ſong take part.
And faint upon each touching pauſe,
And lengthen out each added clauſe,
Till rapt attention, ſtrain'd too high,
Rolls down its guſhing tear, and breathes its gentle ſigh.

Charming to LOVE is MORNING's hour,
When, from her chryſtal roſeate tow'r,
She ſees the Goddeſs HEALTH purſue
The ſkimming breeze thro' fields of dew;
Charming, the flaming hour of noon,
When the ſunk Linnet's fading tune
Allures him to the beechy grove;
Or when ſome cragg'd groteſque alcove
[47] Sounds in his ear its tinkling rill,
And tempts him to its moſs-grown ſill;
Moſt charm'd when on his tranced mind
Is whiſper'd in the paſſing wind
The name of her, whoſe name is bliſs;
Or when he all unſeen can kiſs
The fringed bank where late ſhe lay,
Hidden from th' imperious day.

Oh, ye rapt glades, which glitt'ring LUNA decks,
Whoſe ſtretching ſhadows her reſulgence checks!
Oh, ye ſoft floods, that hang upon the peak
Of lofty rocks, and bound in wanton freak,
Where thirſty meads your ruſhing ſtreamlets crave
And crowd their flow'rs around to drink your wave—
What are ye all, ſhould love withhold the dart?
Which wakes nice feelings in the torpid heart?
Where is the heart, that would ſuch feelings fly,
Or fear th' enchanting MADD'NING CUP to try?

Muſt I ſpeak more of love! the boundleſs theme
Might run beyond the edge of life's ſhort dream:
His ſpells are bleſſings—witch'ries ſo ſublime,
They triumph o'er diſtreſs, and fate, and time.
Would'ſt aſk the joys of love? Oh! change the pray'r,
Thou little know'ſt his pow'r, to faſten there!
[48] Let the mean boſom crave its love's return,
Thine ſhall with more diſtinguiſh'd ardors burn:
To know the paſſion—yes, be that thy ſtrain,
Invoke the god of the myſterious pain?
Whate'er thy nature—gentle—fiery—rough—
To LOVE—learn but TO LOVE—and thou haſt bliſs enough!

ANNA MATILDA.

ODE TO MRS. SIDDONS.

[]

THEE, Queen of Pathos, ſhall my proud Verſe hail,
Illuſtrious SIDDONS; ſhould I go,
Whether to Zembla's waſte of ſnow,
Or Aetna's cavern'd height, or Tempe's vaunted vale;

Or where on Caucaſus the fierce ſtorm blows,
Or near the violated flood
Of Ganges, bluſhing oft with blood;
Or where his rainbow arch loud Niagara throws.

For, not th' exulting Monarch on his throne,
Tho' grateful nations round him bow,
Is more a Potentate than thou:
Feeling, and Senſe, and Worth, and Virtue are thy own;

And e'en thy mighty ſpell the ſoul can ſway:
While Sympathy with melting eye,
Hangs on thy boſom's fervid ſigh,
And finds th' unbidden tear down her hot cheek to ſtray.

[50]

Lo! at thy voice, from ſolitary cave,

With hair erect, peeps forth pale FEAR,

Nor will he longer wait to hear,

But flies with culprit haſte a viſionary grave.

Amongſt the hollow mountain's ſhadowy cells,
Dark-brow'd REVENGE, that ſtrangely walks,
And to himſelf low-mutt'ring talks,
While with convulſive throb his breaſt unſated ſwells.

And gelid HORROR in the haunted hall,
That with dread pauſe, and eye ſtretch'd wide,
Marks the myſterious ſpectre glide,
Nor dare his flagging knees obey the Phantom's call.

And loſt DESPAIR with deſolating cry,
That head-long darts from ſome tall tow'r
On fire, at thick Night's ſaddeſt hour,
When not a watchman wakes, and not an aid is nigh.

Theſe own thy pow'r—and bareſool MADNESS too,
Dancing upon the flinty plain,
As tho' 'twere gay to ſuffer pain,
That ſees his tyrant Moon, and raving runs to woo.

[51]

Alike the mild, benevolent deſires,

That wander in the penſive grove,

Pity, and generous-minded Love,

To thrill thy kindred pulſe, ſhoot their electric fires.

Ah! let not then my fond admiring Muſe
Reſtrain the ardor of her ſong,
In ſilent wonder fix'd ſo long,
Nor thou! from humble hands the homage meet refuſe.

And I will haſten oft from ſhort repoſe,
To wake the lily on moiſt bed,
Reclining meek her folded head;
And chaſe with am'rous touch the ſlumber of the roſe.

Then will I bathe them in the tears of Morn,
That they, a freſher gale may breathe,
Then will I form a votive wreath
To bind thy ſacred brows,—to deprecate thy ſcorn.

But ſhould'ſt thou ſtill diſdain theſe proffer'd lays,
Which choak'd, alas! with weedy woe
Like yon dull ſtream can ſcarcely flow—
Take from BRITANNIA's HARP, the Triumph of thy praiſe.

DELLA CRUSCA.

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.
Addreſſed to MRS. WELLS.

[]

O COME, ye fragrant gales that ſweep
The ſurface of the ſummer deep,
Nor yet refuſe to waft my lay,
And with it fan the breaſt of May;
For humble though it be,
It hails benign Simplicity.

Why do we haunt the Mountain's ſide,
Ere yet the curly vapours glide?
Why mark the op'ning buds of SPRING,
Or trace the ſhrill Lark's quiv'ring wing?
It is, that then we ſee
Meek NATURE's ſweet Simplicity.

[53]The length'ned ſhades that Evening draws,
Of calm repoſe the general pauſe,
The Stream that winds yon meads along,
The Nightingale's tranſcendent ſong,
Borrow each charm from thee,
O ſoft-ey'd Nymph, Simplicity!

Then to thy brow, lov'd WELLS! is due,
A laſting wreath, of various hue,
Hung with each perfum'd flow'r that blows,
But chief, the Cowſlip and the Roſe:
For ſurely thou art ſhe!
THYSELF—benign Symplicity!

And when thy MIMIC Pow'rs are ſhewn,
Each other's talents are thy own,
Appropriate to thyſelf we find,
The Thrilling voice, the wounded mind;
The ſtarting tear we ſee
In Nature's pure Simplicity.

Haſt thou beheld the infant Moon
Hie to her couch, ere Night's full noon?
Then haſt thou heard the Lover train,
In tones of ſad regret complain;
So abſent, all agree,
To mourn for loſt Simplicity.

[54]So when upon thy well-wrought ſcene,
The curtain drops its cloſing green,
We grieve the mirthful hour is paſt,
And murmur that it fled ſo faſt;
We wiſh again to ſee
The Beauties of Symplicity.

And Lovelineſs delights to dwell,
Upon thy boſoms's ſnowy ſwell,
To bid the ſtreamy lightnings fly,
In liquid peril from thine eye;
And to each heart decree
The Triumph of Simplicity.

Ah! tho' I vent'rous pour the verſe,
Unſkill'd thy praiſes to rehearſe;
Yet may'ſt thou kindly ſmile to hear,
For O, the Tribute is ſincere!
The off'ring paid by me,
In genuine TRUTH's Simplicity.

DELLA CRUSCA.

ODE TO MISS FARREN.

[]

FROM her own garden, BEAUTY choſe,
In all its bloomy pride, the ROSE,
And from the feather'd race, the DOVE;
Then, FARREN! on thy cheek ſhe threw
The bluſhing Flow'r's enchanting hue,
Then form'd thy temper from the Bird of Love.

Ah! though I'm doom'd to roam afar,
Yet ſhall the Morning's beamy ſtar,
Yet ſhall the placid glow of Eve
Recal thy charms to bleſs my mind:
Dear charms! with dearer virtues join'd,
So ſhall my heart at times forget to grieve,

[56]And often will I loit'ring ſtay,
Till the dark mountains veil the Day,
While thus delicious Fancy cheers—
For then more ſweet on ev'ry plain
The Linnet trills her farewel ſtrain,
And then more lovely NATURE's ſelf appears.

And ſure the happy Youths who gaze
Upon thine Eyes reſiſtleſs blaze,
Where gay Life's poliſh'd circles ſhine,
Or view amid the Comic Scene,
Thy dimpled ſmiles, and graceful mien,
Shall find "their boſoms ſympathize with mine."

Whether thou ſhow'ſt with matchleſs ſkill,
Unſteady Faſhion's froward will,
As heartleſs Maid, or heedleſs Wife,
Truth, Nature, Sentiment prevail,
And through the Mirth-inſpiring Tale,
All FICTION ſeems abſorb'd in REAL LIFE.

Oh, what delight to hourly trace
The fine expreſſion of thy face,
Thy winning elegance, and eaſe;
To ſee thoſe teeth, of luſt'rous pearl,
Thy locks profuſe of many a curl,
And hear thy voice, omnipotent to pleaſe!

[57]With thee to pace the mountain's ſide,
Or mark the ruſhy riv'let glide,
That murm'ring rolls a ſcanty ſtream;
Till winding in the vale below,
It ſeems t'exult with vainer glow,
And gaily wanton in the lunar beam.

Still might the ſeaſons change—with thee,
Not Winter's ſelf could dreary be,
Nor ſultry Summer's heats offend.
The howling winds the pelting ſhow'r,
Could not diſturb my rapt'rous hour,
Nor ever gloom my mind—with ſuch a friend.

At midnight then no more I'd ſtand,
Where Ocean's ſurges laſh the land,
Nor fondly liſt the Screech-owl's tongue—
Ah me! I dream—th' illuſion's o'er—
Henceforth in ſilence I'll adore,
And thou, ſweet Nymph! forgive the ardent ſong.

DELLA CRUSCA.

THE SLAVES. AN ELEGY.

[]

IF late I paus'd upon the Twilight plain
Of FONTENOY, to weep the FREE-BORN BRAVE;
Sure Fancy now may croſs the Weſtern Main,
And melt in ſadder pity for the SLAVE.

Lo! where to yon PLANTATION drooping goes,
The SABLE HERD of Human Kind, while near
Stalks a pale DESPOT, and around him throws
The ſcourge that wakes—that puniſhes the Tear.

O'er the far Beach the mournful murmur ſtrays,
And joins the rude yell of the tumbling tide,
As faint they labour in the ſolar blaze,
To feed the luxury of BRITISH PRIDE!

[59]

E'en at this moment, on the burning gale

Floats the weak wailing of the female tongue;

And can that Sex's ſoftneſs nought avail—

Muſt naked WOMAN ſhriek amid the throng?

Are drops of blood the HORRIBLE MANURE
That fills with luſcious juice, the TEEMING CANE?
And muſt our fellow creatures thus endure,
For traffic vile, th' indignity of pain?

Yes, their keen ſorrows are the ſweets we blend
With the green bev'rage of our morning meal,
The while to love meek Mercy WE pretend,
Or for fictitious ills affect to feel.

Yes, tis their anguiſh mantles in the bowl,
Their ſighs excite the Briton's drunken joy;
Thoſe ign'rant ſuff'rers know not of a SOUL,
That we enlighten'd may its hopes deſtroy.

And there are MEN, who leaning on the LAWS,
What they have purchas'd, claim a right to hold—
Curs'd be the tenure, curs'd its cruel cauſe—
FREEDOM's a dearer property than gold!

[60]

And there are Men, with ſhameleſs front have ſaid,

That Nature form'd the NEGROES for Diſgrace;

That on their limbs ſubjection is diſplay'd—

The doom of ſlav'ry ſtampt upon their face.

Send your ſtern gaze from Lapland to the Line,
And ev'ry Region's natives faily ſcan,
Their forms, their force, their faculties combine,
And own the VAST variety OF MAN!

Then why ſuppoſe Yourſelves the choſen few,
To deal Oppreſſion's poiſon'd arrows round,
To gall with iron bonds the weaker crew,
Enforce the labour, and inflict the wound.

'Tis SORDID INT'REST guides you; bent on gain,
In profit only can ye reaſon find;
And pleaſure too:—but urge no more in vain,
The ſelfiſh ſubject, to the ſocial mind.

Ah! how can He whoſe daily lot is grief,
Whoſe mind is vilify'd beneath the Rod,
Suppoſe his MAKER has for him relief,
Can he believe the tongue that ſpeaks of GOD!

[61]

For when he ſees the Female of his Heart,

And his lov'd daughters torn by Luſt away,

His ſons, the poor inheritors of ſmart—

—HAD HE RELIGION, THINK YE HE COULD PRAY?

Alas! He ſteals him from the loathſome ſhed,
What time moiſt Midnight blows her venom'd breath,
And Muſing, how he long has toil'd and bled,
DRINKS THE DIRE BALSAM OF CONSOLING DEATH!

Haſte, haſte, ye Winds, on ſwifteſt pinions fly,
Ere from this World of Miſery he go,
Tell him his wrongs bedew a NATION'S EYE,
Tell him, BRITANNIA bluſhes for his Woe!

Say that in future, NEGROES SHALL BE BLEST,
Rank'd e'en as Men, and Men's juſt rights enjoy;
No more be either Purchas'd, or Oppreſs'd—
No griefs ſhall wither, and no ſtripes deſtroy!

Say, that fair Freedom bends her Holy Flight
To cheer the Infant, and conſole the Sire;
So ſhall He, wond'ring, prove at laſt, delight,
And in a throb of ecſtacy expire.

[62]

Then ſhall proud ALBION'S CROWN, where Laurels twine,

Torn from the boſom of the raging ſea,

Boaſt 'midſt the glorious leaves, a Gem divine,

The radient Gem of PURE HUMANITY!

DELLA CRUSCA.

MONODY.
Addreſſed to MR. T—[]IF ever for fictitious grief
My ſoul a tranſient ſorrow knew;
If ſometimes I have heav'd a ſigh,
But to behold the virgin leaf
Of the loſt LILY with'ring die!
Sure tend'reſt ſympathy is due
To THEE, from whom each cheriſh'd bliſs is fled,
Who mourn'ſt by day and night, thy own MA⯑RIA dead;
O T—! in the murm'ring gale,
Oft have I found thy plaintive voice prevail;
When the wet fingers of the morn,
Shook the cold pearl-drops from the bending thorn;
Or, when, at cloſe of day,
To the lone vale I took my way,
[64] The ſad vibration of faint ECHO's breath,
Brought to my heart the dirge of Death.
Then all dejected, have I paus'd to hear,
And felt a kindred pang ſincere;
Sincere as erſt thy Father's PARENT prov'd,
When for the * Friend he lov'd,
He wove a cypreſs wreath, and pour'd the verſe,
That ſooth'd the Poet's ſhade, and hung upon his hearſe.
Ah! let me take my ſimple reed,
And ſeek the moonlight mead;
Or where 'mongſt rocks, the headlong ſtream,
Flaſhes the lucid beam:
Woo calm REFLECTION in her ſober bow'r,
As pond'ring at the midnight hour,
She flings her ſolace on each paſſing wind,
That wafts the heavenly balm to heal the wounded mind.
So may her mighty ſpell,
Thy deſolating anguiſh quell,
So may'ſt thou quit at length the Foreſt's gloom,
Nor thus for ever dwell upon the Sainted Tomb.
O think, when wand'ring on the ſhore,
Thou mark'ſt with muſing eye,
O'er the rude cliffs the tempeſt fly,
And rouſe to ſudden rage the howling main.
Think, SHE thou lov'ſt, has left a World,
Where jarring elements are hurl'd,
[65] And where contending atoms roar,
To join, 'midſt endleſs joy, th' adoring Seraph's ſtrain!
Yes, ſhe was mild and lovely as the ſtar
That in the Weſtern hemiſphere afar,
Lifts its pure lamp above the mountain's head,
To light meek Evening to her dewy bed.
And as the waning Moon diſplays,
With mirror clear, Morn's riſing rays,
She, in decay, ſhow'd VIRTUE'S ORB refin'd,
Reflected fairer from her angel mind;
Till at the laſt, too fierce a blaze was given,
And then ſhe ſhrunk from ſight, and FADED into HEAVEN.
Yet do not mourn, be grief away,
For ſee how ſwift the dark clouds go;
Soon ſilence drinks the Linnet's lay,
And yonder ſapphire waves ſhall ceaſe to flow,
Scared by the hiſſing brand,
Of thirſty Summer's ſultry hand.
From the lorn wood the leaves deſcend,
And all of Nature, as of Art, muſt end.
Sad Conſolation, true! yet why,
If ſoon muſt cloſe the languid eye,
Since a ſhort moment but remains,
For all our fears, and all our pains,
Why ſhould we fondly brood on care,
Ah! why devote us to deſpair!
[66] But time aſſiduous loves to urge
Our footſteps to his utmoſt verge,
Becauſe that there a rapt'rous ſcene appears,
Where ANGUISH never throbs, nor SORROW ſinks in tears.
Meanwhile, forbear not to diſcloſe,
The Scions of that beauteous Stem;
And tho' the PARENT ROSE,
Was prematurely loſt,
By a remorſeleſs froſt;
O view the op'ning Buds, and ſmile at leaſt for them!
DELLA CRUSCA.

ODE TO INDIFFERENCE.

[]

OH Nymph, long ſought of placid mien,
With careleſs ſteps, and brow ſerene!
I woo thee from the tufted bowers,
Where liſtleſs paſs thy eaſy hours—
Or, if a Naiade of the ſilver wave
Thou rather lov'ſt thy pearly limbs to lave
In ſome clear lake, whoſe faſcinating face
Lures the ſoft willow to its pure embrace;
Or, if beneath the gelid rock
Thy ſmiles all human ſorrows mock,
Where'er thou art, in earth or air,
Oh! come, and chaſe the fiend DESPAIR!

Have I not mark'd thee on the green
Roving, by vulgar eyes unſeen?
Have I not watch'd thy lightſome dance
When Evening's ſoften'd glows advance?
[68] Dear Goddeſs yes! and whilſt the Ruſtic's mirth
Proclaims the hour which gives wild gambols birth,
Supine, I've found thee in the elm row's ſhade,
Lull'd by the hum returning bees have made,
Who, chary of their golden ſpoils,
Finiſh their fragrant, roſy toils,
With reſt-inviting ſlumb'rous ſong,
As to their waxen couch they throng.

Chaſte Nymph! the Temple let me ſeek
Where thou reſid'ſt in luſtre meek;
My future life to thee I give—
Irradiate ev'ry hour I live!
'Tis true no glowing bliſs thy vot'ries know,
From thee no poignant ecſtacy can flow,
But oh! thou ſhield'ſt the heart from rankling pain,
And Miſery ſtrikes, when bleſt with thee, in vain;
Wan Jealouſy's empoiſoning tooth,
And Love, which feeds upon our youth,
And holy Friendſhip's broken tie,
Ne'er dim the luſtre of thy eye.

For thee it is all nature blooms,
For thee, the ſpring new charms aſſumes,
Nor vainly ſlings her bloſſoms round,
Nor vainly bids her groves reſound;
Her muſic, colours, odours, all are thine,
To thee her months their richeſt gifts conſign;
[69] To thee the morn is bright, and ſweet the ray
That marks the progreſs of the ſinking day;
Each change is grateful to thy ſoul,
For its fine taſte no woes controul,
The powers of Nature, and of Art,
Alike entrance the eaſy heart.

And oh! beneath thy gentle dome
Which the calm comforts make their home,
That cruel imp is never found
Whoſe fame ſuch idle ſongs reſound—
Dread SENSIBILITY!—Oh! let me fly
Where Greenland darkneſs drinks the beamy ſky,
Or where the Sun, with downward torrid ray
Kills, with the barb'rous glories of the day!
I'd dare th' exceſs of ev'ry clime,
Graſp ev'ry evil known by Time,
Ere live beneath that Witch's ſpells
With whom no laſting pleaſure dwells.

Her lovely form deceives the heart,
The tear, for ever prompt to ſtart,
The tender look, the ready ſigh,
And ſoft emotion always nigh;
And yet Content th' inſiduous fiend forbids—
Oh! ſhe has torn the ſlumbers from my lids:
Oft rous'd my torpid ſenſe to living woe,
And bid chill anguiſh to my boſom grow.
[70] She ſeals her prey!—in vain the Spring
Wakes Rapture, thro' her groves to ſing;
The roſeate Morn's hygean bloom,
Fades down, unmark'd, to Evening's gloom.

Oh SENSIBILITY! thy ſceptre ſad
Points, where the frantic glance proclaims THEE MAD!
Strain'd to exceſs, Reaſon is chain'd thy ſlave,
Or the poor victim ſhuns thee in the grave;
To thee each crime, each evil owes its birth,
That in gigantic horror treads the earth!

SAVAGE UNTAM'D! ſhe ſmiles to drink our tears,
And where's no ſolid ill, ſhe wounds with fears;
Riots in ſighs, is ſooth'd when moſt we ſmart—
Now, while ſhe guides my pen, her FANG's with⯑in my heart.

ANNA MATILDA.

Jan. 16, 1788.

ODE TO ANNA MATILDA.

[]

O CEASE MATILDA! Ceaſe the ſtrain
That wooes INDIFFERENCE to thy arms;
For what are all her boaſted charms?
But only to be free from pain!
And would'ſt thou then her torpid eaſe,
Her liſtleſs apathy to know,
Renounce the magic POW'R to PLEASE;
And loſe the LUXURY of WOE?
Why does thy ſtream of ſweeteſt ſong,
In many a wild maze wind along;
Foam on the Mountain's murm'ring ſide;
Or through the vocal covert glide;
Or among fairy meadows ſteal?—
It is becauſe thy HEART can FEEL!
Alas! if peace muſt be unknown,
Till ev'ry nerve is turn'd to ſtone,
Till not a tear-drop wets the eye;
Nor throbs the breaſt for Sorrow's ſigh.
[72] O may I never find relief,
But PERISH, in the PANG of GRIEF!

Think not I reaſon thus, my Fair!
A ſtranger to corroding Care!
Ah! if Thou, ſeldom find'ſt repoſe,
"I, reſt not on a bed of roſe."
DESPAIR, cold Serpent, loves to twine
About this helpleſs heart of mine!
Yet, tho' neglected and forlorn,
I ſcarce can check the ſmile of Scorn,
When thoſe the VULGAR call the GREAT,
Bend the important brow of ſtate;
And ſtrive a conſequence to find
By ſeeming more than human kind.
Well, let them ſtrut their hour away,
Till grinning death demand his prey!
Meanwhile, my ANNA! let us rove
The ſcented vale, the bending grove,
Mix our hot tears with evening dews
And live for FRIENDSHIP and the MUSE!

Yes, let us haſten hand in hand,
Where the blue billows lave the land,
And as they quick recoiling fly,
Send on the ſurf a lengthen'd ſigh,
That ſtrikes the ſoul, with truth ſublime
As 'twere the whiſp'ring TONGUE of TIME;
[73] For thus our ſhort Life's ebbing day
Murmurs awhile, and haſtes away!
Or let us ſeek the mould'ring wall
Of ſome lone Abbey's Gothic Hall;
Recline upon the knee-worn ſtone,
And catch the North Wind's diſmal moan,
That 'midſt his ſorrows, ſeems to boaſt
Of many a gallant veſſel loſt!
Friends and Lovers ſunk in death—
By the fury of his breath!
What tho' at the imagin'd Tale,
Thy alter'd cheek be ſadly pale;
Ne'er can ſuch SYMPATHY annoy;
For 'tis the price of deareſt JOY!

When far off the Night Storm flies,
Let us ponder on the SKIES!
Where countleſs ſtars are ever roll'd,
Which yet our weak eyes dare behold;
Adore the SELF-EXISTING CAUSE
That gives to each its ſep'rate laws;
That, when the impetuous comet runs
Athwart a wilderneſs of Suns;
Tells it what mandate to obey,
Nor ever wander from its way;
Till back it haſtens whence 'twas brought,
Beyond the boundaries of thought!
[74] Let not the ſtudious Seer reply,
"Attraction regulates the Sky,
And lends each orb the ſecret force,
That urges on, or checks its courſe."
Or with his Orrery expound
Creation's vainly fancied round.
Ah! quit thy toil, preſumptuous Sage!
Deſtroy thy calculating page;
No more on Second Cauſes plod;
'Tis not ATTRACTION, but 'tis GOD!
And what the UNIVERSE we call,
Is but a POINT, compar'd to ALL.

SUCH BLISS the ſenſate boſom knows,
Such bliſs Indiff'rence ne'er beſtows;
Tho' ſmall the circle we can trace,
In the abyſs of time and ſpace;
Tho' learning has its limits got,
The feelings of the ſoul have not.
Their vaſt excurſions find no end;
And RAPTURE needs not comprehend!

'Tis true, we're ign'rant how the Earth
Wakes the firſt principles of birth,
With vegetative moiſture feeds
To diff'rent purpoſe, diff'rent ſeeds;
Gives to the Roſe, ſuch balmy ſweet,
Or fills the golden ear of Wheat,
[75] Paints the ripe Peach with velvet bloom,
Or weaves the thick Wood's mingling gloom—
YET we can wander in the bow'r;
Can taſte the fragrance of the flow'r;
Drink the rich fruit's nectareous juice,
And bend the harveſt to our uſe.—

Then give thy pure perceptions ſcope,
And ſooth thy heaving heart with hope.
HOPE ſhall inſtruct my ſorr'wing Friend;
The ſoul's fine fervour ne'er can end;
But when her limbs by Death are laid
Beneath ſome yew-tree's hallow'd ſhade,
Then ſhall her ſoaring ſpirit know
The Seraphim's ecſtatic glow.
Then ſhall th' ESSENTIAL MIND confeſs,
That ANGUISH has the pow'r to BLESS,
That FEELING was in BOUNTY given,
And own THE SACRED TRUTH—IN HEAV⯑EN.

DELLA CRUSCA.

Jan. 30, 1788.

ODE TO DELLA CRUSCA.

[]

O THOU!
Who from "a wilderneſs of Suns"
Canſt ſtoop to where the low brook runs!
Thro' ſpace with rapid comets glow;
Or mark where, ſoft, the ſnow-drops grow!
O THOU!
Whoſe burning Pen now rapture paints!
Then moralizes, cold, with Saints!
Now trembling ardors can infuſe—
Then, ſeems as dipp'd in cloiſter'd dews—
O ſay! thy BEING quick declare?
Art thou a Son of Earth, or Air?
Celeſtial Bard! though thy ſweet ſong
Might to a Seraph's ſtrains belong,
Its wondrous beauty, and its art
Can only touch, not change, my heart.
[77] So Heaven-ſent light'ning powerleſs plays,
And wanton, throws its purple rays;
It leaps thro' Night's ſcarce pervious gloom
Attracted by the Roſe's bloom,
Th' illumin'd ſhrub then quiv'ring round,
It ſeems each ſcented bud to wound:
Morn ſhakes her locks, and ſee the Roſe
In renovated beauty blows!
Smiles at the dart which paſt away,
And flings her perfume on the day.

Thy light'ning Pen 'tis thus I greet,
Fearleſs its ſubtile point I meet;
Ne'er ſhall its ſpells my ſad heart move,
From the calm ſtate it vows to love.
All other bliſs I've prov'd is vain—
All other bliſs is daſh'd with pain.
My waiſt with myrtles has been bound,
MY BROW WITH LAURELS HAS BEEN CROWN'D;
LOVE, has ſigh'd hopeleſs at my feet,
LOVE, on my couch, has pour'd each ſweet;
All theſe I've known, and now I ſly
With thee, INDIFFERENCE, to die!

Nor is thy gift "dull torpid eaſe,"
The Mind's quick powers thou doſt not freeze:
No! bleſt by Thee, the ſoul expands,
And darts o'er new-created lands;
[78] Springs from the confines of the earth
To where new ſyſtems ſtruggle into birth;
The germ of future Worlds beholds,
The ſecrets of dark ſpace unfolds;
Can watch how far th' ERRATIC runs,
And gaze on DELLA CRUSCA's Suns;
In ſome new orb can meet !"his ſtarry mail,"
And him, on earth unknown, in Heaven with tranſport hail!

ANNA MATILDA.

Feb. 2, 1788.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

[]

NOR will I more of Fate complain;
For I have liv'd to feel thy ſtrain;
To feel its ſun-like force divine,
Swift darting through the clouds of woe,
Shoot to my ſoul a ſainted glow.
Yet, yet MATILDA, ſpare to ſhin!
One moment be the blaze ſuppreſt!
Leſt from this clod my ſpirit ſpring,
And borne by Zephyrs' trembling wing,
Seek a new Heaven upon thy BREAST.
But ſay, does calm INDIFFERENCE dwell
On the low  [...]ead or mountain ſwell,
Or at grey Evening's ſolemn gloom,
Bend her boſom to the tomb?
Or when the weak dawn's orient roſe,
In ſilv'ry foliage deck'd, appears;
Tell me, if perchance ſhe goes
To the freſh garden's proud array,
Where, doubtful of the coming day,
Each drooping flow'ret ſheds tranſlucent tears.
[80] Ah! tell me, tell me where,
For thou ſhalt find me there,
Like her own ſon, in veſtment pure,
With deep diſguiſe of ſmile ſecure:
So ſhall I once thy form deſcry,
For once, hold converſe with thine eye.
Vain is the thought, for at thy ſight,
Soon as thy potent voice were found,
Could I conceal the vaſt delight,
Could I be tranquil at the ſound,
Could I repreſs quick Rapture's ſtart,
Or hide the burſting of my heart?
Let but thy lyre impatient ſeize,
Departing Twilight's filmy breeze,
That winds th' enchanted chords among,
In ling'ring labyrinth of ſong:
Anon, the amorous Bird of Woe,
Shall ſteal the tones that quiv'ring flow,
And with them ſooth the ſighing woods,
And with them charm the flumb'ring floods;
Till, all exhauſted by the lathe
He hang in ſilence on the ſpray,
Drop to his idol flow'r beneath,
And, 'midſt her bluſhes, ceaſe to breathe.*

Warn'd by his Fate, 'twere ſurely well,
To ſhun the faſcinating ſpell;
[81] Nor ſtill, preſumptuous, dare to fling
My rude hand o'er the ſounding ſtring;
As though I fondly would aſpire,
To match MATILDA's heavenly fire.
Yet may I ſometimes, far remote,
Hear the lov'd cadence of her note,
And though the Laurel I reſign,
O may the bliſs of TASTE be mine!

DELLA CRUSCA.

March 5, 1788.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

[]

"—Does calm Indifference dwell,
On the low mead, or mountain ſwell?
O tell me where,
For thou ſhalt find me there."

YES, on the mountain's haughty ſwell,
And in the proſtrate dell,
And where the Dryades fling their ſhades—
There may'ſt thou meet the Maid ſerene,
Or trace her on the zephyr'd green,
Whilſt Day's carnation gently fades.
Doth Nature make the proſpect vaſt,
With rocks o'erhang, and rivers caſt,
Tumbling headlong to their baſe?
Do ſeas ſtretch out their foamy plains,
Compelling with their chryſtal chains
Wide Continents t' embrace?
All theſe attract the ſmooth brow'd fair;
Or where can Art evince her powers,
Where Science ſtrew immortal flowers,
And gay Indifference—haſte not there?
Whilſt PASSION narrows up the heart,
TASTE can no ray of bliſs impart,
[83] One ſtrong idea graſps the mind,
Extends itſelf thro' all the ſoul,
Thro' ev'ry vein its furies roll,
And tears with fangs unkind.

When NEWTON trod the ſtarry roads,
And view'd the dwellings of the Gods,
And meaſur'd every Orb—
Did ſilly Love his ſteps attend,
His mighty purpoſes ſuſpend,
Or his grand mind abſorb?
When intellectual LOCKE explor'd
The Soul's ſad vacuum, where no hoard
Of budding young ideas lay—
Oh tell, thus rob'd in Wiſdom's ſtole,
Did Love's coarſe torch his view control,
Or light him in the darkſome way?
Ha! DELLA CRUSCA, ceaſe to feign,
Thy cheek with red repentance ſtain,
For having feign'd ſo long;
Quick ſeize thy Lyre, ſweep each bold ſtring,
O'er every chord thy muſic fling—
To calm INDIFFERENCE raiſe the Song!

Propitiate firſt, then with her haſte
O'er the Globe's peopled, motley waſte;
Watch CHARACTER where-e'er it runs;
Drink newer air, ſee fiercer ſuns:
[84] Seek the bland realms where firſt the Morn
Pours dawn-light from her beamy horn;
Pours ſcent and colours o'er the vale,
And wakes its ſong, and wakes its tale.
Mark how CONFUCIUS' feeble race,
(Whoſe records vaſt fail not to trace)
To Imitation ſtill confine
Their powers, nor deviate from its line.
Their fourteen thouſand glowing ſprings
Paſſing thro' their yearly rings,
Not one Suggeſtion left behind,
No Art, nor Virtue more refin'd;
Philoſophy no inroads made,
But mute, within its awful ſhade,
Its thoughts occult arrang'd—
Whilſt Learning, blindfold in its pen,
This coſtly precept gave to men—
"BE WISE, but be unchang'd."

Haſte!—leave th' inſipid herd—away!
Where EGYPT's ſons imbrown the day,
For there primeval Wiſdom form'd her wreath,
And Science firſt was taught to breathe.
O linger here! the Claſſic clime
Demands, and will reward thy time.
Here ſhalt thou ſeek th' immortal Dome
Where Pleaſure triumph'd over ROME;
[85] And tread where CLEOPATRA trod,
And moiſten with thy tear the ſod
Where Taſte and Love their banners wav'd,
Snatching from the grave Old Time—
Whoſe life faſt-fading, Rapture ſav'd,
And Phoenix-like renew'd its prime.

Then find the myrtled tomb,
The now unenvied Lover's home;
But, leſt thy penſive ſteps ſhould ſtray,
To guide thee in the unknown way,
The Moon her bright locks quick unſhrouds,
Her veil of goſſamour, thin clouds,
Diſſolves to air, and her ſoft eye
Thro' the Palm Grove's haughty ſhade,
And the lofty Aloed glade
Shall guide thee where thy long-ow'd ſigh
Breath'd o'er the mingling Lover's duſt,
Shall gratify their hov'ring ſouls
Beyond an EMPIRE's votive Buſt.
Is a ſoft willow bending near,
Whoſe drooping leaves ſpeak grief ſincere?
Its drooping leaves, ah! inſtant ſeize,
The happy violence will pleaſe—
Bend its tender flaccid boughs
(Murm'ring ſoft myſterious vows)
Into garlands—leave them there
OFFERINGS to the love-loſt pair!
[86] Theſe duties paid, with ling'ring look,
With heart by ſilent Sorrow ſhook,
The marbled deſert next explore
Where Beauty's glance, and Learning's lore,
Ages long paſt the ſoul beguil'd—
Oh think! in that unletter'd wild
LONGINUS wrote, ZENOBIA ſmil'd!
Where now a humbled column lies,
Stream'd radiance from impaſſion'd eyes;
The roof where odious Night Birds reſt,
Once ſhelter'd Wit, once echo'd Jeſt;
Where Peaſants' cumbrous oxenſtall,
THERPSICHORE ſwam through the ball;
Serpents convolve, where Muſic trill'd,
And loſt Palmyra's fate's fulfill'd.

Doth ſplendid ſcenes thy light heart prize?
Fly to Italia's downy ſkies!
Where Fancy's richeſt ſtrokes abound,
Where Nature's happieſt points are found;
The pleaſures here—a roſy band!
Link'd to her car with flow'ry chains,
Bear their rapt Goddeſs o'er the plains
And ſtrew their glories o'er her land.
The dulcet groves, burſt with rich notes,
Caught by a thouſand trembling throats,
[87] The wavey rivers as they fly—
Their ſoft embroder'd bounds between,
Whoſe glowing tints be-gem the green,
Bear on their curls th' extatic ſigh;—
The breeze detain'd reſts its pure wing,
To hear bleſt Love its triumphs ſing.
And ah! be Italy ne'er nam'd
Without a pauſe to thoſe ſo fam'd—
The glorious MEDICIS!

Oh SCULPTURE! lift thy pillar high,
And grave the name amidſt the ſky!
Its baſe, let marble ſorrows tend,
And chiſel'd woes in high relief,
Look their unutterable grief,
And mute Deſpair its treſſes rend!
Bleſt POETRY! compel thy lyre
To ſound the loud immortal praiſe
Of thoſe who cheriſh'd thy proud bays,
And fed thy near extinguiſh'd fire!
Thy pencil, PAINTING! dip in ſhades
To laſt till Europe's Glory fades—
Thy trophy'd canvas ſhall be Fame
To thoſe who nurs'd thy infant Art.
And bear to mightier ſhores the Name!
[88] Swiftly, my DELLA CRUSCA, turn,
To where the Medicean Urn,
The once proud City hallows ſtill,
There thy fine taſte may drink its fill.
To FLORENCE fly—
O, no! for ever ſhun her tempting ſkies,
For there, if right I ween, the Maid INDIF⯑FERENCE dies!

ANNA MATILDA.

April 2, 1788.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

[]

Age, jam meorum,

Finis amorum.

AND have I ſtrove in vain to move
Thy Heart, fair Phantom of my Love?
And cou'dſt thou think 'twas my deſign,
Calmly to liſt thy Notes Divine,
That I reſponſive Lays might ſend,
To gain a cold Platonic Friend?
Far other hopes thy Verſe inſpir'd,
And all my breaſt with paſſion fir'd.
For Fancy to my mind had given
Thy form, as of the forms of Heaven—
Had bath'd thy lips with vermil dew;
Had touch'd thy cheek with morning's hue!
And down thy neck had ſweetly roll'd
Luxuriant locks of mazy gold.
[90] Yes I had hopes, at laſt to preſs,
And lure thee to the chaſte careſs:
Catch from thy breath the quiv'ring ſigh,
And meet the murder of thine eye.
Ah! when I deem'd ſuch joys at hand,
Remorſeleſs comes the ſtern command,
Nor calls my wand'ring footſteps home;
But far, and farther bids me roam;
And then thy veſtal notes diſpenſe
The meed of COLD INDIFFERENCE!
Curs'd Power! that to myſelf unknown,
Still turns the heart I love, to ſtone!
Dwells with the Fair, whom moſt I prize,
And ſcorns my tears, and mocks my ſighs.

Yes ANNA! I will haſten forth
To the bleak regions of the North,
Where Erickſon, immortal Lord!
Pour'd on the Dane his vengeful ſword;
Or where wide o'er the barb'rous plain,
Fierce Rurick held his ancient reign.
Then once more will I trace the Rhine,
And mark the Rhone's ſwift billows ſhine;
Once more on VIRGIL's tomb I'll muſe,
And Laura's, gemm'd with evening dews?
Once more ROME's Via Sacra tread,
And ponder on the mighty dead.
[91] More Eaſtward then direct my way,
To thirſty Egypt's deſerts ſtray,
Fix in wonder, to behold
The Pyramids renown'd of old;
Fallen near one of which, I ween,
The Hieroglyphic Sphinx is ſeen!
The* Lion Virgin Sphinx, that ſhows
What time the rich Nile overflows,
Then will I ſail th' Egean tide,
Or ſeek Scamander's tuneful ſide;
Wander the ſacred groves among,
Where HOMER wak'd th' immortal ſong:
Traverſe the Nemaean wood,
Mark the ſpot where Sparta ſtood;
Or at humbled Athens ſee
Its ſtill remaining Majeſty!—
Yet to Indiff'rence e'er a foe,
May Beauty other joys beſtow;
Her rapt'rous Science I'll purſue,
The Science NEWTON never knew.

Now blows the wind with melancholy force,
And o'er the Baltic points my weary courſe;
Loud ſhout the Mariners, the white ſails ſwell—
ANNA MATILDA! fare thee, fare thee well!
[92] Farewel whoe'er thou art, and mayſt thou find
Health and repoſe, and laſting peace of mind;
Still pour the various Verſe with fancy clear,
To thrill the pulſe, and charm th' attentive ear;
Nor may relentleſs Care thy days deſtroy,
But ev'ry hope be ripen'd into joy!

And O! farewel to diſtant Britain's ſhore,
Which I perhaps are doom'd to ſee no more;
Where Valour, Wiſdom, Taſte, and Virtue dwell,
Dear Land of Liberty, alas! farewel!—
Yet oft, e'en there, by wild Ambition toſt,
The Soul's beſt ſeaſon ſettles in a froſt.
Yet even there, deſponding, late I knew,
That Friendſhip foreign-form'd, is rarely true.
For they, whom moſt I lov'd, whoſe kindneſs ſav'd
My ſhatter'd Bark when erſt the tempeſt rav'd:
At Home, e'en with the common herd could fly,
Gaze on the wounded Deer, and paſs him by!
Nor yet can Pride ſubdue my pangs ſevere,
But Scorn itſelf evap'rates in a Tear.

Thou too, deluſive Maid! whoſe winning charms
Seduc'd me firſt from ſlow Wealth's beck'ning arms;
Sweet POETRY! my earlieſt, falſeſt Friend,
Here ſhall my frantic adoration end.
[93] Take back the ſimple flute thy treach'ry gave,
Take back, and plunge it in Oblivion's wave,
So ſhall its ſad notes hence no malice raiſe—
The Bard unknown—forgotten be the Lays.
But ſhould with ANNA's Verſe, his hapleſs Rhime,
In future meet th' impartial eye of Time,
Say, that thy wretched victim long endur'd
Pains, which are ſeldom felt, and never cur'd!
Say 'midſt the laſſitude of hopes o'erthrown,
MATILDA's ſtrain could comfort him alone.
Yet was the veil myſterious ne'er remov'd,
From him th' admiring, and from her the lov'd.
And no kind intercourſe the ſong repaid,
But each to each remain'd—a Shadow and a Shade.

DELLA CRUSCA.

May 15, 1788.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

[]

OH ſtay, oh ſtay! thy raſh ſpeed check,
Not yet aſcend the flying deck;
Nor Europe's Hemiſphere forſake,
Nor from THY NATION's pleaſures take
A bliſs ſo exquiſite and chaſte—
A feaſt ſo dear, to poliſh'd taſte,
As that thy Lyre correctly flings,
As that they feel when DELLA CRUSCA ſings.
Alas! thou'rt gone, and to my ſtraining eye
Thy Bark ſeems buoyant on the diſtant ſky;—
See! in the clouds its maſt it proudly laves,
Scorning the aid of Ocean's humble waves:
Well may it ſoar and bear aloft the prize
Whoſe verſe immortal links him to the ſkies;
Well may it ſcorn rough Neptune's rocky way,
Which bears the Genius of the GOD OF DAY!

[95]And now, MATILDA, bind thy lyre
With cypreſs wreathes! the lambent fire
Thou kindleſt at his fervid rays
Can gleam no more; thy future days
Loſt to the Muſes and to Taſte,
Each torpid hour will joyleſs waſte.
In vain each morning now will glow—
In vain, ſoft MAIA's muſic flow,
And to my pillow force its way,
And on my wak'ning ſenſes play.
Her notes my wak'ning ſenſes fill,
And conſcious ſlumbers own the trill;
But when at length Remembrance bids
The filmy ſlumber quit my lids,
Saying "THE WORLD its wit hath brought,
Its various point, its well turn'd thought,
But DELLA CRUSCA lends no ray"—
Oh what is Morning—what is May?

Yet hold! ſome ſolace yet remains,
And penſive joys await my pains
I too muſt leave this laurel'd coaſt
Which all, that ROME adorn'd, can boaſt;
But not like thee, for GRECIAN ſhores;—
Ah no! my humbler prow explores
The ſea unſung, which lies between
Dover's proud cliffs, and France ſerene.
Thou'lt ſkim th' Egean's brilliant tide,
I, o'er the Britiſh channel glide,
[96] Thou, all enthuſiaſt! fondly trace
The Iſle where PHAON's beauteous face
Gave birth to SAPPHO's glorious art—
Illum'd her name, but tore her heart:
Thy SAPPHO ſeek the ſhores vicine,
Where England's lovely great-ſoul'd QUEEN
Sublimely knelt, and ſnatch'd from bluſhing Fate
The Godlike victims of her Edward's hate.
Thou, at AONIA's ſacred feet
Wilt duly pour libations meet;
I roam o'er GALLIA's ſportive plains,
Where thoughtleſs Pleaſure ever reigns.

But 'tis not ſportive GALLIA's plains,
Tho' Pleaſure there for ever reigns,
Which promiſes the boaſted bliſs—
No, BARD BELOV'D! the hope is this,
That there thy footſteps I may tread,
Preſs the ſame turf where ſunk thy head;
Sip the quick ſtream thy thirſt hath ſlaked,
And greet the Dawn where thou haſt waked,
Fancy'ng her waves of mazy gold
Ne'er with ſuch rich refulgence roll'd;
And when her tints of various dye
Burſt from the pallid ſickly ſky,
There ruſh in violet, there in green,
Here in ſoft red imbue the ſcene;
[97] Then loſe themſelves by growing bright,
Till ſwallow'd up in one vaſt flood of light—
Thus ſhall I ſay, HE ſaw her rays,
Thus was he rous'd t' adore and praiſe!

Oh, SYMPATHY, of birth divine,
Deſcend, and round my heart-ſtrings twine!
Touch the fine nerve whene'er I breathe
Where DELLA CRUSCA dropt his wreath!
Lead me the ſacred way of ROME,
Lead me to kneel at Virgil's tomb,
Where he th' enduring marble round
With freſh wove laurels, graceful bound.
Then guide where ſtill with ſweeter note
Than flow'd from Petrach's tuneful throat,
On Laura's grave he pour'd the lay
Amidſt the ſighs of ſinking day:
Then point where on the ſod his tear
Fell from its chryſtal ſource ſo clear,
That there my mingling tear may ſink,
And the ſame duſt its moiſture drink.

Thus dying Swans are ſaid to ſing,
And their laſt breath in numbers fling
O'er the dear liquid ſhining plains,
Which nurs'd their joys, and ſooth'd their pains.
Like them my Muſe pines faſt away,
And this her laſt, her cloſing day.
[98] When one bleſt word her lips hath ſeal'd,
In laſting ſilence ſhe'll be veil'd.
Expiring, ſtill her note's the ſame,
She murmurs DELLA CRUSCA's name!—
The SACRED WORLD! ye heard it ſpoke;—
Her Book is clos'd—her Lyre is broke!

ANNA MATILDA.

May 17th, 1788.

A TALE FOR JEALOUSY.
A Recent Event in CATALONIA.

[]

LOUD ſhriek'd the wind; hoarſe ſtruck the hour,
When from his couch, Alphonſo roſe;
Bedeck'd with gold his ſplendid bower—
Gold, had his couch, but not repoſe!

The Night ſat brooding on the hill:
Beneath, the ſable rivers roll'd,
Not gliſt'ring, now, the tinkling rill;
Its ſtream opaque, its ſpirit cold.

His chamber long, with reſtleſs feet,
The Lord Alphonſo travers'd o'er;
Here once he taſted ſlumbers ſweet,
But ſlumber ſweet he knows no more!

[100]

His rous'd domeſtics ſtrait obey

The ſignal of their Lord, unlov'd;

Their torches flaſh a ſecond day,

As thro' the coſtly rooms they mov'd.

His favourite, from th' obſequious train
Was to his inmoſt cloſet led;
There heard confeſs'd the am'rous pain
Which tore him from his midnight bed.

Oh, thou wert near, Alphonſo cries,
When in the progreſs late we made,
Gonſalve's daughter in our eyes
Bade every other virgin fade.

Her noble mien, her bluſhes mild,
The burniſh of her traces bright;
Her age—but juſt no longer Child,
Her roſy mouth, her graceful height;

All theſe have in my time-worn heart,
Lighted a youthful, am'rous fire—
I ſink beneath the poignant ſmart,
I faint with eager, ſtrong deſire.

[101]

Oft did I try her ſoul to melt,

But ign'rant ſhe of Cupid's pow'r—

His ecſtacies ſhe never felt—

But now is come her fated hour.

With flames illicit I eſſay'd
To touch her iced, unwaken'd heart;
Let Hymen ſooth the baſhful maid,
She'll waken'd, play a ſofter part.

Strait to her father's, ſpeed thy way,
The fleeteſt mules with haſte prepare;
And ere to-morrow ſcans his day,
Thou'lt reach the village of my fair.

Theſe pearls, theſe di'monds ſpeak my truth,
Woo her with treaſures to my arms;
When love no longer boaſts of youth,
Riches may plead their meaner charms.

Oh how unlike the rapturous hour,
When love is bought by love alone;
When a ſoft look, a touch, a flower,
Is prized beyond IND's brighteſt ſtone.

[102]

But go, and to her parents bear

Thy Lord's deſigns—his hopes unfold;

Plead with due force his meaning fair,

And in thy promiſes be bold.

Much more the Lord Alphonſo ſpoke;
His ſervant's mind the whole retains,
Whoſe laſhes ſoon the mules provoke;
The mules ſkim o'er the diſtant plains.

Th' awaken'd night with ſtreaks of gold
Her jetty robes begun to lace;
Her drowſy car far off ſhe roll'd—
The blithe Sun urging to the race;

And ere his wheels had run behind
The Weſtern mountain's giddy ſlope;
Julia, with meekneſs all reſign'd,
Had liſten'd to Alphonſo's hope.

Not ſo reſign'd but that her thought
Recoil'd at ſuch unequal love,
Till by parental wiſdom taught,
She learn'd to bear, and then approve,

[103]

The Sire attends his darling child,

For ſo Alphonſo's pride allows;

And with the tranſport almoſt wild,

Saw her receive a Grandee's vows.

He ſaw that form where ſpeaking grace
Gave ſoul to beauty moſt refin'd,
The robe of dignity embrace,
By taſte magnificent deſign'd.

Her hair, which floated o'er her dreſs,
A dreſs, which to be ſeen demands
Its rich luxuriance to repreſs,
They tie in folds with diamond bands.

But the ſoft curls which hap'ly fell
Upon her boſom's heaving ſnow,
Were ſuffer'd there, unbound, to dwell,
And ſpread their wavy golden glow.

Thus the fond parent ſaw her rove,
Thro' gaudy halls and rooms of ſtate;
Whilſt humble trains at diſtance move,
And from her nod receive their fate.

[104]

Succinct the time in which ſuch joy

Around his aged heart might play;

Bitter, oh! bitter the alloy!

And ſet full ſoon his Pleaſure's day:

For Lord Alphonſo names the hour,
When he the ſumptuous dome muſt quit,
And ſeek again the humble bower—
For birth like his a manſion fit:

Tells him to take a laſt farewel,
Of her more dear than ſenſe or light;
Bids him ne'er hope again to dwell
Where filial Julia bleſs'd his ſight.

His daughter, overwhelm'd with woe,
The haughty cruel order hears;
She ſees her mournful parent go,
And bathes his laſt ſteps with her tears.

Now ſlow and ſadden'd rolls the time
Which late flew rapid with delight;
Heedleſs is ſhe of Morning's prime,
Nor hails the ſoft approach of Night.

[105]

Her only ſolace was to roam

'Midſt the deep wood's emboſom'd calm,

Where diſtant from her gaudy home

Meek ſolitude beſtow'd its balm.

There, on a river's fringy ſide,
Which ſnatch'd her breath as ſtealing by,
She'd watch its curl'd, unequal glide.
And ſwell with her's the zephyr's ſigh:

Mark with what truth it objects drew,
When ruffling zephyr ceas'd to breathe,
Its ſurface poliſh'd to the view—
A phantom foreſt underneath.

Two drooping willows there diſplay'd
Their foliage to the painting wave;
Which in their penſive green array'd
Would ſtill their jutting bare roots lave.

Theſe, by her hands, in garlands dreſs'd,
She'd ſometimes chide the low-bent branch,
Which would its blooming fragrant veſt
Upon th' eſcaping river launch.

[106]

Thus was ſhe one bright eve employ'd,

Whilſt carols ſad her ſweet voice ſung;

Evening's own bird her note enjoy'd—

When from its ſhades a ſoldier ſprung.

His form, like that Apollo wears,
When from his bow the ſwift dart ſings;
Or when the diſcus thro' the air
With equal force and grace he flings.

Martial his ſtep; his beamy eye
Bright as fair Julia's own appears;
Strait to each other's arms they fly—
They mingle joy—they mingle tears.

'Twas Julia's brother whom ſhe ſaw,
'Twas Julia whom her brother preſs'd;
Both dear by Nature's deareſt law,
For twins they were, who thus careſs'd.

From Calpe's glorious rock he came—
Immortal monument decreed
Of Engliſh ELIOTT's laurel'd name;
Where Engliſh heroes oft ſhall bleed.

[107]

And there his blood did Guſman ſhed

Amongſt the boldeſt ever found,

By ſacred thirſt of honour led—

Nor ſhunn'd the deaths that flew around.

But when bright Peace her ſilver flute
Had ſounded thro' wide Europe's ſkies,
And when the voice of war was mute,
Sped by fond duty, home he flies.

There he firſt learn'd his ſiſter's fate,
How elevated—and how curſt!
Heard, that amidſt her brilliant ſtate
Her heart conſuming ſorrow nurſt.

Her huſband's tyrant law reveal'd,
No dear relation to behold;
Oblig'd him thus in ſhades conceal'd,
His ſiſter to his heart to fold.

And oft he mourn'd her cruel lot,
And oft he dried her tears away,
When from the intereſting ſpot
They each were warn'd by cloſing day.

[108]

Adieu, my Guſman, Julia cries!

Yet let me ſee thee once again;

To-morrow bleſs thy ſiſter's eyes,

Then ſeek our dear paternal plain:

From forth my little treaſur'd hoard,
Fond tokens to my mother bear;
No miſer is my cruel Lord,
And gifts, like theſe, I well can ſpare.

Guſman, with pure, fraternal love,
Kiſs'd either beauteous, fading cheek,
Vowing, when Morn ſhou'd light the grove
In its mild haunts her ſteps held ſeek.

Now Evening hung its ſilv'ry dews,
On every ſhrub that deck'd the glades;
And fainter ſcents the flowers effuſe—
As loth to greet with ſweets, her ſhades.

Oft had fair Julia linger'd there
In hours like theſe—and traced the beam,
Which ſent from Luna's brilliant ſphere.
Shot thro' the wood a ſhiver'd gleam.

[109]

Mark'd how each ſound ſtole ſoft away,

As gliding off to ſhores more bright;

Bribed by the gaudy tumid day,

To fly the dove-ey'd, tender night.

By Julia theſe are all forgot,
For pleaſure hath her ſoul ſuffuſed;
Blind to the beauties of the ſpot,
She deigns not now to be amuſed.

Braced with young joy, the ſportive fawn
Purſues her dam, with motion fleet,
Regardleſs of the ſprinkled lawn
That weaves its flowers around her feet.

So ſpeeds the fair one to her home,
Whoſe towers return the moon's broad glare;
Whilſt to point out the diſtant dome,
They flaſh their gold vanes thro' the air.

On her ſoft pillow ſoon reclin'd,
Round her, the ſlumbers ſpun their veil;
And o'er her placid gentle mind,
The ſofteſt dreams their phantoms ſteal,

[110]

At morning's dawn, her Lord commands,

Her placid ſlumbers muſt be broke;

He graſp'd in his her trembling hands,

He led her forth, but never ſpoke.

And oh! theſe horrid ſounds, ſhe cried—
Thoſe piteous ſhrieks, which tear the ear!
With terror ſtruck, ſhe faintly ſigh'd,
And ſunk, at length, o'er power'd with fear.

He dragg'd her on; the ſcreams of pain,
More piercing as they nearer grow
Left her ſcarce power to ſuſtain
Her crimſon life's unequal flow.

There, wretch, behold! Alphonſo cried,
As wide he threw the grating gate:
There feaſt thy looſe adulterous eyes,
See there, thy paramour's juſt fate!

There, ſtretch'd upon the racking wheel,
She ſaw her brother's tortur'd form;
From his torn fleſh the jagged ſteel,
Bade ruſh the blood, with life yet warm.

[111]

She ſaw—but oh! ſhe ſpoke no more!

The agony too fierce to bear;

Groaning, ſhe ſunk upon the floor,

And breath'd her ſpirit on the air.

Siſter! the writhing Guſman ſaid—
Oh, Siſter! plead—then ſwoon'd with pain!
On his gaſh'd boſom ſunk his head,
His limbs convuls'd, the cords ſtill ſtrain.

Alphonſo, when he heard the ſound,
Leapt ſudden to the deathful wheel;
With eager haſte the youth's unbound,
And ſtern Alphonſo learns to feel.

He raves, he ſinks, he ſtrikes his breaſt,
But oh! the guilty deed is paſt,
The victims pure are now at reſt—
Thy tortures ſhall for ever laſt!

Vain is all art, for life no more
Can lift their pulſe, their cheeks can paint;
Thou'ſt freed their ſouls, they quit the ſhore—
Each ſeeks its God—a murder'd Saint!

[112]

There, tyrant, lie! and let the fangs

Of deep remorſe thy boſom tear!

Each wak'ning morn awake new pangs—

Teach thee to pity, and deſpair!

ANNA MATILDA.

[]

Figure 1. DELLA CRUSCA

[]

AMBITIOUS VENGEANCE; A TRAGIC-DRAMA. IN THREE ACTS.

BY DELLA CRUSCA.

CHARACTERS.

[]

CLOTILDA, Mother of Alberto.
THERESA, Ducheſs of Milan.
LUCINDA, an attendant Lady.

ALBERTO, Baſtard of the late Duke of Milan.
PRINCE CARLO, Son of the King of Naples.
ARNALDI, a diſtreſſed Nobleman.
ANTONIO, Companion of Carlo.
Neapolitan Lord.

SCENE in and near Milan.

AMBITIOUS VENGEANCE; A TRAGIC-DRAMA.^*

[]

ACT I. SCENE I.A Hall in the Ducal Palace at Milan. THERESA, CLOTILDA, ALBERTO, and others, compoſing a Court.
THERESA.
NOW thriving peace ſcatters her lib'ral ſtores
O'er happy Lombardy; the Peaſant now
May careleſs carol to the morning breeze,
As on he drives his ploughſhare's patient toil,
Nor dread the rapine, nor the rage of war.
Returning Autumn ſhall not force the ſigh
From his torn breaſt, nor leave him to deplore
His ruin'd olives, and his rifled vines.
No more, Alberto! we demand thy aid
To lead our valiant troops to victory;
But ſtill Thereſa claims her brother's care,
Yes, I require thy counſel, to direct
[116] My maiden weakneſs; it is thou muſt curb
The womaniſh ſpirit in me, teach me how
To govern wiſely, ſteadily, and juſtly:
Conſult the people's good, and rule in mercy.
So ſhall we be in fact two ſovereigns,
The real thou, and I th' oſtenſible.
Alb.
'Twere better, gen'rous ſiſter! thou ſhould'ſt chooſe
Some youthful prince of honour, and renown,
To ſhare the ſplendid toil of government,
And be thy wedded friend than ſtoop to me,
A heedleſs ſoldier, hot, impolitic;
O rather think of Naples' royal heir,
Illuſtrious Carlo! let your charms reward
His well-prov'd valour, for in him unites
All that is noble, worthy and engaging;
Then is it juſt and proper he receive
All that is virtuous, lovely, and benign.
Perchance, his laſt year's reſidence at Milan
Gave thee occaſion to remark him well,
And to eſteem his matchleſs excellence.
What ſays Thereſa?—why that riſing bluſh?
Ther.
I thank thy kind attention, good Alberto
And feel the pointed merriment; but yet,
Methinks, I ſhall prefer my ſingle ſtate,
Which is perhaps, beſt ſuited to my mind,
And gives me greater pow'r to do thee ſervice.
Alb.
O let no thought of me impede thy bliſs,
[117] For I am unambitious, and require
But eaſe, and freedom, with ſociety;
And be aſſured my wiſhes were complete
In my dear ſiſter's nuptial happineſs.
Clot.
How! [Aſide.
Ignoble youth! thou ſhould'ſt aſpire to all.
Ther.
Thou too, my father's well-belov'd Clotilda!
Shalt not regret, or ſplendor, or reſpect,
Due to thy merit, and my father's mem'ry.
Unſlaken'd honour ſhall attend thy ſteps,
And thy heart's ev'ry wiſh be gratified.
Clot.
Gracious Thereſa!
Alas! my tongue wants pow'r to ſpeak my thanks.
Say'ſt thou, my wiſhes gratified! but that [Aſide.
Can never be, while humbled by thy bounty.
Ther.
And you, the lords and ladies of my court!
Show me how beſt I may expreſs my love,
And gain your hearts, and that way I'll purſue.
Yet, yet I feel it is moſt arduous
To rule and ſatisfy, for all have views
To aggrandize themſelves, while thoſe who fail
In riſing to the ſummit of their aim,
Turn bitt'reſt enemies; nay, I fear that moſt
Hate whom they flatter, and the giddy crowd
Wiſh for eternal change. Naught can ſuffice
To gratify ambition's endleſs rage,
To fill the coffers of pale avarice,
Or deal out favours with ſo rich a hand
[118] To equal each man's wiſhes; for alas!
The ſovereign pow'r is bounded, whereas hope
Is without bounds, and each ſucceeding day
Beſtows freſh force, and hightens its impatience.
Alb.
Thou reaſon'ſt wiſely, and with truth, Thereſa!
But how didſt thou acquire ſuch ſage reſlection?
Ther.
Oft would our father pour into my ear
This ſage inſtruction, which I ſtill received
With due attention tho' with heavy heart.
Nor can I chooſe but tremble when I think
That all the pow'r of evil, and of good,
Centres in me; each error I commit,
Loads me with ſecret curſes, and vile hate,
Yet will I labour for the gen'ral good,
And my intention ſhall at leaſt be pure,
So thoſe, alas! I may not chance to pleaſe,
Shall but unjuſtly murmur.
Clot.
Long may'ſt thou reign in glory, royal maid!
And acting from ſuch gen'rous ſentiment,
Revive the ſad, and ſuff'ring multitude,
Like Heaven's freſh dew that cheers the languid plain.
O that the dew of Heav'n might ſall to night
Upon thy ſepulchre. [Aſide.
Ther.
But yet, Clotilda! I could wiſh to be
Placed in a ſtation not ſo eminent,
Where all my weakneſs, and perhaps my faults,
Would neither injure, trouble, nor offend.
Born in ſome humble cottage, I had known
[119] No wild commotion of exalted care,
But cheerful hied me forth at early morn,
Tho' the bleak north-wind ſwept the mountain's ſide;
Or when warm ſummer ſooth'd the vocal grove,
At ruddy eve, my occupation done,
Have jocund danc'd upon the verdant lawn.
Alb.
Thou would'ſt have been a charming ſhep⯑herdeſs,
Driving with flow'ry crook thy whiten'd flock
To crop the wild thyme on the fragrant down,
And liſt the humming bell, that ſeems to ſhake
The diſtant dome, and with ſad-ling'ring note
Pants on the dying gale. Young Carlo, too,
Sould have been there, a gentle, rural ſwain,
To take his plaintive pipe, and fondly pour
The ſong of ſuff'rance, to ſubdue thy heart;
Or have been ſeen at infant dawn's firſt gleam,
Carving thy name upon the poliſh'd beach,
The boaſt, the wonder of the ruſtic race,
For comelineſs, and manly ſtrength, and ſong.
Ther.
Nor would it have diſpleas'd me, for truly
I think there does not live a nobler youth.
His actions vaunt, and not his tongue, of glory.
Gen'rous as love, and ſtranger to offence,
He wins each heart, nor proudly e'er pretends
To gain by mimic affability:
The common error of our princely tribe!
[120] Unmatch'd in virtue, ſenſe, and dignity,
And ev'ry charm of youthful manlineſs.
If aught that's mortal can approach perfection,
'Tis Carlo—and I do not bluſh to own it.
Alb.
This honeſt frankneſs well becomes thee, ſiſter!
And gives a ſweeter luſtre to thine eye,
Than all the tricks of timid baſhfulneſs.
I much rejoice that he will ſoon be here,
For well I know, his promiſe is an oath
He would not break for worlds; then let me hope
His meed may be thy hand, and more thy heart.
Ther.
Thanks for thy mirthful wiſhes, but at preſent
I ſhall retire; and recollect, Clotilda!
Thou mayſt command my utmoſt pow'r to ſerve thee,
Now fare ye well awhile.
[Exit.
The Court retires. Manent CLOTILDA and ALBERTO.
Clot.
[Aſide.]
 It is thy death I would command, and that
I will procure without thy kind conſent—
Beſides, methinks, when royal Carlo here
Shall ſway the ſceptre as thy wedded lord,
The pow'r of ſerving me will be transferr'd
To him, who, ſhould caprice incline, may veil
In clouds and darkneſs all my ſtarry hopes,
[121] And, ſcorning the condition of my baſeneſs,
Breed a dire tempeſt o'er my hated head.
I muſt a ſpeedy vengeance execute.
Alb.
Thou ſeem'ſt abſorb'd in anxious thought, Clotilda.
Clot.
I have at times a wand'ring mind, and oft
Imagination, with her fairy train,
Leads me to fountains, or enamell'd meads,
To cull an humble garland of freſh flow'rs.
Or, on the promontory's h eight, I ſeem
To wander, at the midnight hour, and catch
The thrilling ſounds of the far diſtant wreck.
The voice of coming war, with ſudden burſt,
Perhaps then ſtrikes my ear: Anon, I view
The ranſack'd town, the agonizing band
Of hapleſs females with diſhevell'd locks,
Piercing the air with cries; and then, methinks,
I am a queen, and huſh their clam'rous fears,
Change deſp'rate terror into rapt'rous joy,
And govern with a proſp'rous moderation.
When thus my mind's bewilder'd, I remain
Lively, or ſad, or fix'd in ſolemn thought,
As the wild-woven viſions intereſt.
Alb.
Much, much I fear that ſomething troubles thee,
For I have oftentimes obſerved of late,
Thou'rt abſent e'en amidſt ſociety;
As tho' the buſy lab'ring of thy breaſt,
[122] Taught thee to ſcorn attentive ceremony.
O, pr'ythee diſſipate the low'ring gloom
That hangs oppreſſive on thy penſive ſpirits,
And deck thy face in ſmiles and gentleneſs:
For all ſhould ſmile beneath Thereſa's reign.
[Exit.
CLOTILDA ſola.
I doubt Alberto's unaſpiring nature
May not be rouſed to deeds of dreadful greatneſs:
True he is brave, and no mean perſonal fear
E'er touch'd his heart, yet will he ſurely ſhrink
From treach'rous daring, and intrepid crime.
Then let me not unboſom me to him,
But maſk th' intention from his piercing eyes,
And be myſelf the bloody executor,
So he in tranquil innocence ſhall enjoy
The dazzling 'vantage of Supreme command.
Enter ARNALDI.
Arn.
Not always thus in humble garb array'd,
I trod with timid ſtep theſe ſpacious halls.
But time, that fleets along on reſtleſs wing,
Bears human happineſs for e'er away,
So has it mine.—Yet will I ſeek Clotilda,
For once ſhe did not ſcorn me; hah! 'tis ſhe,
Alone in deep reflection; the hour ſuits well.—
Madam! if wretchedneſs may plead excuſe
[123] For this abrupt intruſion, I ſurely
May be forgiven, for alas! my woes,
Are ſeldom parallel'd. Hither I come
To throw me at your feet, implore your aid
To lift me from a ſtate of grov'ling ſorrow,
And bid returning fortune ſmile upon me.
Clot.
I know thee not, intruder! quit my ſight.
Arn.
I am Arnaldi, fallen, loſt Arnaldi!
Who once enjoy'd your tenderneſs and friendſhip.
Clot.
I do remember, and now greet thee kindly;
Then give thy woes an utterance.
Arn.
It is thou
Canſt turn the youthful mind of fair Thereſa
To juſtice and compaſſion, tell her, that
There was a time, when ſplendidly I flouriſh'd
In the bright ray of our late ſov'reign's favour;
His confidant, and friend; until at length
By treachery undermin'd, by malice ruin'd,
Each poſt of profit, and of high import,
Forc'd I reſign'd, and uncondemn'd I bear
The ſtigma of ſuſpicion. Then I found
My youthful patrimony, near conſum'd,
Was all that I retain'd, which ſcarcely ſerves
To conquer hunger, and ſubdue my thirſt,
Or throw a ruſtic cov'ring o'er my limbs.
O Madam! think how cruel 'tis to bear
Such ſad reverſe of fortune; fallen thus
From wealth and pow'r, to loweſt poverty.
Clot.
[124][Aſide.]
 This man may ſuit my purpoſe;—true Arnaldi!
I have full oft deplored thy fate, and pray'd
A pardon for thee, tho' I pray'd in vain.
And when thy houſe was humbled, and thyſelf
Thrown unregarded on the ſcornful world,
I wept the ſuff'rance I could not prevent:
For thou hadſt always intereſt in my thoughts.
But ſay, Arnaldi! haſt thy ſilent ſcorn,
Or open ſatire, e'er provok'd Thereſa?
Arn.
With all humility, and loyal heart,
I look'd for juſtice from her hand, but ne'er
Diſclos'd the bitter anguiſh of my ſoul
By mark'd diſdain, or public murmuring.
Clot.
O then it is moſt marvellous, to ſee
How ſhe abhors thy name; within her breaſt,
Th' apparent ſeat of mercy and of love,
Dwell rancour and deſtructive cruelty.
Thou might'ſt as eaſy check the ebbing force
Of foaming Neptune with thy naked breaſt,
As try to bid her ſettled hate ſubſide.
I fear, my friend! that greater grief awaits thee,
And not forgiveneſs.
Arn.
O Heavens!
Clot.
Yet, yet methinks, there is a road may lead
Thy footſteps to proſperity; but perhaps
Thou with a coward's patience doſt prefer
To bear thy wrongs, than manfully avenge them.
[125] O canſt thou, nurs'd in wealth, and train'd to glory,
Accuſtom'd to behold a cringing crowd
Court thy protecting ſmile, and bend before thee,
Now wander up and down in threadbare ſorrow,
This alter'd town, to meet the cold neglect
Of unobſerving greatneſs, and encounter
The wretch's humour of equality?
Were thy lot mine far other thoughts would rouſe
My burning breaſt, and ſettled deep revenge
Should be the polar ſtar to guide my courſe
Thro' the rough waves of mis'ry and deſpair.
Arn.
Nor is my mind dead to a glorious venge⯑ance,
Did any luring proſpect of ſucceſs,
Or hopes of happier days encourage it.
Clot.
That's nobly ſaid, purſue th' heroic thought;
And if thou find but any means to cruſh
The glitt'ring aſp that lurks on Milan's throne,
That midſt the fragrant flow'rs of courteſy
Prepares to wound us all with venom'd ſting,
I here pronounce thy fortunes ſhall be raiſed
To their accuſtom'd ſplendor, for the deed
Will place the ſceptre in Alberto's hand,
And I can bend his pliant diſpoſition
To my deſires. If I but give the word,
My enemies ſhall vaniſh from my ſight,
Like earthly miſts before the morning blaſt;
And where I point my favour, ſhall deſcend,
A copious ſhow'r of all-refreſhing bounty.
Arn.
[126]Thy words, thus pouring in my heart, are oil,
That makes the latent fire ruſh forth in blaze:
Give thy commands, and I with promptitude,
And ſteady reſolution, will perform them,
Whate'er they may be. Acquainted long
With narrow ſuff'iance, pains contemptible,
And all the rending littleneſs of want,
I gaze upon a greatly impious deed,
And thinkit glory: fear alike is fled
With moulder'd wealth, and faded reputation.
Then bid me ſeek the ſolitary cave,
Where ſleeps the brinded wolf in grim repoſe,
To drag him forth, and I'll not heſitate;
Or plant a dagger in the lily breaſt
Of timid innocence, and I'll obey thee.
Clot.
We muſt be ſpeedy in all deſp'rate acts—
Conſider wiſely, firmly execute.—
Receive this key, it opes a ſecret door
In the lone wall near St. Antonio's dome;
Thence comes a ſecret paſſage to my chamber;
Which thou wilt traverſe, at the ſilent hour,
When ſolemn Midnight ſpreads her dark'ning wings;
And naught his heard, ſave the fierce felon's tread
Pacing to meet his comrades; O Arnaldi!
Haſte to me then, and let thy boſom burn
With dire revenge, and unrelenting rage,
[127] For I ſhall have an action to propoſe,
That will require a heart of adamant.
Arn.
Doubt me not,
I am not to be ſhaken; but explain.—
Clot.
Are we unnoticed, hangs no liſt'ning ear
Attentive on the purport of my words?
Know then, I will prepare a cordial drink
Shall calm for e'er Thereſa's reſtleſs ſpirit:
The which thy hand ſhall miniſter.—How's this?
Thy abject eye ſeems burſting with diſmay;
And pallid terror trembles on thy cheek;
Haſt thou forgot her hatred, and thy wrongs,
Or certain recompenſe I promis'd?
Arn.
No,
I am wound up to execute; my ſoul
Recoil'd a moment from the dire attempt,
And now returns again with double firmneſs.
But how ſhall I gain entrance to her bed?
Clot.
She occupies the chamber of her father,
From mine to which there is a hidden way,
The duke's contrivance, only known to me,
Made for convenience of our ſportful hours.
So ſhalt thou gain admittance to thy prey,
And from behind the arras ſteal upon her;
Then either force her drain th' oblivious cup,
Or fix a mortal poignard in her heart.
I would myſelf have done it; but I fear
A momentary weakneſs of my ſex
[128] Might ſhake my purpoſe, at the very time
When heſitation would be my deſtruction:
This faithfully perform'd, thou ſhalt be rais'd
To Milan's proudeſt honours, and thy houſe
Shall back retort the ſcorn it has receiv'd,
Upon the heads of all thy enemies.
Arn.
This night it ſhall be done; and why ſhould I
Let weak compaſſion turn me from the deed?
For none can pity me! then let me wade
With daring ſtep thro' crimes, until I reach
The wiſh-for port, when, like the fortunate,
I'll damn the humble villain, turn to ſcorn
The baleful vices of neceſſity,
And grant no virtue in the man that errs,
Whate'er the fatal cauſe or circumſtance.
Clot.
Thou haſt much injury t'inflame thy rage,
And I to urge it, as thou ſoon ſhalt know;
But leave me now Arnaldi! leſt my ſon
Chance to return, and to behold thee here,
Might raiſe ſuſpicion to diſturb hereafter.
Has no one mark'd thy entrance?
Arn.
O no; diſguiſed in poverty, I paſſed
With others thro' the gate, while the ſtern guard
Diſdain'd to challenge ſuch a wretch as I.
All unobſerv'd I hither bent my courſe.
Clot.
Then haſten to you chamber for a while,
There lie conceal'd, and I will meet thee ſoon;
When we will ſagely meditate, and prepare,
[129] The neceſſary prelude to our greatneſs.
Thence thou may'ſt hie thee home the way I mention'd,
And ſo return at midnight.
Arn.
It ſhall be done.
[Exit.
Clot.
So pliant is the virtue of the poor.
The fallen poor, who once have known the ſweets
Of better time; not thoſe, whoſe induſtry,
Tho' hardly exerciſed in humbleſt toil,
Gives daily bread, and careleſs independence
'Tis well I profit by this wretch's want,
And ſave myſelf the horror of the deed.
No longer Milan's ſceptre ſhall elude
Alberto's graſp, for on Thereſa's death
He is th' appointed heir, and muſt be duke.
O  [...]ble Night! bring quick th' important hour
To ratify th' intent; for thou, dread queen!
Altho' to frequency of crimes inured
Shall view an act of gloomieſt dignity.
So when thy rival, freſh Aurora, opes
Her laughing eyes beneath the front of Heaven,
She ſhall behold Clotilda's pow'r complete.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II. SCENE I.

[]

A Bed-chamber in the Palace. CLOTILDA ſola. A Lamp burning.

CLOTILDA.

IS it, alas!

The penalty and ſad concomitant of guilt,

That time for ever now muſt labour on,

With ſecret workings of unboſom'd pain?

Ah, no! the tyrant conſcience ſoon throws by

His blunted ſhafts, and reaſon laughs to ſcorn

Each ſervile fear.—He ſaid it ſhould be done

Ere light appear'd, nor is the day yet broke

Nor have the buſy race of toil begun

Their early murmurings; Milan's late-throng'd ſtreets

Seem like ſome lonely cloiſter's penſive aiſles.

Perhaps th' attempt has fail'd, then dark deſpair

And ſhame muſt fall upon me; and my ſon

Bow the baſe knee to his own father's daughter,

Becauſe her birth was fanction'd by the prieſt,

[131] And his unlicens'd. O forbid it pride!

Ambition too prevent it!—Ha! who's there?

Enter ALBERTO.

Alb.

O grant me pardon, mother, at this hour!—

What means that ſtar, the look of wild diſmay,

This early watchfulneſs? 'tis very ſtrange!

Clot.

Be not ſurpriſed,

For often when the night-flies break my reſt,

Or ſhrill winds whiſtle, or the cricket cries,

I quit an irkſome bed, and to and fro

Traverſe my room till day-light, fancy then

Teems with wild thought, and each ſlight noiſe alarms me.

But, ſay, my ſon! at this unſual hour,

Why doſt thou ſeek me?—for tho' always joy

Attends thy preſence, now 'tis mix'd with wonder.

Would he were gone before Arnaldi comes.

[Aſide.

Alb.

After you left the table, for awhile

Thereſa ſtaid, being in a merry mood;

And by her gay diſcourſe, and artleſs wit,

Won ev'ry hearer's love; the old ſhe charm'd,

Pointing her mirthful ſatire at the vain,

The foplings of her court; while they themſelves,

For ſome were preſent, laugh'd with willing heart,

To find their foibles drolly ſingular;

For in her ridicule was no diſgrace.

[132] The ſpacious hall, with echo of her praiſe

Reſounded; when I, with voice prophetic,

Cried, to retort her humour, gentle ſiſter!

Would princely Carlo, were but here to tame thee!

Clot.

And canſt thou thus laviſh thy praiſes forth

On her, who mars thy fortune?

Alb.

Attend the ſequel,—ſcarce had ſhe retired,

When thro' the palace arch, with rattling hoof,

A ſwift ſteed brings the wiſh'd-for meſſenger;

For 'twas with news of Carlo that he came.

By this, the prince is near, for day and night

He has purſued his journey, like a lover

Warm and ſincere, and worthy of Thereſa.

Theſe tidings pleaſed me ſo, I would not ſleep,

But rather choſe with watchful readineſs,

To wait the coming of my friend, my brother.

Clot.

Thy friend! thy brother!

Alb.

My friend he is, for we have fought toge⯑ther!

And will be ſoon my brother! but, Clotilda!

Excuſe my raſh intruſion, ſince you know

The rapt'rous cauſe that urged it.

Clot.

O! call it not intruſion, for the tidings

Have ſtruck me deeply—with delight—but now

I muſt require thee—leave me to repoſe—

That ſinking nature claims.

Alb.

You do well.

Compoſe yourſelf a little, for you're pale,

And ſomething overpow'rs you; when you're better,

[133] Go to Thereſa, 'tis a pleaſing taſk,

And wake the heavenly maid to love and tranſport.

Meanwhile I'll haſten to prepare a welcome

For noble minded Carlo—ſo adieu.

[Exit.

Clot.

Thanks to indulgent fortune thou art gone;—

How did thy preſence, at this pregnant time

Of buſy miſchief, ſhake each ſecret nerve.

'Tis very like, perhaps I'm pale—O Chance!

This is thy cruel ſport, young Carlo comes

Fluſh'd with the mingled, pleaſing expectation,

To wed Thereſa, and to reign in Milan.

But he ſhall find her in the arms of Death;

And the proud dukedom fallen to my ſon

By legal courſe; for ſo his father will'd,

In caſe the maiden died. Yet 'tis unlucky,

For the too prying prince, burning with love,

And ſtung to fury by his baffled hopes,

May happen to ſuſpect; well let him then,

For I will 'ſcape ſuſpicion, my hot tears

Shall glide unnumber'd, and my ſea-like breaſt

Shall labour with a tempeſt of affliction,

'Till half the pity to Thereſa due,

Be turn'd on me her melancholy mourner.

But O! perhaps ſhe lives, Arnaldi's falſe—

If ſo, ambition be his curſe, for then

My ſchemes are vain, Alberto's greatneſs gone.—

Now, now he comes, my fate is on his lips.

[134] Enter ARNALDI, by a private door.

Arn.

Thereſa ſleeps for ever!

Clot.

'Tis well, but tell me all.

Arn.

'Twas three hours after midnight, as thou know'ſt,

When with a creeping ſacrilegious ſtep

The private ſtairs I mounted to her chamber.

Juſt as I paſs'd the op'ning tow'rds the garden,

Methought her father's ſpectre threat'ned me,

And as I cautious turn'd thy traitor key,

The lonely Night-fowl ſhriek'd the note of death;

Then my limbs trembled, and my hair uproſe.

Clot.

Didſt thou recoil?

Arn.

I pauſed a moment only, and then enter'd—

But O! what forceful language can deſcribe

The innocent beauty of the ſleeping fair!

Hadſt thou been there, it would have chang'd thy heart,

And melted thee to mercy.

Clot.

Is ſhe not dead then?

Arn.

The quiv'ring lamp, as conſcious of the deed,

E'en ſtrove to hide its light; and the carv'd cupids

That adorn her bed, ſeem'd to plead for her.

Clot.

Didſt thou refuſe?

Arn.

No, I determin'd ſtood,

Like ſome relentleſs tyger of the deſert,

To gaze awhile upon my deſtin'd prey.

Clot.

[135]

And when you woke her, was ſhe not in fear?

Arn.

Her cheek grew whiter than her throbbing breaſt,

Her eye look'd frantic, and with falt'ring tongue

She cried, what would'ſt thou here? I anſwer'd,

Peace, liſten, and obey,—accept this cup,

Thy brother's mother ſends it. Here ſhe ſcream'd,

Then with uplifted dagger I purſued;

Shriek not, Thereſa—or within thy heart

This ſteel ſhall rankle; ſince thou needs muſt die,

Drain the calm cup, and die without a pain.

Clot.

And ſo ſhe drank it?

Arn.

After a ſhow'r of tears, and many prayers,

To change my ſtubborn heart,

Finding all hope was vain, ſhe drank it up:

Implored forgiveneſs on thy head and mine,

Then turn'd her with a piteous ſigh and ſlept.

Clot.

What made thee loiter when the act was o'er?

Arn.

A giddy horror ſeiz'd my brain, and then

Cold fearful ſtupor ſunk me to the floor:

Where long I lay, if ſo my abſence ſeem.

When ſenſe renew'd the conſciouſneſs of crime,

I with a coward's agitated ſtep,

Quitted the murder'd lovlineſs of virtue,

And hither came to tear my villain's hair,

Beat my mean breaſt, and curſe my poverty.

Clot.

Thanks to thy manly firmneſs, bold Arnaldi!

Which let no idle agony diſgrace;—

Haſt thou not heard of Carlo's near arrival?

Arn.

[136]

Of Carlo's near arrival, ſay'ſt thou? no;

That may promote enquiry, and breed danger.

Clot.

To us it cannot, we are ſov'reign now,

And Juſtice waits our nod; but yet beware,

Nor ever in diſcourſe appear myſterious;

But maſk thy ſecret thoughts with open brow.

And when at table, or in public talk,

Cold obſervation whiſpers forth his doubts,

And Malice prattles of Thereſa's death;

Beſtow a caſual heed, but no remarks;

Like one to whom ſuch great events import not.

Soon as the gen'ral wonder ſhall ſubſide,

And new ideas turn to common thoughts;

When brave Alberto ſhall be firmly fix'd

Upon the throne, thy recompenſe ſhall come.

Arn.

I truſt me to thy bounty and protection,

Clot.

Expect thy juſt reward.

Arn.

So fare thee well.

[Exit.

Clot.

And thou ſhalt have thy juſt reward, Arnald [...]

For to thy guard I will not truſt my honour,

Hard-hearted murderer! thou canſt nothing urge

In poor extenuation of thy deed

But avarice, and baſe ſervility;

While I can plead, in the dark acts excuſe,

Maternal love, ambition, pride, and hate.

Then ſhall thy death appeaſe Thereſa's ſhade,

And thus my juſtice wipe away my crime.

[137] Now will I ſeek my couch, that when the news

Of young Thereſa's death ſhall ſhake the palace,

I may be found in ſeeming calm repoſe.

CLOTILDA throws herſelf upon the Bed, and the Scene cloſes.

SCENE II.

In the Palace.

Enter ALBERTO, and a Neapolitan Lord.

Alb.

Left you his highneſs far behind, my lord?

Lord.

Another hour will bring him to your gates,

And willingly he ſpeeds, for he admires

The hoſpitable manners of your town,

Your beauteous ladies, and your valiant youths.

Yet moſt his ſpirit languiſhes to view

Your royal ſiſter,—her he loves ſincere,

And her alone: but eight ſhort months are gone

Since laſt he left her; yet he oft will talk

Of ages paſt in abſence. The gay court

Of Naples found him, on return, no more

The laughter-loving prince, who ſported wild

Midſt ſocial mirth, and livelieſt diſſipation,

But ſad, and penſive; fond of ſolitude,

He only choſe to ſeek the cypreſs grove,

[138] What time unruffled evening's dewy hand

Bedecks in bluſhing robe her fav'rite ſtar.

Alb.

'Tis true he loves,

Oft have I ſeen him dwell with raptur'd eye

On every varying charm of fair Thereſa—

Nor does he need our pity.—It were well

She knew of his approach, leſt joy, perchance,

To meet him unexpected, ſhould appear

Like ſorrow, and diſſolve in tears.

Who waits there?

Enter Attendant.

Alb.

Go tell the ladies of her highneſs' chamber

To give her information, when ſhe wake,

That royal Carlo haſtens to her court.

Attend.

It ſhall be ſo, my Lord.

Alb.

O! he's a noble, and a gen'rous youth,

Open of heart, benevolent, and valiant.

Lord.

Next to Thereſa, moſt he loves Alberto,

And boaſts thy friendſhip with a manly pride,

Proteſting in the circle of this world,

For virtue, honour, ſpirit, feeling, truth,

There lives not thy ſuperior.

Alb.

His praiſe to merit, and to ſhare his friend⯑ſhip,

Is all I aſk, and the chief bliſs, I wiſh him,

The dear poſſeſſion of Thereſa's beauty:

For ſhe is as the counterpart of him,

Lovely and perfect.

[139] Enter LUCINDA.

Luc.

O direful fate, O miſerable hour!

She's gone, ſhe's gone, dead, dead!

[Faints.

Alb.

Dead, dead! Ah, who! what doſt thou mean, Lucinda?

Now ſhe revives, down, down my breaking heart!

Luc.

Alas! Alberto, muſt I tell thee all,

And plant a dagger in thy ſoul, but O!

My royal miſtreſs, thy beloved ſiſter

Is loſt, is gone for ever!

Alb.

Thereſa dead! ſpeak not the fatal word!

My tender ſiſter, my fond heart's delight!

And muſt my Carlo thus be welcom'd here,

Feel what I feel? there's madneſs in the thought!

And have I 'ſcaped the rage of war for this?

Lord.

Too much I prove the anguiſh of his heart,

To offer comfort; I'll retire, and weep.

[Exit.

Enter CLOTILDA.

Clot.

Ah me, Alberto! how ſhall I ſupport

Theſe dreadful tidings? poor Thereſa's death,

So unexpected, loads my heart with grief,

And turns my eyes to ſluices, whence flows out

A ſtream of uſeleſs pity; O my ſon!

'Tis juſt we mourn, yet ſhould we reaſon too,

[140] Enter Attendant.

Attend.

My Lord, prince Carlo is arrived.

[Exit.

Alb.

I cannot, will not ſee him; let me fly

To ſome cold cavern, deſolate, and drear,

Far from the haunts of men, where hated light

Shall be for e'er excluded, far from love,

And ſocial intercourſe, and friendſhip's ties,

Where I may wander like the raging wolf,

Howling my midnight ſorrows all alone.

Madam you ſeem to bear this matter coolly,

And reaſon down your feelings, you may therefore

Receive ill-fated Carlo, and unfold

The horrible deſpair, while I eſcape

The dreadful ſhock to ſee a ſuff'ring friend,

Without a pow'r to help him.

[Exit.

Clot.

Gentle Lucinda! ſuffer not your grief

To overpower you thus, be more compoſed;

My boſom ſtruggles with a cruel load,

Heavy as thine, yet will I not deſpair;

Deſpair is impious, 'tis to call in doubt

Th' eternal juſtice of the Lord of all.

Luc.

'Twas ſad to ſee how tranquilly ſhe lay,

Her features ſettled, not her viſage chang'd,

As tho' exulting innocence had choſe

To make death lovely.—O! my heart will break!

[Exit.

Clot.

[141]

Now for another bluſt'ring ſcene with Carlo,

Of rending hair and beating breaſt, and rage,

And all is over. Yet 'tis well I've order'd

Thereſa's body to be laid in peace,

Midſt the cold relicts of her anceſtors.

Exit.

SCENE III.A Chamber in the Palace.
ALBERTO ſolus.
I muſt believe it ſo, for I have mark'd
Her gaze with envious eye on my poor ſiſter,
Who never knew ſuſpicion, or deſign.
Thou fain would'ſt make me Duke, baſe, baſe Clo⯑tilda!
Little thou knew'ſt my heart, if thou could'ſt think
That it was faſhion'd ſo, firſt to approve,
And then to profit by the deſp'rate act.
But from the ſecret longings of thy ſoul,
Thou didſt conceive of me. Beetle-ey'd ambition,
With headlong fury, winds his eager flight
'Gainſt each abhorred crime. O mother, mother!
And muſt I ſtill confeſs myſelf thy ſon!
Had I not all the vaineſt could deſire,
Wealth, pow'r, and honour, dignity, reſpect?
Plac'd in the palace, I did more than reign,
Thro' the bright medium of Thereſa's virtue.
[142] Nay, ev'n thou wert treated like a ſovereign.
Yet, if thou'rt innocent, I ſuſpect thee vilely!
Ah no! 'tis true beyond the hope of error,
Elſe why that haggard cheek, that downcaſt eye
With which I found thee at the very time
My hapleſs ſiſter periſh'd? O Clotilda!
Thou hadſt much reaſon then to look confus'd;
Well might'ſt thou ſhake, for then the gentle maid
Perhaps was ſtruggling with the damn'd deſign;
Or on her knees, in unavailing tears,
Striving to melt her butcher. Heavenly powers!
I'll ſee her lovely body as it lies,
The ſenſeleſs prey of all-devouring death,
And ſhould my tears permit me, will obſerve
If ſhe have ſuffer'd aught of violence.
How did the thought eſcape me! Ho, who's there?
Enter Servant.
Alb.
Haſte, lead me to the melancholy chamber
Where lie Thereſa's ſad remains.
Serv.
My lord! e'en now with decent privacy,
To the ſepulchral vault of Milan's houſe,
The corſe was borne by order of Clotilda,
Who ſaid ſome future day ſhould be appointed
For public rites, religious ceremony,
And the due requiem of her parted ſoul.
Alb.
'Tis enough! away.
[Exit Servant.
[143] That ſhall not ſcreen thee, madam! yet indeed
'Twas wond'rous expeditous—but I'll think on't.
Enter CLOTILDA.
Clot.
My ſon, Alberto!
Rouſe from thy lethargy of grief, nor let
Thy private cares 'ercome all public ſpirit.
Know that the ſenate wait in rev'rence due
Thy royal preſence to proclaim thee Duke.
Alb.
How fares prince Carlo, madam?
Clot.
Alas! unequal to the ſudden ſhock,—
His reaſon left him, at the very time
He had moſt need of all his fortitude.
Strangely he rav'd with incoherent ſpeech,
And frantic geſture; while the noble lords
Of his illuſtrious train, with ſoothing ſorrow,
Convey'd him to his chamber; where they ſtrive
To calm and comfort him—tho' much I fear,
They long may ſtrive in vain.
Alb.
Ill-fated Carlo!
Thy ſuff'rance throws freſh mis'ry on my heart,
That was o'ercharg'd before. Clotilda! Madam!
Clot.
My ſon!
Alb.
Obſerve me well, meet with a ſteady look
My ſearching eye; nay, nay, thou doſt not tremble,
Yet art thou pale;—do not turn pale, leſt I
Should think thee guilty of ſome horrid crime.
Clot.
[144]What doſt thou mean, Alberto?
Alb.
Some crime ſo dark, ſo cruel, and ſo baſe,
That it muſt take from Heaven the right of mercy,
And doom the agent to eternal pain,
At thought of which, my op'ning pores diſtil
A deadly dew, and ev'ry ſenſible nerve
Thrills with a ſtrange vibration.
Clot.
Surely thy reaſon wavers alſo!
Alb.
Mark my words,
Much do I pity thoſe, who kill'd Thereſa
But more abhor them—let not that alarm thee.
Thou art an innocent woman, and my mother,
And thou would'ſt wiſh to ſee thy ſon advanc'd,
Thyſelf in pow'r; but there perhaps thou'lt fail.
While all thy high-built, guilty expectations,
Shall quit thee ere the hour of conſummation.
Clot.
Wilt thou not deign, proud youth, to rule in Milan?
Alb.
Since thou'rt ſo eager, madam! in this buſineſs,
Haſte to the ſenate make my pleaſure known,
If it befit thy ſex, and thy condition!
That, being troubled with a froward mind,
And little able to direct the ſtate,
I am beſide leſs willing—I refuſe,
Without the ſhadow of hypocriſy,
All proffer'd honours, titles, dignities—
Clot.
This grief effeminate, theſe grov'ling thoughts
But ill become—
Alb.
[145]Now, by my ſoul, tho' Milan were the world,
I would not be ſeduced to mount the throne.
What, ſhall I view my ſiſter torn away
By ruffian violence, and ſhall I profit
Of the black deed?—no, hear my laſt reſolve,
Not all the charms of fortune, or of pow'r,
Th' entreating clamours of the populace,
Nor yet my boaſted right, nor more, my duty,
Shall e'er induce me to be ſov'reign here.
I am a baſtard of but little worth,
Yet much I fear me, worthier than my mother,
And therefore will not bring my faults to light
Amid the dazzling ſplendor of a throne.
Nor ſhall thy gentle ſhade, Thereſa! ſee
Alberto riſe to greatneſs by thy murder!
Clot.
[kneeling.]
 O let me thus implore thee on my knees
To act more nobly; look on her who bore thee,
And change thy—
Alb.
Kneel not to me, but go and kneel to Heaven,
And do it with contrition; to obtain
Mercy, and pardon; but for me I'm fix'd—
Yet, ere we part;—Thereſa's ſepulture,
By thy command, ſo haſty and unhonour'd,
Occaſions wonder;—think upon my words.
[Exit.
Clot.
Go, vent thy malice on th' embattled plain,
Or bid thy ſoldiers ſhake. I heed thee not.
Yet doſt thou ſcorn the dukedom, baſe Alberto!
[146] Have I then loaded thus my ſoul with ſin
To lift thee into greatneſs, but in vain?
And torn the ſceptre from Thereſa's hand,
To caſt it to the people? who, beſide,
Will quickly work my downfall, for they hate me,
And hitherto have paid me cold reſpect,
Unwillingly, becauſe I dwelt in favour.
But ſince my hopes are ruin'd by my ſon,
Thro' mere caprice of over-acted honour,
My bright day's ſtar is ſet, and I muſt fall.
For ever then I tear him from my love,
And here devote him to ſevereſt vengeance;
Conſoling vengeance! thee I invocate,
Wrapt in terrific myſtery, and rage,
To ſooth me with thy horror-breathing ſmile;
I am thy vot'ry now, be thou my guide!

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

ACT III. SCENE I.[]Another Chamber in the Palace. CARLO, ANTONIO.
CARLO.
I WILL not wrong him, for I know my friend,
And that he would not act the traitor's part,
Tho' ev'ry kingdom ſhould unite its crown
To diadem his head. Is he not brave?
And ſay did ever ſelfiſh meanneſs dwell
In the rich circle of a brave man's heart?
Then we will join in ſorrows to diſcover
The loathed author of our mutual woe;
The wretch who tore Thereſa from my arms,
And ſtole the lovelieſt jewel of the world
Ant.
'Tis wiſely judg'd, ne'er could Alberto ſtoop
To work a deed ſo foul.
[148] Enter CLOTILDA.
Clot.
O let me claim thy private ear awhile,
Illuſtrious prince! for I have that to ſay
Requires a ſolemn, and ſevere attention.
Far better ſuited to my fearful tale,
Were charnels diſmal, and the noon of night,
Than this ſtill-lingering cheerfulneſs of day.
For 'tis not crude ſuſpicion bids me ſpeak,
But clear and awful confirmation ſhakes
My agonizing breaſt; whereof the purport
I would diſcloſe to thee alone.
Car.
My lord! be pleaſed to leave us.
[Exit ANTONIO.
Clot.
How ſtrong the mother working at my heart,
Combats with juſtice! O, ye ſpirits impure!
Who hover o'er this earth, whoſe buſineſs is
To numb the feelings of th' aſſaſſin's ſoul,
Dry up each pity-flowing tear, and change
Meek nature's tenderneſs to cruelty.
O breathe a portion of your fury here,
That this parental weakneſs may not check
My duty to my country, and mankind!
Car.
what means Clotilda?
Clot.
I ſcarcely know myſelf, for in my mind
Confuſion reigns, and unavailing grief.
Deteſted murder! to the common eye
[149] That ſeem'ſt moſt ſhocking, how doſt thou appear
View'd thro' the anguiſh of a mother's love!
Car.
Alas! thy words ſtrike terror to my ſoul.
Clot.
Ah me! 'tis I who caus'd Thereſa's death,
By hearing ſuch a monſter; ſo 'twere juſt,
I ſhould receive the burſting puniſhment
Due to his crimes.
Car.
Quick, quick, Clotilda! free my lab'ring breaſt
Of this ſevere ſuſpenſe.
Clot.
In yon blue vault, methinks Thereſa ſits,
Calmly reſplendent, as the full orb'd moon,
When riſing from the wat'ry waſte, ſhe throws
Her luſtrous pearls upon the toſſing waves.
Yet ſadneſs hangs upon the maiden's brow,
To mark the torments of her brother's guilt,
And baſe ambition's triumph over virtue.
Perchance, ſhe raiſes now ſome hallow'd hymn,
'Midſt glowing ſeraphim, and cherub pure,
T' implore the mercy of all pitying Heaven
Upon her murderer.
Car.
O ſpeak thy thoughts, leſt cruel expectation
Break my ſad heart before I know the worſt.
Clot.
I muſt not, will not ſcreen him, tho' he is
Dearer to me than life, or life's beſt joys.
Nor will I ſee his bloody hands defile
The crown of Milan—'tis Thereſa's voice,
From the chill ſepulchre, that eries for juſtice,
[150] And I'll obey the call of her, and truth.
Know then, moſt royal Carlo yeſternight,
When my lov'd ſov'reign took her ſlight to Heaven,
As chance I lay a ſtranger to repoſe,
I heard a ſhrill ſhriek iſſue from the chamber
Where ſlept the royal maid. I ſtarted up,
And op'ning cautiouſly my door, beheld
Alberto quit her room, with ſilent tread;
And as he paſſed me by, he inly mutter'd,
"The deed is done, my hopes are ratified!"
Car.
Why didſt thou not inform me ſo before
At our firſt interview; for had I known it
One hour ago, ere this he'd been in hell.
Clot.
Think on the ſtruggles of a parent's weak⯑neſs
That could not ſuddenly devote her child
To ſure deſtruction, and dark infamy.
And now I do repent of what I've done,
For deſp'rate anger frowns upon thy brow,
And evil will betide him. Do not, Carlo!
Snatch my poor ſon from penitence, and pray'r,
For he has need of utmoſt length of days.
To mourn his crimes, and make his peace above.
I muſt retire—but O be merciful!
[Exit.
Car.
And could ambition thus defile thy ſoul,
Once brave Alberto! could the tinſel train
Of ſervile courtiers, or the bauble crown,
Allure thy ſpirit to ſo damn'd a deed?
[151] O man! how weak is all thy boaſted virtue!
When ſtrong temptation urges thee to wrong;
Nay, ſince my once-lov'd friend is ſunk thus low,
I of myſelf am void of confidence.
Yet here I tear all friendſhip from my breaſt,
And pledge myſelf to vindicate the wrongs
Of lov'd Thereſa—yes, my ſword ſhall pierce
The unrelenting traitor's coward heart.
Enter ALBERTO.
Alb.
My noble friend! it is to thee I come
To eaſe my throbbing breaſt, and ſhare thy woes?
So ſhall ſoft ſympathy, perhaps, beguile
The grief that knows no cure; how, how is this?
Methinks with vengeful brow, and fierce diſdain.
Thou look'ſt reproaches on me. Righteous Heaven!
I recollect me now, his brain's diſturb'd. [Aſide.
O call me to thy mind, illuſtrious Carlo!
I am Alberto, who has fought beſide thee.
Car.
Do not, Alberto! calm thy guilty fears
With ſuppoſition that my reaſon errs;
It en'd alone' when I conceiv'd thee juſt,
Friendly and honourable; but it knows thee now.
A ſoul-contracted hypocrite, and a villain.
Alb.
Alas! poor youth, he thinks not what he ſays,
Loſt in a labyrinth of mingled woe.
Subdue thy rage, my beſt-beloved Carlo!
[152] Nor wound my ears with ſuch afflictive ſounds
Of vile upbraidings, and diſcordant frenzy.
Car.
Attend my words—when firſt my ſoul re⯑ceiv'd.
The dreadful tidings of Thereſa's death;
As right I deem'd, by treachery procur'd;
Convulſive nature own'd a ſudden weakneſs;
And ſunk beneath a momentary madneſs;
But now I know myſelf; thee too I know,
I know thee for a low ambitious coward,
Falſe to thy friend, thy country, and thy ſiſter,
A traitor every way, and more, a murderer.
Alb.
No further tempt my moderation, Carlo!
Nor caſt ſuch falſe indignities upon me:
Leſt I forgetful of all tender ties,
Should ſcorn the ſocial bonds of hoſt and friend,
And puniſh thee for ſuch unjuſt ſuſpicion.
I am no traitor, and no coward I.
Car.
Say, was it noble, generous and brave,
To ſteal at midnight, with a ruffian's ſtep,
And bathe thy hangman's hands in innocent blood?
Was it a brother's love, a ſoldier's pride,
That urg'd the deed? 'twas damnable ambition;
Which bade thy ſhameleſs ſpirit wiſh to reign.
Go, reign a ſlave, and be thy ſtate thy curſe.
But firſt I dare thee draw thy tarniſh'd ſword
In vile ſupport of crime, while I will come
Arm'd with the fury of deſpairing love,
And rage of injur'd friendſhip to the combat.
Alb.
[153]Then be it ſo, I ſhall not wiſh to fail thee.
Car.
Name thou ſome hour and place of ſolitude,
Sacred to gloomy death, and grim revenge,
Fit for the ſolemn conflict; there to prove
If infamy, or juſtice, ſhall prevail.
I once did love thee well, that time is o'er,
And now I call thee forth with deadly hate;
For be aſſured, or thou, or I muſt fall.
Then if to me the victory belong,
Thereſa from her bleſs'd abode ſhall ſmile.
Alb.
'Tis like ſhe may; and let me add, I praiſe
Thy val'rous bearing as a ſoldier ſhould.
Nor will I ſhrink thro' conſciouſneſs of crime,
Or dread of all thy haughty menaces.—
Near to the ivy-crowned mauſoleum
Of Milan's royal race, where wither now
The beauties of Thereſa, is a ſpot
That ſuits our purpoſe well; I'll there confront thee,
'Tis juſt without the gates, and ſoon as e'er
The ſickly moon ſhall raiſe her blunted horns
Above th' horizon, and around be heard
The far wolf's famiſh'd howlings, that awake
The flitting ſcreach-owl's melancholy cry,
There ſhall thy wiſh'd-for triumph be complete.
Car.
Nor ſhall it wait me long, for even now,
O'er the ſtill landſcape beams the chryſtal orb,
Whoſe fun'ral lamp, ſhall light thee to thy grave.
I go to meet thee, ſo till then, adieu.
[Exeunt

SCENE II.[154]Moonlight. The Mauſoleum of the Dukes of Milan.
Enter CLOTILDA.
Clot.
O how congenial to my gloomy ſoul
Are theſe dumb horrors! hide thy lucid face,
Thou melancholy moon! for ſure thou throw'ſt
With too much luxury, thy glitt'ring beams,
T' adorn this mould'ring manſion of the dead.—
O rather riſe, ye rending hurricanes!
Loaded with lamentation, and deſpair,
And ſooth my ear with deſolating ſong.
Such is the muſick I require to breathe
In ſolemn uniſon with my dark deſigns;
And ye unconſcious relicts! that repoſe
In ſilent ſatire of magnificence,
That free from human cares, and wild deſires,
Own the relentleſs tyrant's putrid ſway,
All hail! I come to rouze your dull abode
With buſy crime! And thou, Thereſa's ſhade!
Let me appeaſe thee now, for here I wait
To ſlay the baſe deſtroyer, and to place
Thy murder'd murderer beſide thy corſe,
Methinks the victim lingers! haſte, Arnaldi!
Receive thy recompenſe, for lo! the end
[Puts her Hand upon a Dagger.
[155] Of all thy expectations meets thee here.
Yonder he comes, I hear his eager ſtep—
O let me ſteel my boſom to its purpoſe!
Enter ARNALDI.
Arn.
Obedient to thy wiſh, behold me here;
But tell me why thou didſt appoint a time
When all the virtuous court the arms of ſleep,
And miſchief wanders forth? why this drear ſcene,
Where ſilence watches the remains of death?
It is moſt ſtrange. Alas! my mind forebodes
Some over-hanging evil: Speak, Clotilda!
Clot.
Hear then, Thereſa in this tomb repoſes;
A few hours paſt interr'd; for ſo I order'd;
Leſt by delay might be incurr'd ſome danger.—
Now, in the hurry of the time, with her
The richeſt diamond of the ſtate was buried;
Which ſparkled on her finger; that t' obtain,
I pray'd thy preſence here; afraid to explore
Alone, the darkſome vault of griſly Death.
Then guide my ſteps, Arnaldi! and protect me
From apprehenſion of creative terror;
So ſhall the jewel in reward be thine.
Here, take the key, and wrench the iron bolt.
That holds in bondage vile the race of Milan.
Arn.
'Tis well that I, the miniſter of death,
Should from the dead receive my juſt reward.
[156] Thou dreary chamber! ope thy hungry jaw,
[He unlocks the  [...]
And let the living enter;—Ha! ſee there,
Yon glimm'ring lamp a paly luſtre ſheds
On cold Thereſa's cheek; outſtretch'd ſhe lies
In deep repoſe I gave;—within my breaſt,
Ten thouſand horrors dwell, and ſad remorſe
Sits thron'd a tyrant—mark, in awful range,
The ſov'reign houſe of far-renowned Milan.
Lie ſide by ſide in ſocial nothingneſs.
And, lo! Thereſa! ſtill ſhe ſeems to reign
O'er the dull kingdom of relentleſs death;
Herſelf the bridal partner of his ſway.
I cannot enter, for my trembling knees
Forget their office, and unuſual dread
Hangs on my ſpirits—forward brave Clotilda!
And tear the glowing jewel from her hand,
While I await thee here.
Clot.
Doſt thou, inur'd to crimes of blackeſt dye,
School'd in villainy, and loſt to ſhame,
Preſume to ſhudder now, and heſitate,
Like a young maiden, o'er her lover's grave?
Come on then, boldly—when I lead the way,
Thou ſure may'ſt follow. Hark! I hear the ſteps
Of ſome approaching, let us quick retire
From curious obſervation.
[They go into the Mauſoleum and ſhut the  [...]
[157] Enter ALBERTO and CARLO.
Alb.
This is the ſepulchre where ſleeps Thereſa,
And her illuſtrious anceſtors; and here,
If chance thy arm ſhould vindicate her wrongs,
I too ſhall reſt.—
Car.
Draw, draw thy ſword, nor work upon my friendſhip,
But be the noble youth my love once ſpoke thee,
Ere thou hadſt loſt thyſelf, and kill'd Thereſa.
Alb.
I ſcorn to talk of innocence to thee,
Since that thou know'ſt me not; yet much I mourn
The deep regret, and anguiſh thou prepar'ſt thee.
Car.
War not with words, Alberto! I deſpiſe
Such mean, unmanly murm'rings; draw thy ſword,—
Thereſa's injuries riſing to my thought,
Inflame my rage, and ſhall direct my blade
To the curſt boſom of her baſe deſtroyer.
[They fight, ALBERTO throws himſelf upon the Sword of CARLO, and falls.
Alb.
Thanks to thy ſword, my Carlo! it is done,
And I no longer ſhall offend thy fight,
Nor ſuffer thy upbraidings;—yet 'tis ſtrange,
In youth's gay prime to cloſe the languid eye
Upon the ſplendid picture of the world,
And break each fond attachment: but, farewel!
[158] The various intereſts of active life,
The ſocial intercourſe of friendly men,
And glory's luring charms, all, all farewel!
I now muſt be a banquet for the worm.
Car.
Why didſt thou throw thee on my ſword
Without a conteſt? didſt thou wiſh to die,
And ſpare thy once lov'd friend? But O! forgive
The vengeful ſtroke, that robs thee of thy life.
And leaves me to deſpair; ſo gracious Heaven
May pardon thee the murder of Thereſa.
Yet while thou canſt, confeſs the fatal deed
For which I pierc'd thy boſom, ſo ſhall I
Better compoſe my mind,—thou die the better.
Alb.
Suppoſe me guilty, Carlo! of the act
For which I die, leſt grief and ſad remorſe,
Prey on thy youthful days: I love thee well,
And wiſh thee happy, and may Heaven beſtow
Mercy on me, as freely I forgive thee.
Thou'ſt acted nobly, Carlo! as became thee!
And if thou e'er ſhouldſt think that thou haſt en'd
Remember, error is the lot of man.
I bleed apace, and viſionary forms
Crowd o'er my ſenſes,—I muſt pauſe awhile.
Car
Spare me, ye miniſt'ring pow'rs
Of Heaven's high vengeance! rather, rather cruſh me—
He's innocent! O mark his dying brow,
Free from all ſymptom of diſturbing guilt;
[159] Yes, he is innocent, and I myſelf
Am the dark-minded, monſter, and the murderer.
[A ſhriek is heard in the Mauſoleum, which opens, and CLOTILDA is ſeen  [...]ing from THERESA, who advances in her ſepul⯑chral robe. CARLO ſtarts, and ALBERTO raiſes himſelf in amazement.
Colt.
O glare not on me thus, thine eye's reproach
Is worſe than hell—I cannot bear thy ſight.
Tho' torments wait me at the hour of death,
Yet, while I live, thou haſt no pow'r to puniſh.
Ther.
Where am I! do I live! what means this ſcene
Of deſolation, ſepulchres, and death?
There's one does bleed near the cold couch I left,
And here's another.
Car.
It is herſelf! it is the beauteous maid
Who lives and ſpeaks! O welcome from the tomb
To thy own Carlo's arms, who hither comes
To ſcreen thee ever from a brother's rage.
Ther.
My thoughts return, tho' wav'ring reaſon hangs
In wild uncertainty on all I ſee,
And all I hear,—but, thus let me enfold
The youth I love—yet 'twas no brother's rage
That drove me to the tomb; it was Clotilda
Sent the dull cup Arnaldi's hand preſented,
And which I drank in part, but pour'd aſide
The remnant unobſerv'd: ſince then I've ſlept.
Car.
Now malice thou'rt content—my ſum of ill
[160] Cannot be greater, nor my puniſhment
Exceed my juſt deſerving—O Alberto!
Clot.
A curſe attend thy parted ſoul, Arnaldi!
For inattention; all had been ſecure
If ſhe had drank the calming bev'rage up.
But I have had my premature revenge;
Yonder Arnaldi lies; 'twas I that kill'd him.
Why did I come to ope thy priſon gates,
Abhorr'd Thereſa? elſe thou'dſt ſurely periſh'd
Ye furies fierce, who bathe your ſnaky locks
In liquid flame! Clotilda is your own.
Ther.
O! do not rave thus bitterly!
I will forgive thee all; nor ſhall revenge
Tempt aught againſt thy life or thy repoſe.
Clot.
Curſe on thy mimic moderation,
Thy ſhallow virtues and offenſive goodneſs.
I hate thy clemency, thy pardon ſcorn,
And fly from ſuch humanity to hell.
[Stabs herſelf and  [...]
What have we here? Alberto ſlain! 'tis he!
[ [...]eing Alberto.
This muſt be Carlo's deed—I triumph now.
Gentle Thereſa! view this bleeding youth,
Who lov'd thee tenderly; I die reveng'd. Oh!
[Dies
Ther.
What ſayſt thou, does my dear Alberto die?
Car.
Inhuman fiend! 'twas thou didſt point my ſword
[Carlo to Clotilda.
Againſt his life; yet ſtay, O ſtay my friend!
[To Alberto.
[161] And I will waſh thy wound with my heart's blood.
Wretch that I was to give implicit faith
To ſuch apparent, ſhallow artifice.
Is there no fiery bolt of righteous Heaven
To end my woes, and ſave me from diſtraction?
Ther.
Did Carlo wound thy gen'rous breaſt, Alberto!
[Kneeling.
Then muſt each hope of future happineſs
Fade in the bloſſom. Therefore will I ſeek
Some holy monaſtery's lone retreat,
And pour at early dawn the fervent hymn
For thy dear ſoul's repoſe—and all night long
Will I ſolicit mercy for my Carlo!
Yet, yet thine eye has luſtre, thou haſt breath,
Could'ſt thou but live, this were a world of joy!
Alb.
The hand of death weighs pond'rous at my heart,
And life's vain dream is o'er; yet, ere I go,
O hear me and aſſent. Thereſa, Carlo!
I pray you check your tears, and promiſe me,
That you will wed—'Tis true, indeed, my friend!
Thou gav'ſt the ſtroke, but it was I that ſought it.
Thou, like an honourable prince, deſy'dſt me,
T' avenge th' imagin'd murder; I too proud
To pauſe, explain, or lead thee from thy error,
Treated accommodation with diſdain,
But ruſh'd upon thy ſword to prove my truth.
O! then, Thereſa! here accept thy huſband,
If that thou would'ſt my ſpirit ſhould have peace.
Car.
It is too much!
Ther.
[162]I will accept him at thy hand, Alberto!
And cheriſh love amidſt eternal ſorrow.
Alb.
And wilt thou! Carlo! wilt thou take this maid?
Car.
Yes; I receive this offer'd excellence
With gratitude and mingled admiration
Of more than human greatneſs. O! Thereſa!
Here let me hold thee, till my life ſhall end,
With ſad contrition for my paſt offence.—
Tumultuous grief returns, I ſcarce can utter.
Once more thy pardon, noble-minded friend.
Alb.
Name it not, Carlo! for no dark reſentment
Glooms my calm breaſt; it was a deed of chance,
And mutual haſtineſs. My bleſſing on you—
Long may you reign in peace, and each new day
Greet you with happineſs! But, for Clotilda, O
Pity! nay more, forgive her, Royal Pair!
Implore Heaven's mercy on her guilty ſoul,
And ſtrive by frequent pray'r to melt its juſtice,—
'Tis all I aſk—nor is it pain to die.
[Dies.

STANZAS ON FRIENDSHIP.

[]

O, FRIENDSHIP! ſource of every good!
How ſeldom art thou underſtood;
How oft for intereſt, or for fame,
We proſtitute thy ſacred name.

'Tis not Ambition's pageant hour,
The proud parade of empty pow'r;
'Tis not the Monarch's ſcepter'd hand,
Thy faithful ſervice can command;

The heartfelt joy, the ſocial ſigh,
No power can force, no wealth can buy,
Nor pride, nor avarice e'er can know,
Exalted Frindſhip's fervent glow.

[164]

When haughty great-ones condeſcend,

To patronize the humble friend,

Who every feeling muſt reſign—

The ſervile contract is not thine.

When venal age, in hopes of gain,
Would bind the mercenary chain;
Each generous purpoſe there unknown
The ſordid motive thou'lt diſown.

Nor pleas'd with Youth's unaw'd career,
Amid the guſt of tranſient cheer;
Where Folly forms the ſhort-liv'd tye,
Wilt thou the ſlender cord ſupply.

Averſe to Guile, tho' gilded o'er,
Thou ſhun'ſt the midnight loud uproar;
And ſeeking Virtue's peaceful cell,
With calm content delight'ſt to dwell.

Yet, ſhould aſſlicted worth entreat,
Thou'lt fearleſs quit thy tranquil ſeat,
To pierce the dungeon's dreary gloom,
Or mourn at midnight round the tomb.

In life's unwelcome, cheerleſs hour,
When all around misfortunes lour;
Thou'lt ſeek the Wanderer in diſtreſs,
And ſharing ſorrows, make them leſs.

[165]

When affluence crowns ſucceſsful toil,

And Fate propitious wears a ſmile;

Thy influence aids the ſweet employ,

And gives a zeſt to every joy:

For what are all delights below,
Which fortune, Honours, Fame beſtow;
Unleſs with theſe we ſtrive to blend
The ſocial ſolace of a friend?

The flow of youth, the charms of Love,
But momentary tranſports prove;
Friendſhip alone ſecures Content,
More placid, but more permanent.

ARLEY.

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY AT BATH,
In whoſe Pocket-Book the AUTHOR had, at a very early Period of Life, written ſome Lines.

[]

IN earlier years, when Anna's face,
Could only boaſt an infant grace;
When artleſs treſſes deck'd her brow,
In many a wild untutor'd row;
Ere yet upon her baby cheek,
The conſcious bluſh had learn'd to ſpeak;
In that calm, unſuſpicious day,
The Muſe attun'd her willing lay;
And ſung of Anna's rip'ning charms,
When Anna could feel no alarms;
That tranquil hour, unknown to Fear,
When I might ſay, and ſhe might hear.—

The Hint tranſpir'd—and ſwift as thought,
The favour'd Pocket-Book was brought,
[167] While kind advice, and caution ſage,
Stood pencil'd o'er the virgin page;
Her little hands receiv'd the toy,
And her young heart proclaim'd her joy.

Will Anna now, maturer grown,
The ſweets of infant years diſown?
And will ſhe now unkind deſpiſe
The ſong that once ſhe deign'd to prize?
No—Anna's heart ſhall ſtill approve
The ſong that once ſhe deign'd to love:
Still ſhall the Muſe her ſteps attend—
Still will ſhe prize her early friend.
And now, in Beauty's lovlieſt bloom,
Though circled in the ſplendid room—
While rival fops around her wait,
With falſe applauſe, and ſenſeleſs prate;
And while the vaunts of ſelf they hold—
And while th' unmeaning tale is told;
Anna ſhall wiſh the folly o'er,
Shall fly to Memory's valu'd ſtore;
There foundly trace her childiſh age,
And call to mind the virgin page.

ARLEY.

THE COMPLAINT.
TO LORD *****.

[]

AND does my friend with kindly ray,
My humble verſe regard?
And does he prize the artleſs lay,
And does he prize the Bard?

The Bard, who oft in Pleaſure's bow'r,
Hath turn'd his early ſong;
When Love led on the ſportive hour,
And fir'd the youthful throng?

And ſhall he now, in Reaſon's reign,
The well-known theme forego?
And ſhall he not reſume the ſtrain;
And muſt it ceaſe to flow?

[169]

Ah me! the ſcenes of fond delight,

That wont to charm, are o'er;

And now no more the Muſe invite,

And wake the lyre no more:

For hard Suſpicion's anger'd eye,
Deems all it ſees unjuſt;
And jaundic'd Envy, low'ring by,
Supports the foul miſtruſt.

E'en She, whoſe breaſt with kindneſs glows,
That kindneſs doth ſuſpend;
She too the ſhaft of cenſure throws,
And points it at her friend;

That ſhaft, which hurl'd in open air,
When proud defiance calls,
With manly fortitude we bear,
Regardleſs where it falls;

That ſhaft, which veil'd in friendſhip's band,
Inflicts ſeverer ſmart,
Flies doubly fierce from friendſhip's hand,
And deeper ſtabs the heart.

And yet forbid, my plaintive ſong,
Should ſeem too prompt to blame;
For ſlander's ſting hath found me long,
And long hath pierc'd my fame:

[170]

And many an idle tale hath run,

And much hath been believ'd,

Of broken vows, and maids undone,

Abandon'd, and deceiv'd.

Peace to all ſuch—yet here I ſwear,
And thou'lt the warmth excuſe,
The garb which knaves and villains wear,
Thro' life I've ſcorn'd to uſe:

Tho' Love, with all its ſoft purſuits,
Hath claim'd my yielding hours;
Tho' oft I've cull'd its faireſt fruits,
And pluckt its choiceſt flow'rs—

Thoſe flow'rs, thoſe fruits, were nobly won,
Not fraudulently ſtole,
Love taught me how the race to run,
But Truth ſecur'd the goal.

Then deem not hard, that now the Muſe
Laments her fav'rite ſtrain:
That thus ſhe ventures to accuſe;
Accuſing, to complain:

For much ſhe joy'd, the nymphs among,
To waſte the frolic day;
To form for them the grateful ſong,
And carol time away.

[171]

But now no more the heaving ſigh,

Shall force the tear to ſtart;

But now no more the gliſt'ning eye,

Shall ſpeak the ſoften'd heart:

The tender ſcenes of earlier years,
To harſher views ſhall yield;
And Pride, her pageant ſceptre rears,
And Av'rice takes the field:—

Theſe ſhall the ſterner mind poſſeſs,
To no paſt maxims true;
Cold to them all, my Lord, unleſs
To Friendſhip, and to you.

ARLEY.

ODE To ****.

[]

PRAISE to the men who boldly dare,
Their undiſſembled thoughts declare;
Who ſpeak the ſentiments they feel,
And loud proclaim the crimes they might con⯑ceal.

Who nobly zealous daily try,
To pluck the maſk from villany;
By neither threat nor promiſe ſway'd,
By pow'r unaw'd, by danger undiſmay'd—

Who Juſtice's ſacred ſword unſheath,
To guard fair Freedom's valued wreath;
Yet careful ſhun the deed which draws,
Th' unwelcome ſhout of popular applauſe.

Who, bleſt with talents to perſuade,
Exert them for their Country's aid;
By virtue, not ambition fir'd,
For worth belov'd, not pageantry admir'd—

[173]

'Tis theirs with kind and bounteous hand,

To ſcatter plenty o'er the land;

To bid diſtreſs and ſorrow ſmile,

And crown with due reward the Artiſt's toil:

'Tis theirs to eaſe the Widow's fears,
To wipe the friendleſs Orphan's tears;
Redreſs the wrongs the weak endure,
Puniſh the guilty, and protect the poor.

Theirs is the nobleſt boon below,
The pureſt bliſs the mind can know!
That tranquil undiſturb'd ſerene,
Reſulting from the conſcious peace within.

For them each grateful voice ſhall ring,
For them each Muſe her tribute bring;
And in the hour which levels all,
Death with complacence ſhall await their call.

ARLEY.

PRAYER TO VENUS.

[]

KIND Venus, hear thy ſuppliant's pray'r,
Hear, and indulgent grant;
For love I aſk—you well may ſpare
The little I ſhall want.

No ſtorms of paſſion I deſire,
No boundleſs tranſports claim,
Give me that gentle doubtful fire,
Which feeds a ſportive flame.

For oh! I've known the ſoft delights,
That warm the breaſt ſincere;
The anxious days and ſleepleſs nights
That nurſe the tender fear.

[175]

Have ſhar'd the fond endearing kiſs,

Which mutual ardour fires,

And taſted oft that genuine bliſs,

Which mutual truth inſpires.

I've felt the fierce extreme of love,
Which utterance would deſtroy;
When ſpeechleſs raptures ſilent prove,
The ſoul's ſublimeſt joy.

But then its bittereſt pangs I've borne,
Depreſt with tenfold care;
And many an hour with anguiſh torn,
Sat brooding o'er Deſpair.

Whelm'd with ſuch violence of woe,
Would melt a heart of ſteel,
Which only thoſe who love can know,
Who loſe can only feel.

Hence, let me calmly view the ſex,
Contented to enjoy
That bliſs, which abſence cannot vex,
Or Perfidy deſtroy:

O Venus! let me favour win,
Secure from Cupid's dart,
Still let it gently pierce my ſkin,
But never probe my heart!

ARLEY.

COMPLIMENTARY VERSES.

[]

Some years ago, at the houſe of a deceaſed Nobleman, ſeveral complimentary Verſes to the brilliancy of the Hon. Mrs. N—H's Eyes were written;—amongſt the reſt the following:

GIVE me to ſee that ſpark of heavenly fire,

At which all tremble—but which all admire:

That gentle gleam, which in Contentment's hour,

Cheers every vale and brightens every bower.

That ray terrific—which when anger glooms,

Darts dreadful flame, and as it darts, conſumes;

Strong blaze of light—which fires where'er it falls,

Exalts, dejects, revivifies, appals;

Shew me that power which thus with Fate can vie,

Turn, and behold it lives in—LAURA's eye!

ARLEY.

STANZAS
Written on the Children of Lady CRAVEN, performing a PLAY, before her at Queensbury Houſe ſome years ago.

[]

NYMPHS and Shepherds hither haſte,
Here the pureſt joys we taſte;
Reaſon guides our ruſtic play,
Tunes the pipe and forms the lay.

Lovely MIRA is our queen,
Guardian of the ſilvan ſcene;
Nature's charming handmaid, ſhe
Thus proclaims her ſoft decree:

Come ye little ſmiling train,
Cheer with ſports my happy plain;
Come, while yet the infant year,
Proves both ſmile and ſport ſincere.

Blooming in the morn of life,
Strangers yet to care and ſtrife;
Free from art, and free from blame,
You can paint me as I am.

[178]

What tho' on your baby brows,

Mark'd expreſſion faintly glows;

Artleſs look, and native ſtrain,

All my feelings beſt explain.

Soon ſhall Time, with iron ſway,
Harden youths' maturer day;
Then no longer taught by me,
You'll ſcorn my ſweet ſimplicity.

ARLEY.

THE RETROSPECT.

[]

AMID the ſcenes of noiſe and ſtrife,
That ſadly ſorrow human life
And cauſe continual woes;
What ſoft ſenſation ſooths my breaſt,
Bids every jarring paſſion reſt,
And tranſient bliſs beſtows.

'Tis faithful Memory's friendly hand,
That waves her all-enlivening wand,
And brings to fancy's view;
What time when wing'd with gay delight,
Each thoughtleſs day and eaſy night,
On pleaſure's pinions flew.

Wafts me to S—'s fertile plains,
Where, firſt I ſung my infant ſtrains,
A rude, unpoliſh'd boy;
Where, fraught with innocence and Truth,
The lively ſports of early youth,
Produc'd a guiltleſs joy.

[180]There, pleas'd I trace the flow'ry mead,
And round the well-known elm-trees tread,
Where oft I've careleſs play'd;
And ſure my choiceſt days were ſpent,
Cheer'd with the ſmiles of glad Content,
Beneath their peaceful ſhade.

The diſtant view of N—'s hills,
My breaſt with exultation fills,
Long time the bounded walk;
There oft I've ſhar'd the ſweet regale,
Partook th' allotted cakes and ale,
And held the ſprightly talk.

The church, the yard, the neighb'ring yew,
All join to warm my heart a-new,
And paſtimes paſt recall;
'Twas here I laſh'd the murm'ring top,
Here drove the tile with eager hop,
There ſtruck the bounding ball.

Nor ſhall fair Learning's ſacred ſpot,
Be by the grateful Muſe forgot,
Or heedleſs left unſung;
Where dawning Reaſon firſt began
The deeds of ancient dead to ſcan,
And urge th'enquiring tongue.

[181]Where, ſtudious ſtill maturing age,
Explor'd the long inſtructive page,
And emulous of fame,
Conſuming oft th' evening oil,
Enjoy'd a pleaſing-painful toil
To raiſe a future name.

Hail, happy ſtate of infant years!
There lovely Peace her temple rears,
And ſmiling ſtands confeſt:
There Virtue holds her cheerful court,
And youthful, gay deſires reſort
To charm the tranquil breaſt.

No lawleſs paſſions Wound the mind,
There pleaſures leave no ſting behind,
Sad ſource of other's care;
Nor fell Remorſe, nor envious ire,
Nor black Revenge, with purpoſe dire,
Occaſion dark deſpair.

Their's is the roſy bloom of health,
The boundleſs tranſport ſnatch'd by ſtealth,
The heart devoid of guile;
What riper manhood ſeldom knows,
The peaceful undiſturb'd repoſe,
And undiſſembled ſmile.

[182]Regardleſs of to-morrow's doom,
They feel no dread of ills to come,
Nor Pleaſure's feaſt forego;
The playful day their great relief,
The taſk unlearn'd their only grief.
The rod their only foe.

Ah, ever to be envied hours!
When no ſad thought of future fours—
No diſtant fears annoy;
No paſt reflections intervene
To pain the boſom's calm ſerene,
Or damp the preſent joy.

Affliction's load they ſeldom bear,
'Tis theirs to ſhed the ſhort-liv'd tear
For ſorrows ſoon forgot;
The ſweets that from Contentment flow,
That health and peace of mind beſtow,
Complete their happy lot.

ARLEY.

STANZAS TO ILL-NATURE.

[]

FIEND abhorr'd! Mankind's worſt foe!—
Hence, thy darkſome crew among—
Haſte,—and with thy jaundic'd brow,
Fly the Muſe's vengeful ſong!

Oft the hapleſs Muſe hath borne
Deep within the wounded heart,
Fell Detraction's venom'd thorn,
Pointed by thy treach'rous art.

Born of Envy, nurs'd by Spleen,
Rear'd in Paſſion's blighting ſtorm:
Sorrow, anguiſh, care, chagrin,
Mark thy hideous hateful form.

Fraud and falſehood ſwell thy train,
Diſcord is thy ſole employ,
Baffl'd malice, all thy pain,
Sated rancour, all thy joy.

[184]

Does the Muſe with ſportive power,

Strive the gloom of life to cheer,

Thou'lt arraign the harmleſs hour,

Stifle peace, and nurture fear.

Does the flow of joy, or eaſe,
Some endearing ſcenes ſupply;
Every little wiſh to pleaſe
Rouſes thy malignity!

Humble genius, ſlender grace,
Small deſert may wait the Muſe,
Yet, if any ſpark we trace,
Thy ſevereſt hate enſues.

Blacken'd by thy foul report,
Mirth is miſchief, laughter guile;
Snares are ſeen in ev'ry ſport;
Perfidy in every ſmile.

Still thy arts, malicious fiend—
Still thy hell-born ſchemes would fail,
Did not oft the valued friend,
Liſten to thy ſpecious tale.

Vain were each inſidious charge,
Effort feeble as unjuſt,
Did alas! the world at large,
Only hear, and only truſt.

[185]

Did not oft the ſecret lie

Break the bond of private peace,

Bid domeſtic comfort fly,

Love ſubſide, and friendſhip ceaſe?

Did not oft thy breath deſtroy,
Fair Contentment's blooming flow'r,
Wither ev'ry ſocial joy,
And corrode life's deareſt hour?

Did not oft thy poiſon'd ſhaft,
Pierce the breaſt that moſt we prize,
And on fading faith engraft
Doubt, conſtraint, and ſad ſurmiſe?—

Luckleſs is that child of care,
Who beneath thy ſcourge muſt live,
Doom'd from early youth to bear
All the torments thou canſt give.

Once thy fatal influence ſpread,
Candour takes no further part;
Ignorance ſuſpects the head,
Prejudice belies the heart.

Hard and cruel is his lot,
Every merit is denied;
All his virtues are forgot,
All his errors magnified.

[186]

Fiend relentleſs—Tyrant grim—

Yet awhile, and all is o'er;

When the lamp of life is dim,

Thou wilt be obſerv'd no more.

When the ſad, the funeral knell,
Shall his parted breath proclaim,
Faithful Mem'ry then ſhall tell,
Whether he deſerv'd ſuch blame.

Love, perhaps, may o'er his tomb,
Drop a tender ſilent tear;
Friendſhip too lament a doom,
Enmity may think ſevere,

ARLEY.

THE CONFESSION.
TO MISS ****.

[]

IN vain I ſtrive my heart to ſhield,
Spite of myſelf that heart will yield;
In vain would hide a thouſand ways
What every conſcious look betrays:—

The jeſt aſſum'd, th' averted eye,
Poorly conceal the ſtifled ſigh;
Each ſtolen touch, which love impels,
The heart's emotion trembling tells.

Yet not Eliza's charms alone,
Could ruling reaſon thus dethrone;
Her blooming graces, tho' with pain,
My cautious boſom might ſuſtain.

But arm'd with that enchanting mien,
Which ſpeaks the feeling mind within;
How can my ſoften'd breaſt be free,
Thus caught by Senſibility?

[188]

Yet not for me the tear will ſtart,

Which proves Eliza's tender heart;

Yet not for me the ſmile will ſpeak,

Which brightens in Eliza's cheek;

Loſt in the whirl of faſhion'd life,
Where Nature is with Joy at ſtrife;
Her unembarraſs'd looks declare,
That Love is not triumphant there:—

Lur'd by the hope of gaudier days,
The pompous banners Wealth diſplays:
Each fond emotion diſtant keeps,
And all her native ſoftneſs ſleeps.

ARLEY.

PROLOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE PROVOK'D HUSBAND.
Spoken ſome time ago at a Private Performance at WEYBRIDGE.

[]

ERE yet the Comic Muſe, with ſprightly pow'r,
Provokes the laugh, and leads the mirthful hour,
Permit the Bard, in ſerious mood awhile
To wake remembrance, and ſuſpend the ſmile:
Our ſcenes to-night no novel merit claim,
Long-tried deſert hath fix'd their laſting fame;
The Characters that mark our choſen page
Have long engroſs'd the veterans of the Stage.
Who was not charm'd, when BARRY held to view
The matchleſs portraiture which CIBBER drew?
Each eye beſtow'd, while he ſuſtain'd the part,
The melting tribute of the feeling heart:
Pitied alike the Huſband and the Peer,
Felt his diſtreſs, and ſhar'd his manly tear:
But when Compaſſion taught his breaſt to glow—
When fond Forgiveneſs beam'd upon his brow—
[190] When with diſcordant pangs no more at ſtrife,
He caught with tranſport his repentant Wife:
Chas'd with a kiſs the ſorrows from her cheek,
And told in looks, what language could not ſpeak;
Reliev'd from ſilent agony the mind,
Like heaving Aetna, when no more confin'd,—
True to itſelf, and fir'd in Nature's cauſe,
Burſt in the torrent of extreme applauſe.

Not ſo our hope—altho' no frown we fear,
Your gentle plaudits will content us here.
For here we meet, tho' envious Factions low'r,
To paſs with pleaſantry life's leiſure hour—
To ſnatch relief from ombre and quadrille;
Employ the moments—not the time to kill—
To vent our feelings, give fair Friendſhip birth,
And bind it with the roſy wreath of mirth:
Pleas'd, if our ſimple ſtore, and artleſs toil,
Can light in Beauty's cheek one grateful ſmile—
More pleas'd, if when our ſofter ſcenes appear,
We draw from Beauty's eye one tender tear.

ARLEY.

THE INVITATION.
TO DELIA.

[]

THY youthful charms, bright Maid, inſpire,
And grace my fav'rite theme,
Whoſe perſon kindles ſoft deſire;
Whoſe mind ſecures eſteem.
O! hear me then, my flame avow,
And fill my breaſt with joy,
A flame, which taught by time to grow,
No time can e'er deſtroy:
My tender ſuit with ſmiles approve,
And ſhare the ſweets of mutual love.

No falſe deluſive arts I uſe,
As do the courtly throng,
'Tis Nature kindly aids my muſe,
And dictates to my ſong;
[192] Would'ſt thou, ſhe cries, true bliſs enſure,
Make haſte the town to leave,
Where Pleaſure's gilded baits allure,
And charm but to deceive:
With me, thro' flow'ry medows rove,
And ſhare the ſweets of mutual love.

Forſake, where all upright appear,
Yet moſt perfidious prove,
Where knaves the maſk of friendſhip wear,
Or feign the voice of love.
So ſhall thy inexperienc'd years,
No ſource of ſorrow know;
Nor ſhed Affliction's homefelt tears,
Nor weep for others woe:
Haſte then, from faithleſs crowds remove,
And ſhare the ſweets of mutual love.

Ah! would my Fair this plan purſue,
How happy ſhould I be,
Since all that brings content to you,
Is ecſtacy to me.
Yet e'er the public ſcenes you quit,
Increaſe my fond delight,
And deign your humble ſwain t' admit
The partner of your flight;
And while the varying ſeaſons move,
To ſhare the ſweets of mutual love,

[193]When Autumn yields her ripen'd corn,
Or Winter dark'ning low'rs,
With tend'reſt care, I'll ſooth thy morn,
And cheer thy ev'ning hours:
Again, when ſmiling Spring returns,
We'll breath the vernal air,
And ſtill, when Summer ſultry burns,
To woodland walks repair:
There ſeek Retirement's ſhelter'd grove,
And ſhare the ſweets of mutual love.

What tho' no coſtly arts diſplay,
The ſplendour of a court,
Yet rich in Nature's neat array,
We'll join the rural ſport;
Where, ſeated on the verdant graſs,
From daily labour freed,
Each ſhepherd wooes his favourite laſs,
And tunes his oaten reed,
Remarks the tender turtle dove,
And ſings the ſweets of mutual love.

No revels there the night conſume,
Which oft the Fair undo,
Make beauty loſe its lovely bloom,
And often virtue too;
[194] There, free from diſcontent and ſtrife,
Each undeſigning youth
Strives to relieve the cares of life,
With conſtancy and truth;
Haſte then, the fleeting hours improve,
And ſhare the ſweets of mutual love.

For can that deſtiny be juſt,
That innocence and health
Be yielded up a prey to luſt,
Or ſacrifice to wealth?
Or ſhall the mind, where honour dwelt,
Deplore that honour gone,
Which ſtill for others pitying felt,
Itſelf unpitied mourn?
Forbid it, all ye pow'rs above,
And grant her ever mutual love!

ARLEY.

STANZAS ON A YOUNG LADY's BIRTH-DAY. In the Month of November.

[]

SINCE all to Beauty's rip'ning bloom
Their cheerful homage pay,
Be not diſpleas'd, that I preſume
To hail thy natal day.

Tho' careleſs joke, and empty mirth,
My thoughtleſs hours employ,
I'll greet the day which gave thee birth,
With undiſſembl'd joy.

And while the Muſe's ſofteſt ſtrains
In artleſs numbers flow;
That ſmiles may recompenſe her pains
The fervent wiſh ſhall glow.

[196]

Henceforward now ſhall diſappear

Dull Winter's cheerleſs gloom;

November's month ſhall charm the year,

And wear an annual bloom;

Freſh flow'rets ſhall unfading blow,
Freſh verdure deck the green;
The meads their choiceſt beauties ſhew,
To honour Beauty's Queen.

But ſhould the ſeaſon now refuſe
To act the change I ſing;
Sould Winter ſcorn to aid the Muſe,
Declar'd the foe to Spring;

The roſes that thy cheeks adorn,
Shall haſt'ning youth prolong;
Shall yearly grace thy birth-day morn,
And witneſs to my ſong:

Or if by Time's all conqu'ring-hand,
Their bloom muſt wear away;
The roſes of thy mind ſhall ſtand,
And never know decay.

ARLEY.

LINES SENT TO A FRIEND WITH A WATCH.

[]

ACCEPT, my friend, and kindly deem
This offering of the Bard;
His token of ſincere eſteem,
And tribute of regard.

What tho' no trappings I allow;
The Watch thus unadorn'd;
Believe me, when I dare avow,
Its worth ſhould not be ſcorn'd.

Companion of my earlieſt youth,
I've oft its value known!
Unſway'd its probity and truth,
By Fortune's ſmile, or frown.

[198]

In infant ſtate, when learning's lore,

For Paſtime was forgot,

It whiſper'd oft the haſt'ning hour,

And taſk remember'd not.

Obedient ſtill to riper age,
When Pleaſure leads aſtray;
'Twill Reaſon's cool reproof engage,
And chide the ill-ſpent day.

Remind us, Time unceaſing wears,
Howe'er its loſs we mourn;
And bid us nurſe the paſſing years,
Which never can return.

ARLEY.

SONG.
Addreſſed to A YOUNG LADY.

[]

SHOULD you aſk me, what female deſert I require
To reliſh the conjugal life;
Nor beauty, nor titles, nor wealth I deſire,
To bias my choice in a wife:
The charms of a face may occaſion a ſigh;
The coſtly allurements of Art
May yield a ſhort moment of joy to the eye,
But give no delight to the heart.

Would equipage, ſplendor, or noble deſcent
Bring comfort wherever they fall,
Could theſe add a drop to the cup of Content,
I'd gladly partake of them all;
But vain the aſſiſtance proud riches beſtow,
The raptures that beauty impart,
To ſoften the painful reflections of woe,
Or baniſh diſtreſs from the heart.

[200]Then give me the temper unclouded and gay,
The countenance ever ſerene,
To cheer with ſweet converſe as youth wears away,
And diſſipate anger and ſpleen;
Whoſe ſmiles may endear and enliven the hours
Retirement ſhall oft ſet apart;
Whoſe virtues may ſooth when diſquietude ſours,
And tenderneſs cheriſh the heart.

For Fortune, be Honour her portion aſſign'd,
For Beauty, bright Health's roſy bloom,
Let Juſtice and Candor ennoble her mind,
And Cheerfulneſs Sorrow conſume:
Thus form'd would ſhe ſhare with me life's little ſtore,
It's mixture of pleaſure and ſmart.
She'd ever continue, 'till both were no more,
The conſtant delight of my heart.

ARLEY.

BALLAD, FOUNDED ON FACT.

[]

ELIZA was beyond compare,
The pride of all the plain,
Fair, yet belov'd by every fair,
Ador'd by every ſwain.

Tho' Nature had each charm combin'd
The beauteous Maid to grace;
And bade the ſweetneſs of her mind
Stand pictur'd in her face;

Yet Fortune, from her earlieſt years,
A fate diſaſtrous wove;
And doom'd her to an age of tears,
For one ſhort hour of love.

In childhood's helpleſs ſtate, bereft
Of parents' watchful care;
Her inexperienc'd youth was left
A prey to every ſnare.

[200]

[...]

[]

[...]

[202]

One only fault the Maid proffeſs'd—

—If that a fault we deem—

A tender, unſuſpecting breaſt,

Too laviſh of eſteem.

Unvers'd in woes that others find,
In wiles that others fear;
Artleſs herſelf, ſhe thought mankind
Were, like herſelf, ſincere.

But ah! ere yet the luckleſs Maid
Had fifteen ſummers run,
Her faith and honour were betray'd—
Her virtue was undone.

Young HENRY, with ſucceſsful art,
To win her favour ſtrove;
Long practis'd on her youthful heart,
And early gain'd her love.

Fraught with each ſoft reſiſtleſs charm,
With each perſuaſive pow'r,
He ſtill'd Diſcretion's kind alarm,
And cropp'd the virgin flow'r.

[203]

Her orphan ſtate, her tender years,

Her pure, unſpotted fame,

Serv'd but to huſh his guilty fears,

And fan his lawleſs flame.

By Honour's dictates unreſtrain'd,
By Faith, nor Juſtice ſway'd;
That confidence his vows obtain'd
His perfidy betray'd.—

So poor ELIZA's hapleſs fate
Fill'd HENRY's breaſt with care;
Nor could the vain parade of ſtate
Protect him from deſpair.

He ſaw the beauties once he priz'd
All wither in their bloom,
By lawleſs paſſion ſacrific'd
Untimely to the tomb.

For how could injur'd honour look
Its Author in the face?
Or how could ſuff'ring virtue brook
Invective and diſgrace?

[204]

No ſorrows could afford relief,

No penitence atone;

The ſigh ſhe gave to others' grief,

She wanted for her own.

The partners of her youthful years,
Unpitying her diſtreſs,
Nor kindly help'd to dry her tears,
Nor ſtrove to make them leſs.

Her lov'd companions turn'd away
To former friendſhip cold;
And left her in Affliction's day,
Uncheriſh'd, unconſol'd.

So ever thro' the World we find
Each breaſt at woe recoils,
And all the favours of mankind
But laſt while fortune ſmiles.

Too juſt, life's guilty joys t' endure,
Too weak its thorns to brave;
No friend but Death ſhe could procure,
No comfort but the Grave.

[205]

Awhile ſhe Heaven's forgiveneſs pray'd,

For errors long confeſt;

Then ſought the ſolitary ſhade,

And ſilent ſunk to reſt.

Hard-fortun'd ſex! in every ſtate,
From cuſtom's rigid pow'r,
Years of remorſe can't expiate
One inadvertent hour.

Unſkill'd in Life's precarious way,
Should Love their boſoms burn,
And yielding Nature chance to ſtray,
They never can return.

In vain they with repentant ſighs,
Their ſad experience mourn;
E'en thoſe, who ought to ſympathize,
Abandon them with ſcorn.

Say why, ye Virgins, who beſtow
On moſt, Compaſſion's tear;
The pangs alone yourſelves may know,
You thus refuſe to cheer?

[206]

O rather kindly condeſcend

To aid the drooping fair;

Your mercy with your juſtice blend,

And ſnatch them from deſpair.

ELIZA's death, when HENRY heard,
He gave a piteous groan;
The cenſure of the World he fear'd,
But more he fear'd his own.

In vain he flew to crowds and courts,
Guilt every bliſs deſtroys;
Intruded on his morning ſports,
And damp'd his evening joys.

At length, with conſtant grief o'ercome,
With anguiſh, and diſmay;
He hied him to the lonely tomb
Which held ELIZA's clay:

There weeping o'er the turf-clad ground,
Of all exiſtence tir'd:
He caſt his ſtreaming eyes around,
And mournfully expir'd.

[207]

Thus warn'd, ye Fair, with caution arm

'Gainſt Man's perfidious arts:

Since Youth and Beauty vainly charm

When Honour once departs.

Let Hymen's ſacred bands unite,
Where Paſſion is declar'd;
Give ſanction to approv'd delight,
And authorize regard.

So ſhall no rankling cares annoy,
No tears unceaſing flow;
So ſhall you feel a Mother's joy,
Without a Mother's woe.

ARLEY.

TO LAURA.

[]

The following Lines were the earlieſt offering to a Young Lady, whoſe Theatric talents once formed the ornament of the Stage on which [...] [...] ⯑peared and whoſe Memory will be honoured by the Drama which ſhe adorned.

GO, faithful Muſe! to LAURA fly,
And with thee bear this tender ſigh;
Tell her 'tis honeſt—free from art,
And acts in concert with my heart:

If ſoft ſhe looks, nor frowns the while,
'Twill take the ſemblance of a ſmile;
But if unkind ſhe ſcorns it—ſwear
Twill melt that moment to a tear:—

Fly, Muſe, and let the Fair one know,
'Tis her's to fix my weal or woe;
Array'd in Beauty's lovlieſt bloom,
She ſtamps my bliſs, or ſeals my doom.

[209]

Bid her recal that happy hour,

When to the box the wand ſhe bore;

And having play'd her public part,

Came privately to ſteal my heart.

Go, Muſe, and aſk the charming Maid,
If pond'ring ſince on what I ſaid,
She ever wiſh'd nor would diſdain,
To paſs the halcyon hour again?

While all were on the ſcene intent,
My thoughts alone on her were bent,
Her ſmiles to kingdoms I'd prefer,
And I could only gaze on her.

Haſte, haſte, my Muſe, once more intrude
And aſk if LAURA thought me rude?
Aſk, if that ſweet engaging brow
To every Swain is always ſo?

Aſk, if thoſe looks were only meant,
As cold reſpect and compliment?
Aſk, if her heart was wholly free,
Or felt one partial glow for me?

Perhaps that youthful boſom yet,
Hath no endearing object met;
Ah me! what tranſports he muſt prove,
Who raptur'd wins her Virgin Love!

[210]

For me, unſkill'd, unus'd to plead,

My humble Verſe may ill ſucceed;

Yet LAURA, to that Verſe attend,

And in the Lover mark the Friend.

While life's tranſcendant morn is yours,
While Beauty blooms, and Youth endures;
A thouſand Swains will hourly kneel,
And what they fancy, ſwear they feel.

Laſcivious age will round thee preſs,
And ſhock thy early tenderneſs;
Will dare to bribe the free-born Mind,
And give you gold to have you kind.

Ah, LAURA! ſhun the treach'rous foe,
Who'd ſink thy feeling heart ſo low;
Such wretches ſcorn, and him approve,
Who only offers Love for Love.

ARLEY.

ELEGY.
To the LADY who will beſt remember it.

[]

WHEN ſtrong Affliction deeply wounds the breaſt,
When Sorrow ſits within the moiſten'd eye;
When the heart ſinks, with pond'rous grief oppreſt,
And the ſad boſom heaves with many a ſigh;

Loſt to all life, averſe from ev'ry joy,
Diſdaining comfort, ſcorning all repoſe,
The penſive Soul can brook but one employ—
Brooding in gloomy Silence o'er its woes.

Come then, thou Partner of my cheerleſs hour,
Come, faithful Muſe, and ſeek the lonely grove,
Retire with me to yon ſequeſter'd bow'r,
And mark the ſtory of my luckleſs love.

For thou, the trueſt, tendereſt, beſt of friends,
The fond companion of my earlieſt youth,
Wilt ſhare each anguiſh that my boſom rends,
Untir'd wilt liſten, and unſeen wilt ſooth.

[212]

Oft haſt thou tried, and oft with kind ſucceſs,

To ſmooth the ſorrows of my aching brow;

But ah! I never felt ſevere diſtreſs,

Or prov'd th' extreme of miſery till now.

Full well thou know'ſt in life's unripen'd morn,
With thoughtleſs eaſe I paſs'd the frolick day;
Pluckt every roſe, and where I found a thorn,
Threw, careleſs threw, th' unheeded flow'r away.

Reſolv'd the roving reſtleſs mind to cure,
And guide the future different from the paſt,
I ſought for ſweets that might thro' life endure,
And fondly fancied they were found at laſt.

I ſaw the lovlieſt Roſe, that grac'd the land,
With blooming fragrance gladd'ning all around,
Too bold, perhaps, I thruſt the forward hand,
Miſs'd the fair flow'r, and only felt the wound.

Felt! did I ſay! deep rankling in my heart
No time can mitigate my ſuffering there;
Hope lends no friendly balſam for the ſmart,
And all my black'ning proſpects frown deſpair,

And yet lov'd Maid, if partial to my Muſe,
Her artleſs numbers thou wilt deign to hear;
If, ſoftly-ſighing, thou wilt not refuſe,
To ſhed with her one ſympathizing tear;

[213]

That ſingle tear that dews ELIZA's cheek,

Shall for a moment waſh my griefs away;

That ſigh, tho' half ſuppreſt, ſhall more than ſpeak,

And gild the evening of each mournful day.

Then ſhall I think 'twas not ELIZA's heart,
'Twas not her gentle breaſt refus'd to glow;
'Twas not ELIZA's ſelf who made us part,
The World, th' unfeeling World pronounc'd it ſo.

The unfeeling World that thinks where riches roll,
Where titles blazon, joys can never ceaſe;
That waves each ſoft emotion of the ſoul,
And builds on public clamour private peace.

And yet, ELIZA, thou may'ſt live to prove,
And thy fond heart may own it with a ſigh,
That the endearing ſweets of mutual Love,
No Wealth, no State, no Splendour can ſupply.

Form'd as thou art, with every outward grace,
With ev'ry inward virtue richly fraught,
Think, if thy tenderneſs thou ſhould'ſt miſplace,
Pride, Pomp, and Grandeur may be dearly bought.

Though Honour's nobles circle thou'lt adorn,
And dignify in every ſphere the Wife,
ELIZA, or I much miſtake, was born
To ſhine amidſt the ſoften'd joys of life.

[214]

For me, whom poignant woes muſt ſtill depreſs,

Each future hour to ſorrow I reſign;

Death only can alleviate my diſtreſs,

And the laſt parting moment ſhall be Thine!

ARLEY.

LOVE RENEW'D, A SONNET.

[]

LIGHT fly the hours, attendant joy,
Gay mirth, and every ſweet employ,
Chaſing the ſhort-liv'd moments, prove
The bliſsful ſtate of glowing Love.

New to the heart, the youthful Fair,
Firſt learns to feel a tenderer care;
A fond ſolicitude which ſays,
How poor the calm of former Days!

Then hope and fear, alternate reign,
Tranſition of delight and pain;
That dear diſtreſs, that charming ſtrife,
Which intereſts every ſcene of life:

[216]

The cheek ſuffus'd the downcaſt brow,

The ſigh eſcap'd we know not how;

The ſoft rebuke, th' unwilling blame,

Triumphant Nature all proclaim.

Sweet is the Paſſion thus purſu'd,
But ſweeter far is Love Renew'd
That Love, which, when the boſom thrill'd,
Suſpenſe the icy hand hath chill'd;

Hath doom'd to ſit the mournful day,
And weep the ling ring time away;
The heart's beſt proſpects, once ſo fair,
Chang'd in an inſtant to deſpair.—

How hard! to view the budding Roſe
In Life's glad morn its ſweets diſcloſe;
Then in the fond expectant hour,
To loſe the lovely yielding flow'r.

How ſweet! when hope was ſcarce alive,
To ſee that hour again revive;
The long-loſt Roſe once more to view,
With ripen'd fragrance bloom anew;

Then Love, with ſoft-ey'd Pity blends.
Then, Mem'ry all her aid extends;
Paſt ſorrow, heightens preſent joy,
And rapture lives without alloy.

ARLEY.

CHARACTERISTIC SONG.

[]

Suppoſed to be ſung by a SAILOR's LASS, to her FAVOURITE; who has been treating her rather unkindly.

YOUR MOLLY has never been falſe, ſhe de⯑clares,
Since laſt time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs;
When I ſwore that I ſtill would continue the ſame,
And gave you the 'Bacco-Box, mark'd with my name.

When I paſs'd a whole fortnight between decks with you,
Did I e'er give a Buſs, TOM, to one of the crew?
To be uſeful and kind to my THOMAS I ſtaid,
For his Trowſers I waſh'd, and his Bumbo I made.

Though threaten'd laſt Sunday to walk in the Mall
With SUSAN, from Deptford, and Billing ſgate SAL,
In ſilence I ſtood, your unkindneſs to hear,
And only upbraided my TOM with a tear.

[218]

Still faithful and fond from the firſt of my life,

Tho' I boaſt not the Name, I've the truth of a Wife;

For falſehood in Wedlock too often is priz'd,

And the Heart that is conſtant ſhould not be deſpis'd.

ARLEY.

THE REPENTANCE OF PASSION.[]The following POEM, in a diſtant part of the Wo [...]ld,  [...] for its Found⯑ation. The Lovers thus deſcribed, parted, with  [...] emotions the Story gives them. The Dialogue only is fanciful. It is the form which the Author adopted, as the beſt Method of conveying to the Public.
HE.
AND does my Harriet ſtill adhere,
To wear Affliction's garb alone;
Still does ſhe hold her Spoiler dear,
And prize his peace who broke her own?
Still will ſhe ſtrive his pangs to heal,
Who all her youthful honours tore,
And near his pillow conſtant kneel,
When every power to pleaſe is o'er?
SHE.
And does my Love, unkind, ſuppoſe
I e'er would leave his lonely bed;
Forſake the Youth my heart has choſe,
And fly, becauſe his health has fled?
[220] And will he, ſunk in ſad deſpair,
Believe his Harriet loves no more;
Or think, while ſhe can ſooth one care,
That every power to pleaſe is o'er.
HE.
Ah! ceaſe to ſooth my woe-worn head!
Shun the ſad wretch thou canſt not ſave;
Nor hover round that guilty bed
Where martyr'd Virtue found its grave:
Here ſunk the glories of thy youth,
Each blooming honour doom'd to fall,
Here, Treachery triumph'd over Truth,
And here, ſterh Death, ſhall expiate all.
SHE.
Ah! ceaſe to wound my heart anew!
Still if thou bend'ſt at Sorrow's ſhrine,
Again thy Harriet thou'lt undo,
For Harriet's life is wrapt in thine;—
Had I ten thouſand wrongs endur'd,
And that lov'd cheek one tear let fall,
That ſingle tear cach pang had cur'd;
—One tender ſigh would expiate all.
HE.
[221]O ſpurn me!—Caſe thy heart in ſteel—
Give juſt reſentment all its force;
Not by ſuch kindneſs, make me feel
The torture of ſevere remorſe.
Why, in life's early happy day,
When health and joy gave means to bleſs;
Why did I heedleſs turn away,
From her who lov'd to ſuch exceſs?
SHE.
Lament no more, my boſom's friend;—
Thy errors paſt, thy cares ſhould ceaſe;
Corroding thought awhile ſuſpend,
And nurtur'd Hope ſhall teem with peace;
Thy kind, thy gentle Harriet ſues,
Clings round thy arm with fond careſs;
Nature will every fault excuſe,
And ſweetly pardon Love's exceſs.
HE.
Too tender, too relenting Fair!
My fault can never be forgot;
Unpitying Love would ſcorn my pray'r,
And injur'd Nature owns me not;
[222] When, in the fond ingenuous hour,
Thy native tenderneſs was ſhewn,
How did I meanly ſport with pow'r,
Betray thy love, and ſhame my own.
SHE.
Hear me, thou perſevering man!
Hear, what thy Harriet firmly ſwears—
If courted death muſt be thy plan,
Remember, 'twill but prelude hers:
Here will ſhe wait thy final doom—
Then drench'd in tears, and deſp'rate grown,
Stretch'd o'er thy corſe, in life's firſt bloom,
Forgot thy love, and end her own.
HE.
Lend me thy aid, to combat Fate;
For thy dear ſake I'll ſtrive to live;
Draw near me,—help, oh! 'tis too late—
Take the laſt kiſs I now can give:
Wan is that cheek you oft have preſt,
And dim thoſe eyes you lov'd ſo well;
And the hard pang that rends my breaſt,
My falt'ring tongue can ſcarcely tell.
SHE.
[223]Here—on this boſom, reſt thy head—
Speak—look upon me—breathe once more—
His pulſe is ſtill—oh God! he's dead—
Fate, do thy worſt,—the conflict's o'er:
Weep for their woes ye tender few—
You'll pity what you feel ſo well!
My humble pen but paints for you;
How juſt the trickling tear ſhall tell.
ARLEY.

DIVERSITY. A POEM.

[]

'TWAS on a mountain's airy ſpire,
With eye that flaſh'd celeſtial fire,
That quench'd the dawn's expanding ray,
And pre-aſſumed the day,
Immortal GENIUS ſlood.
Anon, his ſaphire wings unfold
With ample ſpread, and ſtarr'd with beamy gold;
His looſe hair hover'd o'er the proſtrate flood,
And on each bounding billow threw
A quiv'ring ſhade of deeper blue.
Sudden he darts a light'ning ſmile,
And "bleſt (he cries) be BRITAIN's iſle,
Dear proud Aſylum of my favour'd race!
Where Contemplation joys to trace
The claſſic feature, and the form of ſenſe,
And hail the MUSE SUBLIME, and PATRIOI ELOQUENCE.
[225] Theſe are the plains that FANCY loves,
O'er theſe white cliffs ſhe wanders free,
And ſcatters in the floating gale,
Her long array of fairy pageantry.
While MELODY, in ſome far vale,
Weaves on the air a length'ning line
Of cadence ſoft, and ſwell divine;
What time the maniac RAPTURE roves,
His jet locks dripping with the vap'ry ſhow'r,
That EVENING weeps upon each ſolded flow'r,
As down the ſhad'wy hills her leſs'ning car
Tracks the ſlow progreſs of her idol ſtar.
Then here, in ſweet delirium will I ſtay,
And meet on every blaſt a variegated lay."

LUR'D by the voice, from ſolemn glade
The  [...]ying Maid,
Extatic POETRY, was ſeen
To pace the upland green—
With many a curl luxuriant flowing,
Cheeks with light purpureal glowing,
While her long-unſettled gaze
That VARYING PASSION's force diſplays,
Fix'd on him ſhe moſt ador'd,
HER SACRED SOUL'S ETERNAL LORD.
Ha! as ſhe ſwept with wild'ring hand
Her charmed harp, o'er ſea and land
[226] Fleet ZEPHYR bore each melting tone,
That MELANCHOLY thought her own,
That frolic PLEASURE ſmil'd to hear,
And MADNESS welcom'd with a tear:
While VALOUR, ruſhing at the ſound,
Daſh'd his burning eye-balls round,
And as far off his ſhield he hurl'd
WITH NAKED BREAST DEFIED THE WORLD!

Scarce was the myſtic ſtrain begun,
When from his eaſtern tent the SUN
Leapt forth in arms,
And rear'd his creſt ſublime,
THE PROTOTYPE OF TIME!
How lovely then were NATURE'S CHARMS!
Glitt'ring OCEAN never ending,
Ruby ROCKS, and FORESTS bending,
Bending to the lawns below,
Where countleſs flow'rets countleſs tints beſtow;
Wide LAKES their lucid mirrors ſpread,
Upon whoſe banks the white flocks fed,
And ſeem'd their ſilv'ry fleeces to adorn
With the laſt luſtre of the moon of morn.

Art, alike tranſported ſtraying,
Was her rival pow'r diſplaying;
O'er the ſleek wave ſhe bade a NUM'ROUS SAIL
Stretch'd the fair canvas to the wafting gale;—
[227] From ſhelving hills triumphant CITIES riſe,
And tow'rs and column'd domes uſurp the ſkies;—
Bade meadows ſmile with many a cultur'd bow'r,
And burſting fountains toſs the ſpangled ſhow'r;
Such was the ſcene when the rapt maiden ſung,
Ah, who ſhall tell the muſic of her tongue!

The undulation of the ſtream
Low murm'ring on the pebbly ſhores,
The warble of her fav'rite theme,
That PHILOMEL inceſſant pours,
From ſolitary, lov'd retreat,
When STAR-LIGHT drops a tiſſued veil
O'er the clear brook, and moiſten'd dale;—
Such ſounds, were never half ſo ſweet,
As when SHE told, of roſeate bliſſes,
Tender ſmiles and vermil kiſſes,
Nor half ſo thrilling Battle's call
That ſends defiance from th' aſſaulted wall,
As when ſhe told of HONOR's merit,
Glories that the BRAVE inherit,
How, th' exulting breaſt, diſdains
Selfiſh pleaſures—ſelfiſh pains!

From couch where downy Peace had ſpread
A jaſmine pillow for his head,
Borne upon tranſlucent wings,
LOVE, the wanton Cherub ſprings;
[228] And flutters round in mazy play,
Enthuſiaſtic at the lay!
But ſoon he hies him to the cypreſs grove,
Where JEALOUSY retires to rove,
And chaſe ſoft ſlumbers from the virgin's brow.
And tell her timid heart of many a broken vow.
Then the BENIGN CONSOLER leads
Her fearful ſteps o'er fringed meads,
Where HOPE indulgent freely throws
Freſh ether from enchanted roſe!
He brings her to the tear-bath'd ſtone,
Where, all repentant and alone,
In ſettled anguiſh of deſpair,
Her Lover lies—he brings her there!
And on quick pinion bruſhing by,
Breathes the languor of a ſigh:
The Youth revives,—with eager bound,
Claſps his ſpeechleſs Fair-one round,
While from her eye the ſwift drop ruſnes,
In vain to quench her burning bluſhes!
O now the Goddeſs of the potent lyre,
Proves at her heart the ſympathetic fire,
Invokes the DRYAD and the FAWN,
The fabled people of each wood and lawn,
And thoſe that in the bright ſtream lave
Their gloſſy breaſts, or ſkim the occean wave,
She wooes them to the ſcene, to ſhow
How near allied are BLISS AND WOE,
[229] How ſweetly powerful to move,
The ſilent ſentiment of LOVE!

But ſoon the meaſure chang'd, and ſlow ſhe draws
Her elegiac trill, with doleful ſweep,
And at each ſadly-penetrating pauſe,
Teaches the meek morality to weep.

She ſung of thoſe, to happieſt fortune born,
Whoſe downcaſt looks a dire reverſe reveal,
Who long, too long neglected and forlorn,
Had known to ſuffer, and had learnt to feel;

By ling ring ſorrow ſoften'd to exceſs,
Of many a genial conſolation flown,
Who ſtill regretted moſt, the pow'r to bleſs,
And others' pangs lamented as their own.

Of thoſe, who oft, when Day's proud torch was ſped,
Held wayward converſe with the wintry wind,
Who found on ſome cold rock their craggy bed,
And met a ſeaſon ſuited to their mind.

They, like the plant with vegetative ſenſe,
That ſilent droops when touches rude annoy,
Shrunk from the preſſure of a World's offence,
Yet gain'd from Pity what they loſt of Joy.

[230]

Of ſuch as ſchool'd in Life's ſad ſcene, too well,

Had cheriſh'd ſcorn amid the wilds of woe,

Or charm'd by SUICIDE's opprobrious ſpell,

Had bar'd their boſoms to his tempting blow.

"And where (ſhe cried) does mild Compaſſion ſtray,
Muſt that fell tyrant grant alone relief,
Drive the wet cryſtal from their lids away,
*And cloſe the bleeding artery of grief?"

Now more ſubdued, ſhe ſunk—a keener pain
Stole to her inmoſt feeling, for ſhe thought
Of all the ſacred melancholy train,
That ever here her inſpiration caught,
From rugged CHAUCER, with uncoutheſt phraſe,
To the chaſte claſic race of later days.
And when on AVON'S BARD her Fancy dwelt,
Her boſom 'gan to heave, and glow, and melt,
For he was of her offspring deareſt far,
In her own hemiſphere the ſolar ſtar.
Whether ſome ſtrange horrific tale he wove,
Or ſhew'd the pangs, the exſtacies of love,
Or pierc'd with daring wing the heavenly height,
And ſoar'd beyond the Theban eagle's flight,
Moſt EXCELLENT WAS HE—then, too, a tear
Dropp'd for her hallow'd DRYDEN's injur'd bier;
[231] And OTWAY, luckleſs OTWAY! ſad ſhe view'd,
Wither'd by deep diſtreſs, in anguiſh go
To Death's dark cavern, through the gates of woe;
And POPE, his ſtrong unrival'd ſenſe renew'd,—
And SPENSER ſhook a magic banner bright,
And ſainted COLLINS came in meekneſs due,
"With ſky-worn robes of tendereſt blue,
And eyes of dewy light."
Nor was not MILTON mourn'd, unmatch'd!—To pour
Magnificently wild, the ſeraph lay!—
GOLDSMITH, and GRAY ſhe wept, and gentle GAY—
And THOMSON, potent in deſcription's pride—
Light PRIOR—ſolemn YOUNG—inventive AKEN⯑SIDE:
And all who on the calm, autumnal heath,
Had ever liſten'd to her tuneful breath,
And bade from ſilver lute reſponſive meaſures fly;
For theſe ſhe gave a retroſpective ſigh;
Nor wert thou then forgotten, hapleſs MORE!*
[232] Her laſt-loſt ſon, dead in thy very prime!
Yet ſure among the friends who wiſh'd thee well,
Sure one remains to tell
That thou could'ſt ſing, "and build the lofty rhyme."
And that, if fate had kindly ſpar'd thy days,
Few would kave match'd, and none excell'd thy lays.
Sure He may ſpeak, who oft in TAPLOW's grove,
With thee was wont the Summer noon to rove,
Or aid thee with his feath'ring oar, to guide
Thy buoyant ſkiff on Thames' meand'ring tide;
Or at thy ſocial board delighted ſit,
And watch the animation of thy wit,
Pleas'd when he heard thee boaſt the valued name
Of ELLIS,* then prophetic of his fame.
He, who yet ling'ring on this weary ſcene,
Has never found thy equal; never known
A heart ſo pure, ſo gen'rous as thy own!
Who, when he ſaw thee borne acroſs the green
To the cold grave, a helpleſs ſtatue ſtood,
While the deep murmur of each neighb'ring wood,
In deſolating language join'd
Sad uniſon with his diſtracted mind.
O! do not then, DEAR SHADE! the grief diſdain,
That conſtant flows, altho' it flows in vain.

Now the ſtrong meridian beam
Downward pours a fiercer ſtream,
[233] And bounding o'er each ruſſet hill,
MIRTH with LAUGHTER at his ſide,
In jovial freak, and careleſs pride,
Comes of ſport to take his fill.
With eager ſtep he ſeeks to meaſure
Ev'ry labyrinth of PLEASURE,—
Who, coy Nymph! abaſh'd appears,
And hides her in a veil of tears,
Such tears as oft at morning ſpeed
To call to life the languid mead,
Or on the teeming harveſt roll'd,
With pearls bedeck its wavy gold.
Yet alluring glances fly
From her ſoft enamour'd eye,
That ſoon diſcover, tho' ſhe ſhun,—
She'd fain to his embraces run!
But again his courſe he changes,
And each varying landſcape ranges,
Till amidſt a wild of ſweets,
The mighty QUEEN OF SONG he greets.
Then lowly bows the ſuppliant knee,
In well diſſembled mockery,
While ſhaking LAUGHTER offers up,
Sweet liquor of Circean cup.
The Goddeſs taſte—a ſportive ray
Drives ev'ry mournful thought away,
And as the ſad reflections go,—
Thus, her livelier numbers flow.
[234]"No longer my vot'ries ſhall deſolate rave,
In the depth of the foreſt, or gloom of the grave,
But far diff'rent cares ſhall they haſten to prove
And preſs the rich grapes of the vintage of love.
Then let us not languiſh, my friends! tho' tis true,
That when you want others, they never want you.
Though pleaſures will paſs, yet the ſhort time they ſtay,
To ſhun them is error, 'tis ſenſe to be gay.
Does the full-moon leſs ſweetly enamel the plain,
Becauſe ſhe's inconſtant, and deſtin'd to wane,
Or do flowers, when gather'd, leſs odour beſtow,
Than thoſe that are ſuffer'd to fade as they grow?
In the calm of enjoyment then think not of ſorrow,
Nor brood on the ſtorm that may threaten to-mor⯑row."

She paus'd, for Genius wav'd his head,
And ſtraight the wild illuſion fled,
The fev'riſh vapours from her brain depart,
And ſober reaſon ſettles at her heart.
'Twas then obedient to her ſov'reign's will,
She finds obtruſive rage her boſom fill,
On Folly's monſter offspring darts her gaze,
Lifts a SATIRIC SCOURGE, and thus indignant ſays:—

"BRITAIN! behold a Sourc'reſs is come forth,
Child of the Tropic heat, and frozen North,
[235]In whoſe dull breaſt contraſted evils jar,
And wage with Common Senſe perpetual war,
Out-ſmiling truth, and e'en out-bluſhing ſhame,
She reigns and AFFECTATION is her name!
Lo! now methinks on yonder porcelain throne,
Glaz'd o'er in France, but all the dirt your own,
With mimic mien of majeſty ſhe ſits,
And ſmirks, and prattles, and looks grave by fits,
Then ſeems ſo deſtitute of hope and fear,
As life itſelf, were nothing but a ſneer.
And mark what crowds advance to ſwell her ſtate,
In pompons nonſenſe miſerably great;
Grim Doctors, Men of ſtudy, Men of gold,
The Moralizing Young, and Vicious Old,
And ſtale Coquets, with ogles feebly ſent,
And muſing Members of the Parliament!
See, ſee, how quick, how numerous they glide,
All unſubſtantial as the rainbow's pride!
Like Banquo's ſhades before the King that paſt,
And each freſh fool more ſolemn to the laſt;
In their dear Idol's honor they declaim,
Poets unknown, and idiots with a name.
Slow-lab'ring logick, and diſcuſſion bare,
And Mangled Metaphor, alas! is there.
Pert Pun, quaint Epigram, ſmart Repartee,
And weak Conundrum, and looſe Ribaldry;
While Blockheads praiſe, what livelier Blockheads ſpoke,
And nodding Nabobs analyze each joke
[236] O MODEST LIT'RATURE! muſt thou too feel
Th' aſſaſſin vengeance of this tyrant's ſteel,
Muſt thou no longer, liberal and free,
Loſe all thy nature's genuine dignity?
Catch ev'ry gewgaw of the vulgar tribe,
Thy fame a mumm'ry! and thy bays, a bribe?
Muſt vain pretenders throng thy fair abode,—
And ſimp'ring Smatt'rers pen the patchwork ode?
Who tho' unſchool'd, yet eager to prevail,
Snatch the glib Eel of Learning by the tail,
And as their filthy fingers ſmeer the rhyme,
Admire the gloſs and glitter of the ſlime.
O ſcorn'd be thoſe who each emotion hide
In lordly littleneſs, and pamper'd pride,
To Affectation raiſe alone their eyes,
Contrive their ſmiles and fabricate their ſighs.
O ſcorn'd be ſuch! but may the true combine
T' attack th' enchantreſs, and deface her ſhrine,
To dart their arrows at her tinſel brow,
And lay the Necromantic monſter low.
Then ſhall SIMPLICITY, ſweet Maid! appear
Freſh with the bluſhes of the vernal year,
Her gen'rous impulſe to mankind impart,
And own no law but nature, and the heart,
Till ev'ry wiſh ſtill verging to one end,
Each object, virtue, and each man, a friend,
TRIUMPHANT REASON, ſhed its potent ray,
To drive diſtorted Prejudice away,
[237] Cheer the lone hamlet, the gay court illume,
And BLESSING LIFE, BEATIFY THE TOMB!

Peace, peace, (the GODHEAD cries) nor more
Dwell on failings of this HAPLESS SHORE,
Obſerve the VIRTUES! ſtill they riſe—
In meek expanſion to the ſkies!
See CHASTITY, with pureſt mien,
That loves to bleſs the rural ſcene,
And in CONTENT's domeſtic bow'r,
To guard AFFECTION's modeſt flow'r!
Here ſoft-ey'd PITY duly ſends
Her tendereſt look to ſolace woe,
And as a balmy wreath ſhe blends,
Her ſilent ſacred ſorrows ſlow.—
Nor think that thou, DEAR NYMPH! alone
Canſt call my influence thy own,
Though full of me,—in madd'ning trance,
When early Twilight's ſtreaks advance,
By the clear fount, or ſhelt'ring wood,
By the loud torrent's foamy flood,
Thou lov'ſt to ſtray—or when the night-blaſts ſweep,
With pilgrim footſteps, wind the dreary ſteep,
There near ſome bending beech reclin'd,
While moral muſings fill thy mind,
The world's beſt joys like meteors ſeem,
And all its boaſt a fading dream.
[238] Though at thy mandate Nature rears
A wizard wand of hopes and fears,
That as ſhe waves amid the blaze of day,
Wakes into birth—the ſad—the gay—
And ev'ry jocund Phantom fair,
And ev'ry Spectre of deſpair.
Tho' ſuch my hallow'd boon to thee;
Unnumber'd, rival vot'ries  [...]ee!
In SCULPTURE, PAINTING; ev'ry ART
That charms the ſenſes, or the heart,
And thoſe who form each paſſing age,
The impreſſive Children of the Stage.
Ah! let me not too proud! explain
The triumph of th' exalted train—
Long were the taſk, the flaming orb
Again his riſing courſe might run,
Again the Weſt his beams abſorb,
Nor would the length'ning tale be done.
To naught confin'd I ever range
In wild propenſity of change,
When firſt CREATION fill'd the void,
I, was the miniſter employ'd,
'Twas I, that fix'd yon central light,
And, bleſs'd with all its gems the night!
But WHAT ART THOU, who loit'ring near,
Where theſe myſterious foreſts low'r,
Giv'ſt to my tongue a liſt'ning ear,
And ſteal'ſt upon this ſacred hour?
[239] PRESUMPTUOUS BARD! think not, from me,
T' attract the glowing ſpark of energy,
Or with frail touch, and imitative tone,
To draw ſweet numbers from thy tuneleſs lyre;
'Tis darkneſs all, unleſs I lend my fire!
And MUSICK wakes at my command alone.
FOND CHILD OF DUST! thy hopes forego,
And reconcile thy ſoul to woe!
But ne'er imagine that I bear a part,
In the deep anguiſh of thy ſtruggling heart;
Nor idly look for FAME—her breath
IS FOUND BUT IN THE GALES OF DEATH!
She ſeeks the ſlumb'rous Raven's gloom,
To whiſper o'er the lonely tomb!—
Deigning, at laſt, that praiſe to give,
Which none might e'er receive, and live!
HARD IS THE POET'S LOT!—in vain
He pours an inoffenſive ſtrain,
To cheer the Woodlark brooding on her neſt,
Or ſooth the ſecret ſorrows of his breaſt;
Tho' but a Shepherd's ſong it flow,
In ev'ry vale he meets a foe,
While e'en amid the peaſant throng,
Shall hiſs pale Envy's viper tongue!
Or could his pen, with ſtrength ſublime,
To high perfection lift the rhyme;—
[240] Or teach inſtructive truth to doubly pleaſe,
With *HESTER's brilliant wit, and learned eaſe;
Still would DULL MALICE ſhout around,
Still fix th' inevitable wound.—
Still would DETRACTION point the lance,
And bid her harpy ſons advance.—

Rather, with weeds thy temples bind;
And mourn thy faults,—thy follies, paſt,—
Mourn thy raſh youth,—that fled ſo faſt,
And mourn the fever of thy mind:—
SUBMISSIVE YIELD TO STEDFAST FATE'S DE⯑CREE,
AND LEARN TO PITY BASE MALIGNITY!—

So, when I view thee at declining eve
Bathe thy hot boſom in the lunar tide,
Or near yon cataract hear thee grieve,—
Down my ſad cheek, perchance, a tear ſhall glide."

HE SPOKE—AND DARTING UPWARDS FROM THE SIGHT,

SAIL'D THRO' TH' IMMENSE ABYSS AND VAN⯑ISH'D INTO LIGHT!

SONNET. TO THE MUSE.

[]

CAELESTIAL ſpirit! who doſt deign to ſhed
Thy myſtic viſions o'er my raptur'd ſoul,
And with thy tuneful numbers doſt control
The horrid cares which haunt my lonely bed;
Come!—fill my lab'ring breaſt with ſacred fire;
Such fire as glow'd in PETRARCH's tender line,
When Love, and heav'nly LAURA's charms divine,
Claim'd the ſoft ſorrows of his gentle Lyre.
—O grant my pray'r! and fair MELISSA's fame,
Shall rival LAURA's in the roll of Time;
Her virtues ſhall be known in ev'ry clime,
And Bards unborn ſhall quote her Poet's name!

Bleſt, who deſerve the meed the MUSE can give,

For whom ſhe favours will for ever live.

BENEDICT.

July 3, 1788.

SONNET. TO MELISSA's LIPS.

[]

DEAR balmy lips of her who holds my heart
In the ſoft bondage of a love ſincere!—
Dear balmy lips! your cherub ſmiles impart
To your adoring ſuppliant's earneſt pray'r.
Not the freſh roſe-bud, charg'd with vernal dew,
Nor the warm crimſon of the bluſhing morn,
Nor the gay bloſſoms of the ſummer thorn,
Are half ſo glowing, or ſo ſweet as you!
Dear lips!—permit my trembling lips to preſs
Your ripen'd ſoftneſs in a tender kiſs:
And, while my throbbing heart avows the bliſs,
Will you—(dear lips!) the eager ſtranger bleſs?

"Ah, fond requeſt!"—the beauteous owner cries

"Ceaſe, wayward youth!—whoever touches, dies!"

BENEDICT.

SONNET. THE VALENTINE OF HOPELESS LOVE!

[]

WAK'D by the breath of ſpring, in ev'ry vale
The latent primroſe rears her ſickly head;
The virgin ſnow-drop decks the verdant bed,
And vi'lets blue perfume the paſſing gale.
The tuneful linnet plumes her ſpeckl'd wing,
The tender ſtock-dove cooes in every grove,
The ſoaring lark chaunts loud the ſong of love;—
All Nature owns thy influence, genial ſpring!
All, all but I!—condemn'd by wayward fate
To bear Love's keeneſt arrow in my breaſt;
'Tis vain to wiſh—to hope, alas! too late—
No change of ſeaſon gives my boſom reſt!

A tear from thee is all the boon I crave,

To dew the wither'd ſod that marks my grave!

BENEDICT.

SONNET. MELISSA'S RETIREMENT.

[]

All me! why heaves my breaſt with frequent ſighs?
What chills my heart with ſuch unuſual fear?
Why ſteal the tears, unbidden, from my eyes?
Why ſink my wearied ſpirits in deſpair?—
The fatal cauſe, alas! I know too well!
Far from my arms, you, cruel! mean to go:
Hence, hence my unavailing ſorrows flow:
But,—can I live to hear you ſay "farewel!"
Yes, I ſhall live, to grief a wretched prey—
For, when your preſence cheers the calm retreat,
My moans the widow'd dove will oft repeat,
And ev'ry gale will ſighs of mine convey!

Then go!—But think of him, who, ſad, forlorn—

Here pines and ſickens for your dear return!

BENEDICT

SONNET. TO MAY.

[]

IN vain, ſoft May, thy fragrant flowers blow;
In vain, thy feather'd minſtrels pour the ſtrain
Of praiſe and love.—I wretched, ſtill remain
The child of ſuff'rance, and the prey of woe!
The faint Narciſſus, and the muſky roſe,
I've often woo'd to my delighted breaſt;
The primroſe, and the vi'let too, I choſe,
And in one noſegay all their ſweets compreſs'd.
The lark's wild hymn, the linnet's artleſs lay,
Oft "tun'd to ecſtacy" my youthful heart!—
But now!—thy bloſſoms, and thy birds, ſoft May,
To this ſad breaſt no rapture can impart!

MELISSA's frowns, thy gentle pow'r control,

And ſpread the clouds of Winter o'er my ſoul.

BENEDICT.

SONNET. TO MELISSA.

[]

WHENE'ER thy angel-form ſalutes my eye,
What tender ſpaſms convulſe my beating heart!
My trembling limbs but ſmall ſupport impart;
My aching boſom heaves the deep-drawn ſigh!
A wild confuſion overwhelms my brain—
My falt'ring tongue cleaves to the parching roof,
My ſpirits fail!—ah, melancholy proof
How well thou'rt lov'd;—tho' lov'd, alas! in vain!
—Impell'd by ſorrow, ſhould my lovely Maid
Bend her ſlow footſteps to the ſilent ſpot,
Where this diſtracted head ſhall ſoon be laid
In Death's chill claſp, by all—but her—forgot!!—

Oh! let her bid my wand'ring Spirit reſt,

And the green ſod lie lightly on my Breaſt.

BENEDICT.

SONNET. TO MELISSA.

[]

THROUGH all the woes which deſtiny ſevere,
Has doom'd this wretched boſom to ſuſtain,
One tender thought ſtill moderates its pain,
And ſaves my lab'ring mind from dire deſpair!
—When far from thee by hopeleſs ſorrow led,
O'er ſtormy ſeas, and foreign lands thy love ſhall ſtray;
Tho' urg'd by want to aſk precarious bread,
One tender thought ſhall cheer the toilſome way!
And when, at laſt, worn out by ceaſeleſs care,
I ſeek lorn Melancholy's quiet cell,
For THEE I'll earneſt breathe my lateſt pray'r,
On thee my lateſt thought ſhall fondly dwell!

'Till the laſt ſigh ſhall from my lips depart,

I'll keep the dear idea cheriſh'd in my heart!

BENEDICT.

SONNET. THE INVITATION.

[]

COME, dear Meliſſa, come, where * Craïa pours
Her ſilver urn in murm'ring lapſe ſerene,
Near Bexley's humble fane, where ev'ry green
Shall join their foliage to refreſh thy bow'rs.
Oft by the winding ſtream thy love ſhall ſtray,
To lure with harmleſs guile the finny race;
Oft too at eve, the dewy meeds he'll trace,
And offer, at thy board, the ſpeckl'd prey.
Pity, I know thy gentle breaſt will move,
For the dumb children of the teeming flood;
—But they are form'd for man's delight and good,
By Providence divine, and heav'nly love.

My angel come! while ſummer wakes the ſtrain,

And corn-flow'rs blow, and am'rous doves complain.

BENEDICT.

SONNET. MELISSA!

[]

HER dark-brown treſſes negligently ſlow
In curls luxuriant, to her bending waiſt;
Her darker brows, in perfect order plac'd,
Guard her bright eyes, that mildly beam below.
The Roman elegance her noſe diſplays—
Her cheeks ſoft bluſhing, emulate the roſe,
Her witching ſmiles, the orient pearls diſcloſe:
And o'er her lips, the dew of Hybla ſtrays.
Her lib'ral mind, the gentler virtues own;
Her chaſten'd wit, inſtructive lore impart;
Her lovely breaſt is ſoft Compaſſion's throne,
And Honor's temple is her glowing heart.

But I, like Patriarch Moſes, praiſe and bleſs

The Canaan which I never ſhall poſſeſs!

BENEDICT.

SONNET. TO THE RIVER USK, IN MONMOUTHSHIRE.

[]

OH, ſtream belov'd! within whoſe gelid caves,
The Naïads ſport the fervid noontide hour!
What bliſs was mine, when in my native bow'r,
I ſung my ſimple ſonnet to thy waves!
Thy rocks romantic, and thy woods ſublime,
Where erſt the Druid watch'd the ſacred oak,
And the rapt bard his lyre prophetic ſtruck,
Fill'd the rough cadence of my artleſs rhyme.
When vernal ſuns diſſolv'd the mountain ſnow,
And all the Nymphs were frighted from thy ſhore,
I lov'd to ſee thy flood, majeſtic flow,
And hear thy bold reſiſtleſs current roar.

But now!—far from thy banks, I hapleſs rove,

The ſlave of fair MELISSA and of Love!

BENEDICT.

SONNET. TO GENERAL ELLIOTT, ON HIS ARRIVAL FROM GIBRALTAR.

[]

THOUGH Gratitude no arch triumphal rears
To grace the laurel'd HERO's late return;
And tho' no blazing trophies vainly burn,
Or mob tumultuous at thy car appears,
Yet ſhall thy name, and martial deeds be read,
While CALPE's rock defies the ſea and wind!
THY NAME!—the admiration of mankind,
The Briton's pride, and ſwarthy Spaniards dread!
Truſt to the heav'nly Muſe thy well earn'd fame:
Hark!—lovely SEWARD ſtrikes th' Horatian lyre.
On Trenta's bank with more than Roman fire,
And gives to endleſs Time thy GLORIOUS NAME!

ELLIOTT! accept this verſe—and it will be

Immortal too, becauſe addreſs'd to THEE.

BENEDICT.

PARTING ADDRESS TO DELLA CRUSCA.[]Et vix ſuſtinuit dicere lingua, vale!
Ovid.
AH, tuneful BARD! whoſe loſs the world muſt grieve,
A laſt farewel, from one unknown, receive;
Could but my pen with magic force prevail,
Never ſhould DELLA CRUSCA ſpread the ſail;
Ne'er ſeek in foreign climes repoſe to find,
Nor leave the Fair MATILDA's form behind:
But ſhould'ſt thou, driv'n by adverſe fortune, go,
Be thine the pleaſure, ours alone the woe:
May'ſt thou be favour'd with ſome faithful friend,
May roſeate Health on all thy ſteps attend;
Safely conduct thee to thy couch at eve,
And in the morn thy firſt ſalute receive;
And if ſweet peace of mind can ever dwell
Where Love, Almighty LOVE, has fix'd his ſpell,
[253] Be peace of mind, and every joy thy gueſt,
While none buxt Love's ſoft tranſports warm thy breaſt.
And ſure, if DELLA CRUSCA ſhould once more,
By proſperous gales be borne to ALBION's ſhore,
His muſe again will tune the vocal lay,
And gently ſteal the liſt'ning ſoul away:—
Again will ſweetly charm th' attentive throng,
With all the elegance of Claſſic Song!
Cold were th' unfeeling breaſt which could refuſe
A parting tribute to ſo ſweet a muſe;
Envious the hand that would attempt to tear
The laurel chaplet from thy flowing hair;
Not ſuch his wiſh, who now attempts the lyre—
Warm'd by a Spark of thy celeſtial fire,
Inſpir'd by thee, his Muſe has dar'd the flight,
Pays homage to thy lays—then ſinks in endleſs night.
THEODOSIUS.

THE AFRICAN BOY.

[]

AH, tell me, little mournful MOOR,
Why ſtill you llnger on the ſhore?
Haſte to your play-mates, haſte away,
Nor loiter here with fond delay:
When Morn unveil'd her radiant eye,
You hail'd me as I wander'd by,
Returning at th' approach of Eve,
Your meek ſalute I ſtill receive.

Benign Enquirer, thou ſhalt know
Why here my loneſome moments flow;
'Tis ſaid thy Countrymen (no more
Like rav'ning ſharks that haunt the ſhore)
Return to bleſs, to raiſe, to cheer,
And pay Compaſſion's long arrear.

'Tis ſaid the num'rous Captive Train,
Late bound by the degrading Chain,
Triumphant comes, with ſwelling ſails,
'Mid ſmiling ſkies, and weſtern gales;
[255] They come with feſtive heart and glee.
Their hands unſhackled—minds as free;
They come at Mercy's great command,
To repoſſeſs their native land.

The gales that o'er the Ocean ſtray,
And chaſe the waves in gentle play,
Methinks they whiſper as they fly,
JUELLEN ſoon will meet thine eye!
'Tis this that ſoothes her little Son,
Blends all his wiſhes into one:
Ah! were I claſp'd in her embrace,
I would forgive her paſt diſgrace;
Forgive the memorable hour
She fell a prey to tyrant pow'r;
Forgive her loſt, diſtracted air,
Her ſorrowing voice, her kneeling pray'r;
The ſuppliant tears that gall'd her cheek,
And laſt her agonizing ſhriek.
Lock'd in her hair, a ruthleſs hand
Trail'd her along the flinty ſtrand;
A ru [...]ian train, with clamours rude,
The impious ſpectacle purſu'd:
Still as ſhe mov'd in accents wild
She cried aloud, My child! my child!
The lofty bark ſhe now aſcends;
With ſcreams of woe, the air ſhe rends:
[256] The veſſel leſs'ning from the ſhore,
Her piteous wails I heard no more
Now as I ſtretch'd my laſt ſurvey,
Her diſtant form diſſolv'd away.

That day is paſt: I ceaſe to mourn—
Succeeding joy ſhall have its turn,
Beſide the hoarſe-reſounding deep,
A pleaſing anxious watch I keep:
For when the morning clouds ſhall break,
And darts of day the darkneſs ſtreak;
Perchance along the glitt'ring main,
(Oh may this hope not throb in vain)
To meet theſe long-deſiring eyes,
JUELLEN and the Sun may riſe.

^*THE BARD.

TO MISS FARREN, ON HER BEING ABSENT FROM CHURCH.

[]

WHILE wond'ring Angels, as they look'd from high,

Obſerv'd thine Abſence with an holy ſigh,

To them a bright exalted Seraph ſaid,

"Blame not the conduct of the abſent Maid!

Where'er ſhe goes, her ſteps can never ſtray,

RELIGION walks Companion of her way:

She goes with ev'ry virtuous thought impreſt,

HEAV'N on her FACE, and HEAV'N within her BREAST."

THE BARD.

THE VOICE WE LOVE.

[]

SOFT is the Zephyr's breezy wing;
And balmy is the breath of SPRING,
When o'er the ſilent dewy Vale
Its variegated ſweets exhale,
Stolen from the freſh'ned flower,
Gliſt'ning with an evening ſhower,
From the VI'LET's nectar'd dew—
From the ROSE of bluſhing hue;
And from ſweet THYME, empurpling all the ground,
It gathers rich perfume, and ſheds the odours round:
Yet ſay, what ſweets can half ſo fragrant prove,
As the ſoft Breath of thoſe we fondly love?

Go liſten to the ſofteſt Lute—
The moſt perſuaſive, magic ſong,
And hear the ſweet reſponſive ſlute
The wild melodious ſtrains prolong;

Attend awhile, the ſoft impaſſion'd lyre,
That melts the frozen heart, and kindles fond deſire.
[259] SIMPLICITY, thy ſteps ſhall lead,
To the ſimple, verdant mead;
For to humble plains belong
The Oaten Pipe, and Paſt'ral Song:
Untutor'd in the School of Art,
They breathe the impulſe of the heart!—
Hear the ſtrain, and mark it well—
There true LOVE and HONOUR dwell.

Whiſpering from among the trees,
Sighing to the paſſing wind,
Echoing back the evening breeze,
The ſoft Eolian Harp you'll find.

Mark its wild, uncertain meaſure,
This is FANCY's ſweeteſt treaſure,
There ſhe reigns, and while ſhe ſings,
Fairy fingers kiſs the ſtrings—
There the Blue-eyed PLEASURES meet—
There is LOVE's moſt fav'rite ſeat—
There of HOPE, the lov'd retreat,
And ev'ry thing that's ſoft, and every thing that's ſweet.

Of all the rapt melodious tones,
That Heaven-deſcended MUSIC owns,
[260] Recal the dear, the magic ſtrain,
That ſeem'd to vib'rate on thine heart,
And could a tranſient joy impart,
As the wild numbers linger'd thro' the plain.

Then ſay, fond YOUTH, upon thy penſive breaſt,
Is not this truth indelibly impreſt—
"No dulcet ſounds can ſo harmonious prove,
As the ſoft accents of the Voice we love?"

CESARIO.

HENRY DECEIVED.

[]

GOD OF THE BOW! how blind art thou!
Surely the fillet on thy brow
Is coarſer wove, than was the caſe
When Mortals view'd thee face to face.
For well we know thine Eyes celeſtial,
When ſeen of old by Belles terreſtrial,
Were deck'd with bandeau light and airy,
As might become a Summer Fairy.
Their ſoft blue orbs ſo ſlight were bound,
Thy piercing glance no hind'rance found;
The Goſſamour's tranſparent ſkin
Repoſing on the lucid air,
Appear'd no longer light or thin,
If with thy veil it ſhould compare.

Then was thy ſight like Eagles' keen!
Nor Gods nor Men eſcap'd thine eye,
Nor cavern dark, nor beamy ſky—
Nay, Thoughts, ſcarce born, by thee were ſeen.
But now—oh dull of eye and heart!
Thou know'ſt not WHENCE Love's ardours ſtart;
[262] And when ſtiff * *'s lines appear,
Thou whiſper'ſt in my HENRY's ear
That they are EMMA's!!

HENRY believes—HENRY admires;
He thinks he ſees his EMMA's fires
Dart vig'rous through each labour'd page—
He knows, and feels her tender rage;
Then aſks—"And can a Man like me,
Call forth ſuch Poetry in thee?"
Believing that the pen is mine,
He faints with rapturous pauſe, on each delu⯑ſive line.

Thou, HENRY, ne'er canſt learn the wounds I felt,
Whilſt you, unconſcious, ſuch barbed Satire dealt.
Midſt your fond praiſe, my pierc'd heart inly bled,
And ſhame bow'd down your EMMA's ſorrowing head.
What! to be lov'd for Wit I never own'd!
And by a STRANGER's Verſe to be dethron'd!
How did I hate the graces of her ſong—
The cluſter'd ſweets that round her ſoft lute throng;
Which like the Bees of Hybla's yellow woods,
Appear'd to pour their wealth in golden floods.
My fancy pictur'd richer notes than fell
From him of old, who to the verge of hell
[263] Led forth the wife he lov'd;—but ah! when read,
Mad jealouſy, and childiſh envy fled;
The harmleſs lines I ſaw, without one ſigh,
And SMILING WONDER flaſh'd acroſs my eye.

Miſtaking HENRY look once more;
Again read * *'s Verſes o'er!
Should I complain of love betray'd?
I, write like ſome forſaken Maid—
Whilſt the warm blood within thy veins
Flows but for ME? Whilſt EMMA reigns
Supreme within thy inmoſt ſoul,
And diſtant, yet can ſtill controul
Its inmoſt movements, and deſires,
And knows HERSELF ſole object of its fires
Should She in diſmal ditties mourn,
Whilſt Love and Truth ſo brightly burn?
Miſtaking HENRY, look once more—
Again read * *'s Verſes o'er!
Were I the Poet, Thou the theme,
Think'ſt thou like her's my Verſe would gleam:
With ſunny rays, and miſty hills,
Any myrtle groves, and foamy rills?
Oh no, THYSELF—HENRY, Thyſelf alone
Should ſtand confeſt on Love's ETERNAL THRONE;
Round THEE the brightneſs of my Verſe ſhould ſhine,
Round THEE my living Lays for ever, ever twine!

[264]If Verſe deſcriptive warms thy heart,
If that, bids throbs of Paſſion ſtart,
I could ſeize Fancy's various clue;
Untired, her ſhifting ſteps purſue.
I'd call Night's Lamp a Chryſtal Bow—
Bid her, her ſilv'ry ſhafts beſtow
Upon the tufted emerald plain,
Or ſhower them o'er the ſhining main:
Or when the full orb'd jolly Moon
Rode dull, and thoughtleſs to her noon,
I'd ſwear ſhe dreſs'd her white-lock'd hours
In choiceſt hue;—and call'd forth flow'rs
Of ſofter tint, and mild perfume,
Wove in her own tranſlucent loom,
To deck the world o'er which ſhe hung—
An amorous, ray-crown'd, hov'ring Dove!
But when all this is ſaid or ſung,
It is not, fooliſh HENRY, LOVE.

I'd bear thee to the mountain's height,
Rear'd, midſt the ſparkling dome of night;
Obſerve the Court of Heaven hung round
With drops of flame on azure ground;
Shew where bright VENUS rolls her car,
And where chill SATURN—monſtrous Star!
Through thirty years drives torpid on,
And all theſe Summers counts as ONE.
[265] Bid Thee regard almoſt with ſcorn
Our triſling Syſtem;—where is borne
In fond Attraction's airy chain
THE MIGHTY PLANETARY TRAIN.
For oh, beyond that Syſtem's bounds—
Where that, in all its various rounds
Ne'er ſhed the fainteſt ray—
Where the vaſt Sun's unmeaſur'd light
In ruſhing floods, in boundleſs flight,
Ne'er imitated Day;
Far, far beyond new orbits trace
In wider heavens, in grander ſpace,
Their gorgeous way in flame!
And theſe, again, in turn ſhall ſhrink,
Abaſh'd, amidſt CREATION ſink,
And hardly own a name.

All theſe may ADORATION move—
With ſtrong Devotion touch the ſoul,
Bid Piety her incenſe roll—
But ſtill, my HENRY, 'tis not LOVE.

In future know, when vagrant Verſe
Shall any other ſtrain rehearſe,
Though the rapt Pen may nicely blend
All TRUTH or FICTION e'er could lend
To elevate the Lay.
[266] Though all APOLLO's fire ſhould ſeem
T' illume the Page with ſacred beam,
And bleſs the Bard with bayes—
Yet, if LOVE thrills not in each turn,
Nor ſeems along the line to burn,
Nor gives each verſe the touch divine—
They are not wrote to THEE, nor are their glories MINE.

EMMA.

TO EMMA.

[]

WAS it the SHUTTLE of the MORN
That wove upon the Cobweb'd Thorn
Thy airy Lay?—Or did it riſe
In thouſand rich enamell'd dies,
To greet the Noon-day Sun—and glow
With brighter beams, than he can throw?
Or, was it wafted by the AUSTRAL BREEZE,
That bathes him in the wild perfume
Of ev'ry Roſe's liquid bloom—
That hangs upon the Lily's lip—
Her ſilken beverage to ſip—
Tell me—O TELL ME, EMMA, which of theſe?

How burſt the Muſic on my ear!
The only Muſic HENRY bears to hear!
I felt it!—each ſtrong nerve inflame!
Like a new ſoul uſurp my heart,
And rage and burn in ev'ry part!
Ah! ſure, not even Death's cold ſpell
Could the fierce fury of my paſſion quell!
[268] But ſpringing from this earthly droſs,
Far, to the winds, my cares I'd toſs,
And ſwear, before the living Shrine
Where Seraphs worſhip Truth Divine,
That ſtill I LOV'D BUT THEE—and THOU WERT STILL THE SAME.

Ah! wonder not, a STRANGER SONG
Should cheat me thus—I own it wrong.
Low, in the duſt, my head I bow,
As if, I COULD, HAVE FALSIFY'D MY VOW!
Yes—baniſh from thy thoughts ſurpriſe—
For, THOU art ever preſent to my eyes,
At each ſucceſſive, varying hour!
THOU, whiſper'ſt in the ſoft'ning ſhow'r—
The Linnet's trill—but tells of THEE!
THOU, ſmil'ſt upon the Summer's Sea!
And when "the Jolly Full Moon" laughs
In her clear Zenith to behold
The envious Stars, withdraw their gleams of gold,
'Tis to THY HEALTH, ſhe ſtooping quaffs
The Sapphire Cup that FAIRY ZEPHYRS bring,
Which, gay, intoxicating BLISS
With dewy glances paus'd to kiſs,
Where FROLIC LOVE has dipp'd his purple wing!

Then let the HARP thy mad touch prove,
And SING—and SING AGAIN—of LOVE
[269] Sing—till FAINT EVENING drops to reſt,
On WEEPING TWILIGHT'S DOWNY BREAST;
Till grey-hair'd MELANCHOLY DAWN,
Culls the looſe vapours from the Shadowy Lawn!
And only check the rapture-breathing ſound,
When faithful HENRY at thy feet is found!
YES, YES, I COME, wit lightning ſpeed I fly,
To meet the Enchantment of thy melting eye!
To kneel before thee—to ſubdue thy blame,
For ſtill I LOVE BUT THEE—and THOU ART STILL THE SAME!

HENRY.

MONOLOGUE.

[]

We preſerve the following poetry in this Edition for TWO reaſons. It was the FIRST poetic Offering ever made to the Memory of the UN⯑FORTUNATE it mourns; and becauſe it came from a pen whoſe fer⯑vor and tenderneſs would prove it, without a Signature, to be that of ANNA MATILDA.

O CHATTERTON! for thee the penſive ſong I raiſe,
Thou object of my wonder, pity, envy, praiſe!
Bright ſtar of Genius!—torn from life and fame,
My tears, my verſe, ſhall conſecrate thy name!
Ye Muſes, who around his natal bed
Triumphant ſung, and all your influence ſhed;
APOLLO! thou who rapt his infant breaſt,
And, in his daedal numbers, ſhone confeſt,
Ah! why, in vain, ſuch mighty gifts beſtow
—Why give freſh tortures to the Child of Woe?
Why thus, with barb'rous care, illume his mind,
Adding new ſenſe to all the ills behind?

Thou haggard! Poverty! whoſe cheerleſs eye
Transforms young rapture to the pond'rous ſigh;
In whoſe dear cave no Muſe e'er ſtruck the lyre,
Nor Bard e'er madden'd with poetic fire;
[271] Why all thy ſpells for CHATTERTON combine?
His thought creative, why muſt thou confine?
Subdu'd by thee, his pen no more obeys,
No longer gives the ſong of ancient days;
Nor paints in glowing tints from diſtant ſkies,
Nor bids wild ſcen'ry ruſh upon our eyes—
Ceck'd in her flight, his rapid genius cowers,
Drops her ſad plumes, and yields to thee her powers

Behold him, Muſes! ſee your fav'rite ſon
The prey of WANT, ere manhood is begun!
The boſom ye have fill'd with anguiſh torn—
The mind you cheriſh'd drooping and forlorn!

And now Deſpair her ſable form extends,
Creeps to his couch, and o'er his pillow bends.
Ah, ſee! a deadly bowl the fiend conceal'd,
Which to his eye with caution is reveal'd,
Seize it, APOLLO!—ſeize the liquid ſnare!
Daſh it to earth, or diſſipate in air!
Stay, hapleſs Youth! refrain—abhor the draught,
With pangs, with racks, with deep repentance fraught!
Oh hold! the cup with woe ETERNAL flows,
More—more than Death the pois'nous juice be⯑ſtows!
In vain!—he drinks—and now the ſearching ſires
Ruſh thro' his veins, and writhing he expires!
No ſorrowing friend, no ſiſter, parent, nigh,
To ſooth his pangs, or catch his parting ſigh;
[272] Alone, unknown, the Muſes' darling dies,
And with the vulgar dead unnoted lies!
Bright ſtar of Genius!—torn from life and fame,
My tears, my verſe, ſhall conſecrate thy name!

ANNA MATILDA.

A FRAGMENT.
ADDRESSED TO ***.

[]

TOUCH'D by thy wit my ſoul's on fire,

My boſom throbs with young deſire.

What! though thy form I never ſaw,

Is there to man devulg'd a law

That only what he ſees muſt touch his heart?

The vulgar rule I diſallow,

And in my paſſion feel e'en now,

That wit, like beauty, gives the tender ſmart.

Methinks thy form I would not know,

Nor to thy face the pleaſure owe

Of theſe delicious melting pains,

Which when a mortal once attains,

He knows the greateſt bliſs for man deſign'd.

No, to my fancy I'll apply,

There find thy form, thy air, thy eye,

And feaſt my frenzy with a zeſt refin'd.

When in a penſive mood I ſit,

And Melancholy takes her ſit,

[272]

[...]

[]

[...]

[274] Mild, tender, ſoft, thou ſhalt appear,

Like the firſt bloſſoms of the year:

But when in briſker tides my ſpirits run,

L'Allegro ſhall the pencil take,

Deſcribe thy look, thy ſtep, thy make,

And ſhew the vivid as bright MAIA's ſon.

* * * * * * * * * *

ANNA MATILDA.

The above Lines were written at an early age; after having read ſome exquiſite Poetry from the Pen of Mr. FOX. They are preſerved at the end of the MAID OF ARRAGON; without the information we now give.

PORTRAIT OF MISS FARREN.

[]

The following Lines were addreſſed to Mr. HUMPHREY, the celebrated Miniature Painter, on his

BY LORD DERBY.

O THOU, whoſe pencil all the Graces guide,
Whom Beauty, conſcious of her fading bloom,
So oft implores, alas! with harmleſs pride,
To ſnatch the tranſient treaſure from the tomb.

Pleas'd, I behold the Fair, whoſe comic art
Th' unwearied eye of taſte and judgment draws;
Who charms with Nature's elegance the heart,
And claims the loudeſt thunder of applauſe.

Such, ſuch alone ſhould prompt thy pencil's toil:
Of ſaving Folly give thy labour o'er;
Fools never will be wanting to our iſle,
Perhaps a Farren may appear no more.

GENERAL CONWAY's ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MISS CAROLINE CAMPBELL, Daughter of the RIGHT HON. WILLIAM CAMPBELL.

[]

SINCE 'tis the will of all-diſpoſing Heav'n,
To ſeize the boon its kinder hand had given:
Whether on earth thy friendly ſpirit rove,
Midſt the once happy partners of thy love;
(Scenes where thy virtues reign'd, thy talents ſhone,
And fond affection made each heart thy own;)
Or, bounding ſwift, has wing'd its airy flight
To the pure regions of eternal light;
Look down, fair Saint, and O, with pity ſee,
Where ſad Remembrance lifts each thought to thee.
Accept the heaving ſigh, the trickling tear;
The laſt, beſt offerings of a heart ſincere.
[277] What tho' no coſtly hecatcombs ſhould bleed,
Nor lengthen'd train in ſable pomp ſucceed;
Yet ſhall the ſweeteſt flow'rs thy grave adorn,
Waſh'd by the kindlieſt tears of dewy morn.
There ſhall each friend, thy heav'nly virtues made,
With pious dirge invoke thy gentle ſhade;
Like fragrant incenſe the ſoft breath ſhall riſe
And ſmooth thy paſſage to thy kindred ſkies.

Severely kind, O why did adverſe fate
Grant ſuch vaſt bounties with ſo ſcant a date?
Give ſuch ſweet fragrance to this ſhort-liv'd flow'r,
The virtues of an age to laſt an hour!
It gave her wit might grace a Muſe's tongue,
The charm of numbers, and the power of ſong;
Th' angelic touch to ſtrike the trembling ſtring,
And tune ſuch notes as Heav'n's own ſeraphs ſing.
But O! o'er-bounteous with that ſacred art,
It gave each nicer movement to the heart;
And her ſoft breaſt with ſtrong ſenſation fir'd,
Felt the keen impulſe which thoſe arts inſpir'd.
Too great a portion of celeſtial flame
Strain'd the frail texture of her weaker frame;
The ſubtle fire too pow'rful forc'd its way
Through the ſoft yielding mould of mortal clay;
As the clear air in cryſtal priſon pent,
Oft burſts its fair but brittle tenement;
While in the duſt the glittering fragments lie,
The purer aether gains its native ſky.

[278]Ere the ſtern Siſters cut the vital thread,
I ſaw, and kiſs'd her on the fatal bed,
Juſt as her gentle ſpirit took its ſlight,
And her faint eye-lids clos'd in endleſs night;
No ſtrong convulſions ſhook her parting breath;
No tremors mark'd the cold approach of Death:
Her heart ſtill heav'd with vital ſpirit warm,
And each ſoft feature wore its wonted charm.

Ah me! in this perplexing maze of fate;
This doubtful, erring, varying reſtleſs ſtate;
Tho' guilt with ſwelling fail elate ſhall ſteer,
With pomp and pleaſure crown'd, its full career;
Tho' worth like thine no pitying power ſhall ſave,
From ſickneſs, pain, and an untimely grave:
Yet ſtay, raſh mortal, nor preſume to ſcan,
By thy imperfect rule th' Almighty's plan.
O cenſure not his Sovereign, high beheſt,
But proſtrate own, whatever is, is beſt:
Judgment's the part of Heav'n; Submiſſion, thine:
We may lament; but we muſt not repine.
Each has his lot (for ſo does Heaven ordain)
His ſtated ſhare of happineſs and pain;
And mortals, beſt its juſt commands fulfil,
When they enjoy the good, and patient bear the ill.

EPITAPH ON MISS CAROLINE CAMPBELL.

[]

O penſive PASSENGER! do not deny
To pauſe awhile, and weep upon this tomb;
For here the cold remains of CAMPBELL lie—
This narrow ſpot the vernal Maiden's doom.

With her, alas! the faireſt talents fell—
And now her Harp's melodious ſong is o'er;
Gone is that Pulſe, which PITY lov'd to ſwell,
And all her Virtues are on Earth no more.

Yes, ſhe was gentle as the twilight breath,
That on the fainting Violet's boſom blows,
Meekly ſhe bow'd her to the Froſt of Death,
In faded ſemblance of the Silver Roſe.

[280]

And oft low bending o'er this hallow'd ground,

Shall the pure Angel, INNOCENCE appear;

And FRIENDSHIP, like a Hermit, ſhall be found,

To bathe the circling Sod with many a Tear.

AMICUS.

MARQUIS TOWNSHEND's VERSES ON HIS NIECE MISS GARDINER.[]AS late FLORINDA on her death-bed lay,
And felt compos'd, each vital pow'r decay;
No longer ſcience could her bloom ſuſtain,
And KINDRED TEARS* in ſhowers fall in vain:
The ſun meridian glimmer'd to her eye,
And panting breath announc'd her end was nigh:
She turn'd, and ſmiling aſk'd, "When ſhall I die?
In realms above my long-mourn'd mother join?
See, ſee her arms ſtretch'd out to meet with mine!"
Adieu, pure SOUL! with rapture take thy ſlight,
Quit thy dark manſion for Eternal Light!—
For bliſs eternal! whilſt at Heaven's gate
Thy ſiſter Angels thy arrival wait,
Swift to conduct thee to thy parent's breaſt;
For Heav'n has heard, and granted thy requeſt.

Advertiſement.

[]

Since the Printing of the firſt Edition of theſe Works, the Correſpondence between DELLA CRUSCA and ANNA MATILDA has been renewed;—THE EDITOR, therefore, thinks it proper to continue their reſpective Writings up to the preſent time; as alſo to inſert the beauti⯑ful Poems by LAURA, and the one ſhe called forth from LEONARDO, &c. Theſe latter Additions are neceſſary, on account of the ſub⯑ſequent alluſions to them, and becauſe the lines ſigned LEONARDO appear to have been pro⯑duced by the pen of DELLA CRUSCA.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

[]

IN VAIN I FLY THEE—'tis in vain,
The ſwift bark bears me o'er the boiſt'rous main;
For mid the giant ſhades that ſweep
The heaving boſom of the deep,
When ruſhing clouds, laſh'd by the gale,
Spread o'er the ſun their tranſient veil,
THY FORM APPEARS!—I ſee thee haſte
Lightly athwart the wild'ring waſte!
And ſhake thy burniſh'd locks, and ſmile,
I ſee thee—and adore the while.
Do I adore thee?—ah, my Fair!

Since firſt thy ſweet ſong ſooth'd my heart,

I've never known a bliſs, a care,

But thou, MATILDA, gav'ſt a part!
When in HELVETIA's groves I lay,
For thee my hot ſighs ſtole away,
And oft with thee, methought at "morning's hour,
Seated in chryſtal roſeate tow'r,
[284] I ſaw the Goddeſs Health purſue
The ſkimming Breeze, thro' fields of Dew;"
While the high lark with quiv'ring poize,
Told the gay ſtory of his vernal joys!
And oft as Twilight on the weſtern edge,
Had twin'd his hoary hair with ſabling ſedge,
IMAGINATION fondly turn'd to thee,
And ſought the ſolace of dear SYMPATHY.
Nor yet the yellow RHINE's impetuous wave,
A ſhort oblivion of my paſſion gave;
Heedleſs I trod the ſportive banks of RHONE,
For ANNA! O I live, I live for thee alone!
And when to LAURA's tomb I came,
Glowing with PETRARCH's pureſt flame,
As the firſt drop my pity ſhed,
I ſtarted as if thou wert dead!
But hark! what cruel ſounds are theſe,
Which float upon the languid breeze,
Which fill my mind with jealous fear,
Ah! *REUBEN is the name I hear.
For him my faithleſs ANNA weaves
A wreath of Roſe, and Myrtle leaves;
On which the winged, am'rous Boy
Has freely wept with tears of joy—
[285] And binding ſoft her fav'rite's brows,
She mingles her too-tender vows.
Hence ſounds ſevere!—no more intrude—
Leave me to Peace and Solitude,
Leave me to tread Life's varying ſlope—
Leave me awhile to cheriſh Hope!
For e'en cold Criticks have conceiv'd,

So much alike our meaſures run,

And e'en the gentle have believ'd,

That ANNA AND THAT I WERE ONE—
Would it were ſo!—we then might prove
The Sacred, ſettled unity of Love.
O ſuppoſition vain! alas!
I've ſeen ſeven fleeting luſtres paſs,
And now the fluſh of life is o'er,
And if I e'er could pleaſe, I pleaſe no more,
Yet tho' my haſty youth is flown,
ANNA! I worſhip thee unknown—
And check for thee my wand'ring courſe,
And yield to thy myſterious force—
And I again will take my flute
When ſlumb'ring Nature's ſelf is mute,
Save where perchance the Aſpin wood
That whiſpers o'er yon Midnight flood,
Shall drop its ſhatter'd honors round,
In ſeeming ſorrow at the ſound.
And as my faithful voice I raiſe,
With all the fervency of praiſe,
[286] O may I lure thee from thy ſecret bow'r
To cheer once more my melancholy hour—
So ſhall I grateful bleſs ſtrong Fate's decree,
That bids me ſtill RETURN TO POETRY—and THEE.

DELLA CRUSCA.

October 28, 1788.

TO HIM WHO WILL UNDERSTAND IT.

[]

THOU art no more my boſom's Friend;
Here muſt the ſweet deluſion end
That charm'd my Senſes many a year,
Through ſmiling Summers—Winters drear.

O FRIENDSHIP! am I doom'd to find
Thou art a Phantom of the Mind—
A glitt'ring Shade, an empty Name,
An air-born Viſion's vap'riſh Flame?
And yet the dear Deceit ſo long
Has wak'd to joy my Matin Song,
Has bid my tears forget to flow,
Chas'd ev'ry Pain, ſooth'd every Woe;
That TRUTH, unwelcome to my ear,
Swells the deep ſigh, recals the tear,
Gives to the ſenſe the keeneſt ſmart,
Checks the warm pulſes of the heart,
Darkens my fate, and ſteals away
Each gleam of joy through life's ſad day.

[288]BRITAIN, farewel! I quit thy ſhore;
My Native Country charms no more;
No guide, to mark the toilſome road,
No deſtin'd clime, no fix'd abode,
Alone and ſad, ordain'd to trace,
The vaſt expanſe of endleſs ſpace;
To view upon the mountain's height,
Thro' varied ſhade of glimm'ring light,
The diſtant landſcape fade away
In the laſt gleam of parting day;
Or in the quiv'ring lucid ſtream,
To watch the pale Moon's ſilver beam;
Or, when in ſad and plaintive ſtrains
The Mournful PHILOMEL complains,
In dulcet notes bewails her fate,
Deſerted by a FAITHLESS MATE;
Inſpir'd by Sympathy divine,
I'll weep her Woes—FOR THEY ARE MINE.

Driven by my fate, where-e'er I go,
O'er burning ſands, o'er hills of ſnow;
Or on the boſom of the wave,
The howling tempeſt doom'd to brave;
Where-e'er my lonely courſe I bend,
Thy image ſhall my ſteps attend;
Each object I am doom'd to ſee,
Shall bid remembrance PICTURE THEE.

[289]Yes, I ſhall VIEW THEE in each flow'r
That changes with the tranſient hour;
Thy wand'ring fancy I ſhall find
Borne on the wings of every wind;
Thy wild impetuous paſſions trace,
O'er the white wave's tempeſtuous ſpace;
In every changing ſeaſon prove,
An emblem of thy wav'ring Love.

Torn from my Country, Friends, and YOU,
The world lies open to my view;
New objects ſhall my mind engage,
I will explore th' HISTORIC PAGE;
Sweet POETRY ſhall ſooth my ſoul,
PHILOSOPHY each pang control;
The MUSE I'll ſeek—her lambent fire
My ſoul's quick ſenſes ſhall inſpire I
With finer nerves my heart ſhall beat,
Touch'd by Heav'n's own Promethean heat;
ITALIA's gales ſhall bear my ſong
In ſoft-link'd notes her woods among;
Upon the blue hill's miſty ſide,
Thro' trackleſs deſerts, waſte and wide;
O'er craggy rocks, whoſe torrents flow;
Upon the ſilver ſands below;
Sweet LAND of MELODY, 'tis thine
The ſofteſt paſſions to refine;
[290] Thy myrtle groves thy melting ſtrains,
Shall harmonize and ſooth my pains.
Nor will I caſt one thought behind,
On Foes relentleſs—Friends unkind;—
I feel, I feel their poiſon'd dart
Pierce the life nerve within my heart,
'Tis mingled with the vital heat
That bids my throbbing pulſes beat;
Soon ſhall that vital heat be o'er,
Thoſe throbbing pulſes BEAT no more—
No!—I will breathe the ſpicy gale,
Plunge the clear ſtream, new health exhale;
O'er my pale cheek diffuſe the roſe,
And DRINK OBLIVION TO MY WOES!

^*LAURA.

Nov. 29, 1788.

TO LAURA.

[]

LAURA! I heard thy warbled woes,
At fading Twilight's ſolemn cloſe:
They met me in yon dreary vale,
Juſt as the Ringdove ceas'd her tale.
A tale like thine, which ſeem'd to ſpeak,
That ſoon her wounded heart would break!
Was it, perhaps, ſhe ſought the grove,
In lone ſolicitude of Love?
Was it, like thee, a faithleſs mate
She mourn'd too ſadly, and too late?
Surely it was—for with the note
I found ſuch melting anguiſh float,
That watry vapours dimm'd my eye,
And ALL MY SOUL WAS SYMPATHY.

Nor wonder that I ſo was mov'd.
For I have ſuffer'd I have lov'd,
Have felt the trueſt paſſion burn,
Have known th' ecſtatic bleſt return,
Have watch'd the look of languor caſt,
To ſhew the rig'rous hour was paſt:
[292] Then have I preſs'd the bluſhing Fair,
With pangs—how diff'rent from deſpair!
Yet was the bliſs ſo pure, ſo chaſte,
That Seraphs might the rapture taſte.
Alas! the joy was doom'd to fade,
Like Day's proud fluſh in Evening ſhade—
The EYE, ſo ſettled once, would range—
The long-fix'd HEART began to change!

Ah! then, I thought with thee—to try
The only refuge left—and fly.
On many a foreign ſhore to roam,
And leave my rending cares at home.
Yes, I have trod the ALPINE ſteep,
By ruſhing PO have ſtopp'd to weep;
On the loud DANUBE's banks have ſtood,
And Eaſtward croſs'd the CASPIAN flood.
'Tis but ILLUSION;—yet remains
Unfaded memory of pains,
The circle wid'ning for relief,
Has ſtill the central point of grief!
Then from th' alluring thought recoil—
'Tis deſolating fruitleſs toil!
But moſt avoid ITALIA's coaſt,
Where ev'ry ſentiment is loſt,
Where TREACH'RY reigns, and baſe DIS⯑GUISE,
And MURDER—looking to the Skies,
[293] While ſordid SELFISHNESS appears
In low redundancy of ſcars.
O! what can MUSIC's voice beſtow,
Or SCULPTUR'D GRACE, or TITIAN GLOW,
To recompenſe the feeling mind
For Britiſh virtues left behind?
Here rather here, thy ills confound,
To liſt the billows roar around,
To ſee the miſty Phantoms glide,
On the choak'd river's willowy ſide,
When the YOUNG MOON aſpires to ſtream
Her ſcanty Creſcent's feebleſt beam.
Then, wiſtful mark the drenching ſhow'rs
That foil gav Summer's faireſt flow'rs;
Scorn the fierce ſtorm, the ſeaſon dare,
And learn to TRIUMPH, or to BEAR!
But if thy ſorrow ſoften'd heart
In vain reſiſts the venom'd dart,
With mine thy deep afflictions blend,
And for a LOVER LOST, receive a FRIEND.

^*LEONARDO.

Dec. 23, 1788.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

[]

"And Time, and Youth, and LOVE, muſt paſs away."

Creech.

WHILST I danced gaily in the round
Of Folly, on her fairy ground;
And play'd, and ſung, and laugh'd away
The feath'ry hours of Life's ſhort day,
Thy INVOCATION, like the flame
Which ſtarts from the Electric frame,
Struck on my heart! I ſigh'd, I turn'd,
And ANNA yet for DELLA CRUSCA mourn'd.
When wounded PRIDE ſuſſus'd its bluſh,
And o'er my nerves its tremors ruſh.

Ne'er will I "leave my ſecret bow'r,
To cheer thy melancholy hour."
Secure within I will remain,
And ſmile at thy factitious pain;
And when thy Poetry ſo ſweet
Shall next my wand'ring glances meet,
[295] I'll ſpare a ſigh to moments fled—
But ANNA ſhall to thee be dead.
See—to my couch I laughing turn—
Poetic Paſſions vainly burn!
The freſheſt Roſe-leaves for my head
Shall form a bluſhing ſcented bed;
The elaſtic Camomile unpreſt,
Invite the ſick'ning heart to reſt.
FLORA ſhall ev'ry gift ſhow'r round,
And bid her bright gems deck the ground,
The MYRTLE only there
Shall ne'er unfold its od'rous boughs,
Ne'er flaunt its bloſſoms fair,
Frail, and alluring as thy vows!
'Tis Love's devoted tree—
Oh! bid it ſeek ſome other home,
Nor ſpread its ſweets for me,
Nor ſhed its poiſon round my Dome!

Hah! didſt thou hope I ſhould not trace
The mental features of thy face?
Didſt thou believe the thickeſt veil
Could DELLA CRUSCA's brow conceal?
Oh! how impoſſible a taſk
To hide thy radiance in a maſk!
Thy living fires deſtroy the ſkreen,
Thou ſtand'ſt conteſt!—thy form is ſeen.
[296]Yes, write to LAURA! ſpeed thy ſighs,
Tell her, her DELLA CRUSCA dies;
In ſweeteſt meaſures ſing thy woes,
And ſpeak thy hot LOVE's ardent throes;—
And when it next ſhall pleaſe thy heart
Towards ſome other Fair to ſtart,
The gentle Maiden's vers'd in cures
For ev'ry ill, fond Love endures.
She "drinks Oblivion" to its pains—
And vows to ſtain her pallid cheek
With juices of red Grapes ſo ſleek,
And ſings adieus in Bacchanalian ſtrains.

FALSE Lover! TRUEST Poet! now farewel!
Hark! in yon Curfews ſound is toll'd the knell
Of our departed Loves. The penſive tale
The ſurging aother floats acroſs the vale;
The Elegiac ſound ſooths my ſad ear,
And the moiſt lid ſuſtains a trembling tear.
The crimſon veil which deck'd yon mountain's brow,
And glided into gentleſt tints, but now,
Already blackens down its ſwelling ſide,
And ſoon the beauties of the plain will hide—
The outſtretch'd beauties! where ſalubrious to [...]
Calls food, and riches from the ſterile ſoil.
O! wondrous magic! ſhall great Labour's name,
Remain unhallow'd by the voice of Fame?
[297] CREATIVE LABOUR! whoſe all-bounteous hand
Drops ſlow'rs, and fruits, and foreſts o'er the land;
Who bids th' indented river curving ſly,
Or fix, a ſilv'ry lake beneath the eye!

But theſe all ſink before the falling Night,
Who tries to ſezie the flitting beams of light,
But the proud light its am'rous touch eludes,
And a dim ſhadow o'er the landſcape broods.
Soft drizzling rain, the patter'd trees confeſs,
And chilling breezes on my boſom preſs.
My hair, whoſe curls, late floated o'er my breaſt,
Weighty with moiſture, clings around my veſt—
Where—where's the hand to preſs thoſe treſſes dry,
The fond encircling arm, the cheering eye?
Why ſigh the winds tumultuous thro' the woods,
Why weeps the Night in ſuch impetuous floods?
It is the loſs of DELLA CRUSCA's Muſe,
Which thus with ſorrow every plant imbues;
For never ſhall again his "Golden Quill,"
With magic paſſion ev'ry boſom thrill.
He yet may write, but ANNA 'twas alone
Lured down his guardian Goddeſs from her throne;
Who whilſt ſhe pour'd the richeſt of her ſtore,
And charm'd his heart with bright poetic lore,
Phophetic, thus his future hiſt'ry read,
And wreath'd it in the laurels for his head:
[298] "If falſe, thou e'er MATILDA's heart ſhould'ſt wring,
And to another nymph preſume to ſing,
My inſpiration thou no more ſhalt know,
My fire in thee, no more divinely flow."
The Goddeſs ſpoke, her words were mark'd by fate,
And DELLA CRUSCA mourns his ANNA's wrongs, too late!

ANNA MATILDA.

Feb. 26, 1789.

LAURA TO ANNA MATILDA.

[]

O ANNA, ſince thy graceful ſong
Can wind the cadence ſoft among
The heart's fine nerves, and raviſh thence
The wond'ring Poet's captive ſenſe;
'Till warm'd by thy electric fire,
His yielding ſoul, with fond deſire,
Glows but for thee—diſpel thy fears,
Nor ſtain thy downy cheek with tears.
O quit thy "bluſhing ſcented bed,"
Pluck the pale roſes from thy head,
Again with native luſtre ſhine,
And round thy poliſh'd brow th' unfading MYR⯑TLE twine.

Subdue the haggard WITCH, whoſe em'rald eye
Darts fell Revenge, and pois'ning Jealouſy;
[300] Mark, where amidſt her ebon hair,
The ſcaly ſerpents mingling twine
While darting thro' th' infected air,
The murd'rous vapours ſhine!
O turn thee, ANNA, quickly turn,
Where DELLA CRUSCA's torch ſhall burn
For thee alone; his harp is ſtrung,
To the ſoft muſic of thy tongue;
No Verſe of mine his ſong inſpir'd;—
Thy notes ſo lov'd, ſo long admir'd,
Still vibrate in his glowing heart,
Where ev'ry chord is tun'd to thy poetic Art.

Ah! let me, for repoſe, repair,
Where Sorrow ſteals to weep her care,
Deep in ſome cave, or craggy cell,
Where the lone Screech Owl loves to dwell.

And O! my cheerleſs couch I'll ſpread,
While ſpangled with the lunar dew,
The Nightſhade, and the baneful Yew,
Shall wind about my head.
There will I breathe a ſtrain forlorn,
And like a ling'ring wint'ry morn,
Pale and with chilling rays appear,
Cold glimm'ring thro' a chryſtal tear,

Yet let me DELLA CRUSCA's lays admire,
Still gaze with hallow'd rapture on his fire;
[301] Liſt his ſoft tones of melting mood,
Sweeter than Ringdove ever coo'd,
Tuneful as METASTASIO's tongue,
Or plaintive PETRARCH's witching ſong.

I feel no wiſh, no ſelfiſh joy,
Another's tranſports to deſtroy;
Ambition is not worth the name,
That meanly ſhines with borrow'd fame.
No counterfeited bliſs my heart ſhall own,
The conſcious Mourner ſighs for BAYARD's vows alone.

Since his lov'd voice firſt caught my ear,
Oft have I tried to calm my woe,
Oft have I bruſh'd away the tear—
The tear his numbers taught to flow.
I ſeize the Lyre, to ſooth my grief,
Court mazy Science for relief;—
Vain is the effort, 'tis in vain—
The fierce vibration fills my brain,
Burns thro' each aching nerve with poignant ſmart,
And riots cureleſs in my bleeding heart.

'Tis not "the Bacchanalian bowl,"
Can free from pain the ſick'ning ſoul;
The "brew'd enchantment's" poiſon fell!
The mellow grape's nectareous juice
[302] Suits the baſe mind; its baleful uſe
Throws o'er the ſenſe, a torpid ſpell.

But LETHE's pure and limpid ſtream,
Shall calm the thought, from paſſion's dream,
'Tis there my breaſt ſhall ſeek repoſe,
And drink "Oblivion to its woes."

LAURA.

March 1, 1789.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

[]

—At her footſtool ſtands

An altar burning with eternal fire,

Unſullied, unconſumed.

Akenſide.

HEAVEN OF MY HEART! again I hear
Thy long-loſt voice, but ah! the tear
Steals from my lids, and deadly pain
Creeps in cold langour thro' each gaſping vein.
And can that mind I love ſo well,
Thy Soul's deep tone, thy Thought's high ſwell,
The proud poetic fervour, known
But in thy breaſt's prolific zone,
Can theſe combine to curſe me? can that gaze,
In whoſe rich orb the FAIRY FANCY plays,
Thro' which, the charms that ART and NATURE ſhow,
Spring to the judgment, and there brighter glow;
Can that be chang'd to anger? canſt thou doom
My future wiſh to dwell upon the tomb?
[304] Canſt thou, SO KEEN OF FEELING! urge my fate
And bid me mourn thee, yes, and MOURN TOO LATE?
O raſh ſevere decree! my madd'ning brain
Cannot the pond'rous agony ſuſtain,
But forth I ruſh, as varying Frenzy leads,
To cavern'd lakes, or to the diamond meads,
O'er which the ſultry noon-beams wide diſſuſe,
And ſlake their eager thirſt with lingering dews;
Or to yon ſullen ſlope that ſhuns the light,
Where the black foreſt weaves meridian night,
Diſorder'd, loſt, from hill to plain I run,
And with my Mind's thick gloom obſcure the Sun!
For naught to me, alas! can now avail
The freſh'ning vapours of the perfum'd dale,
The diſtant ſea-waves' variegated green
Or the ſoft anguiſh of Night's eye ſerene,
They cannot yield me comfort, tho' the Spring
Should ſhake ſpontaneous beauty from her wing,
Or guide my footſteps to th' enchanted lawn,
Where bluſhing pleaſure hymns the birth of dawn,
Still would I pauſe to weep, ſtill would I turn
From ſcenes like theſe, to th' neglected Urn
That mid ſome grove in ſolemn ruin lies,
And tells, how th' forſaken Lover dies!
There would I fondly claſp the broken ſtone,
And whiſper ev'ry mental pang I've known,
Repeat the dread inexorable word,
That ſtern MATILDA ſpoke—MATILDA! moſt ador'd!

[305]When at the laſt year's cloſe of May,
From thy ſweet chains I burſt away,
And daſh'd my woe-worn Harp upon the ground,
Still in my flight Love's rapt'rous hope was found.
But now all ſoothing Hope is paſt; in vain
I check'd my progreſs on the midland main,
In vain to EUROPE'S CONTINENT I came,
Lur'd by the light of thy poetic flame,
In vain I bade my wandring toil be o'er,
And on MATILDA call'd with trembling tongue ONCE MORE.

And think'ſt thou, ANNA! that my love,
Like thine, could ever faithleſs prove,
That in ſome female REUBEN's praiſe,
I the impaſſion'd verſe could raiſe;
That I ſo quickly led aſtray,
Could wake the warm inconſtant lay?
No—tho' conceal'd, I ſtruck my lyre,
When by dull EVENING's fading fire
Pale ECHO ſat; who as ſhe caught the ſound,
Gave the week murmur to the woods around;
Yet, 'twas thy Image fill'd my mind—
I heard a tuneful Phantom in the wind,
I ſaw it watch the riſing Moon afar,
Wet with the weepings of the twilight Star,
Aſſiduous Zephyr told me it was thou,
And wond'ring, NOT DECEIV'D, I breath'd the friendly vow.

[306]If I have wrong'd thee, my hot tears
Shall melt thy rage, or flow for years;
For oh! till then my days ſhall go
In deep regret, unalter'd woe,
In mute reflection, heavy care,
And SOLITUDE's ſupreme deſpair!
But ſtill for thee my breaſt ſhall beat
With the moſt faithful honeſt heat;
Then ſave me, ſave me, let thy radiant ſmile
Again reſtore me, or again beguile;
With melting muſic calm my boſom's groan,
O deign to pity him, who loves but thee alone!
And whither ſhall I turn from thee?
For in thy abſenſe all things fade;
FRIENDSHIP, I know, is but a glitt'ring ſhade,
A ſweet deception—ſtrange uncertainty!
Nor could AMBITION's buſy rage
An anguiſh ſuch as mine aſſuage,
Vain muſt the world's beſt glories prove,
To fill the vacuum in the heart of love.

How brightly ſpreads the op'ning flow'r!
What beauteous life informs the bow'r!
How fair the ſtreams of curling ſilver glide!
How rich the harveſt waves its golden pride!
'Tis LIGHT's creation all—when that retires,
The pictures periſh, and the charm expires.
So the faint colours of my mimic lays,
Drew their falſe luſtre from MATILDA's blaze;
[307] But ſoon the tints ſhall vaniſh—'tis decreed,
And endleſs darkneſs come, if SHE recede.

THEN HEAR MY WORD, by that fierce Orb,
Whoſe flame ſcarce all the ſkies abſorb,
By ev'ry winged blaſt that goes
To its full banquet on the Roſe;
By truth, eternal, undefil'd,
By gentleſt Sorrow's warblings wild;
By the gay treſſes of the morn;
By Earth, and Sea, and Heaven, 'tis ſworn,
That ne'er again this hand ſhall fling
Its feeble tremors to the ſtring,
Till thou, MATILDA! bidſt the meaſure pour,
Till then, THY DELLA CRUSCA WRITES no MORE.

DELLA CRUSCA.

March 16, 1789.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

[]

AMBIGUOUS NATURE form'd the female heart
So proud, capricious, cold and warm,
That much ſhe fear'd her FIRST COMMAND
Inert would prove, throughout the land;
So gave the counteracting charm—
On favour'd Man beſtow'd ſagacious ART.
Thus whilſt my keen reſentment flow'd,
Thy Vow upon my boſom glow'd;
Sage anger inſtant took her flight,
And from thy muſe a joy ſo bright
Diſſus'd itſelf through all my veins,
That hanging o'er thy charming ſtrains,
My lips ſpontaneouſly uncloſe,
And thus the proud petition roſe:—

"O! MONARCH of the Heaven-given lyre!
Thou, who the Theban Peaſant didſt inſpire
With radiant knowledge, and poetic taſte,
To ſpread thy numbers o'er the flinty waſte—
In my yet darker mind thy beam infuſe,
And let me feel the high-inſpiring muſe:
[309] Give me one ſpark of DELLA CRUSCA's light,
Teach me like him to think—to paint—to write!
Pour on my pen his rich abounding lay,
Which EARTH and HEAVEN ſublimely can diſplay.
Mark! how his varying touch makes ever new
Objects grown flat, on long accuſtom'd view;—
E'en TRUTH itſelf his pencil can command—
IMMUTABLE! ſhe bends beneath his hand;
In diff'ring characters ſhe ſtarts from ruſt,
Deck'd in OPPOSING colours; yet oppoſing, JUST,"

Thus as I pray'd, unwelcome ſlumbers came,
But lively, wakeful thought remain'd the ſame—
And to APOLLO's Temple led my feet,
The ſame ambitious wiſhes to repeat.
With downcaſt eyes I near the Altar kneel,
And ſacred fervours on my boſom ſteal;
My folded hair devoutly I unbound,
And daſh'd my once-proud laurels on the ground.
My robes, more white than the ſoft down which flies
O'er thiſtled deſerts, thro' autumnal ſkies,
Wide, o'er the teſſelated pavement flow'd;
And round, the everlaſting tapers glow'd:
Again I utter forth my fond deſire,
But 'midſt the incenſe my proud hopes expire.
The Paean'd GOD now ſhook his beamy throne,
And through the dome indignant radiance ſhone;
"Preſumptuous ANNA!" was the ſtern reply
From HIM, who rolls day's orbit through the ſky,
[310] "The mighty boon thou'ſt aſk'd ſhall ne'er be thine;
PARNASSUS hear! record the oath divine!
Yet more—to puniſh thy aſpiriring hope
Which led thee with MY CHOSEN SON to cope,
The ſmall—ſmall portion of celeſtial flame
Thou ſtol'ſt from him of the immortal name,
Hence MOULDERS!—fades upon thy darken'd ſoul,
Nor leaves one ſpark, thro' the chill void to roll."

Shock'd at my fate, my ready lids uncloſe,
And the harſh viſion from my pillow roſe!
Oh, barb'rous viſion! which I live to rue—
For tho' a dream thou wert—my doom is true;
APOLLO's juſt decree too ſure I feel,
And on my ſpirit torpid languors ſteal.
Hah! what avails my DELLA CRUSCA's vow?
Poetic ardors fly me now!
What! tho' the ROSE's morning bluſh
Rivals the Weſtern clouds, which ruſh
To mix their crimſon with the gold
That round the SINKING SUN is roll'd;—
What! tho' MAY's Zephyrs in the groves,
Attentive to the harmonious loves
Of the bewitching feather'd race,
Forget to breathe on EARTH's moiſt face;—
What! tho' the bloſſoms in the mead,
Beneath the heifer's fragrant tread,
Exude ſoft balm upon the wind,
And all their mingled ſweets unbind;
[311] Yet ſhall ſad ANNA never know
The boundleſs ſweets which round her flow.
Whether the MOUNTAIN's breath I drink,
Or midſt the Vale's embroid'ry ſink,—
FANCY no more will aid the ſcene,
Nor flutter o'er me on the Green.
With liquid ſtep when the pure ſtream
Dancing, ſhall thro' its borders gleam;
When FLORA from her rainbow wing
Shall ſhake the tints which from the ſpring,
When muſic wanders 'midſt the ſhade,
When perfumes AIR's blue ſea pervade,
A WINTER o'er my mind will ſpread,
Nor tints, nor ſcents, nor liquid ſtreams be read.

HAPLESS MY FATE! unoccupy'd, unbleſt
Sick'ning with eaſe—hating the taſteleſs reſt—
Whilſt LAURA ſtill may dreſs the lay
In all the luſtre of the day;
With ſuch ſweet penſiveneſs complain,
That mortals are in love with pain;
For, ah! it falls like APRIL's ſnow
Upon the Crocus' purple glow;
Soft, as the flutt'rings of the fainting gale,
Oppreſs'd by LEO, flaming o'er the vale!
But ſhall not DELLA CRUSCA ſue
For her who to HIS MUSE is true?
[312] For ONE who round her heart hath wreath'd
All the rich ſtrains he ever breath'd;—
Will HE not ſtrive to break th' avenging rod?—
Oh fly, thou Poet bleſt, AND STRUGGLE WITH THE GOD!

ANNA MATILDA.

PARIS March 29, 1789.

THE INTERVIEW.

[]

O WE HAVE MET, and now I call
On you dark clouds that as they fall,
Sweep their long ſhow'rs acroſs the plain,
Or mingle with the clam'rous main.
Alas! I call them here, to pour
Around my head that gather'd ſtore,
While the loud gales which ſpeed away
To the far edge of weeping day,
Mid the tumultuous gloom ſhall bear
On their wet wings my ſigh'd deſpair.

OF LATE—where confluent torrens craſh,
I paus'd to view the mazy daſh
Of waters, ſhattering in the twilight beam;
While oft my wand'ring eye would trace
The diſtant foreſt's ſolemn grace.
As o'er its black robe hung the tawny gleam.
Nor then on joys gone by, my Mem'ry dwelt,
Nor all the pangs which wounded Friendſhip felt;
[314] But ANNA, tho' unknown, uſurp'd my mind,
Alone ſhe claim'd the tributary tear,
For ev'ry ſolace, ev'ry charm combin'd
In the ſweet madd'nings of her ſong ſincere.

Sudden I turn—for from a young grove's ſhade,
Whoſe infant boughs but mock th' expecting glade,
Sweet ſounds ſtole forth—upborne upon the gale,
Preſs'd thro' the air, and broke amidſt the vale.
Then ſilent walk'd the breezes of the plain,
Or lightly wanton'd where the corn-flow'r blows,
Or 'mongſt the od'rous wild-thyme ſought repoſe,
Or ſoar'd aloft and ſeiz'd the hov'ring ſtrain.

As the fond Lark, whoſe clear and piercing ſhake
Bids Morning on her crimſon bed awake,
Hears from the greenſward ſeat his fav'rite's cry,
Drops thro' the heav'ns, and ſcorns the glowing ſky:
So I, ſoul-touch'd, th' impetuous Cat'ract leave,
And almoſt ſeem th' etherial waſte to cleave,
Allur'd entranc'd, I ruſh amidſt the wood,
AND THERE THE SOFT MUSICIAN CONSCIOUS STOOD:
Ah! 'twas no viſionary Fair,
Imagination's bodied air
That now with ſtrong illuſion caught,
Mental creations fled my thought,
A living Angel bleſs'd my ſight,
Strung ev'ry nerve to new delight,
[315] With joy's full tide bedew'd my cheek,
'Twas ANNA's ſelf I ſaw, NOR HAD I POW'R TO SPEAK.
O then I led her to the woven bow'r,
Where ſlept the Woodbine's ſhelter'd flow'r,
Where bending o'er the Violet's bed
The Roſe its liquid bluſhes ſhed;
While near the feather'd Mourner flung
Such plaints from his enamour'd tongue,
That all ſubdued at my MATILDA's feet
I ſunk, but with an agony more ſweet,
Than favour'd mortal e'er before had proved,
Or ever yet conceiv'd unleſs like me he loved.

SHE SPOKE, but O! no ſound was heard
Of the wanton, rapt'rous bird,
That climbs the morning's upmoſt ſky,
When firſt the golden vapours fly;
But fainter was the moving meaſure,
Than the Linnet's noontide leiſure
Lets the ſultry breezes ſteal—
Dar'ſt thou, my tongue! the tale reveal?

"ILL-FATED BARD!" ſhe cried, "whoſe length|'ning grief
Had won the pathos of my lyre's relief,
For whom, full oft, I've loiter'd to rehearſe
In phrenzied mood the deep impaſſion'd verſe,
[316] Ill-fated Bard! from each frail hope remove,
And ſhun the certain Suicide of Love:
Lean not to me, th' impaſſion'd verſe is o'er,
Which chain'd thy heart, and forc'd thee to adore:
For O! obſerve where haughty Duty ſtands,
Her form in radiance dreſt, her eye ſevere,
Eternal Scorpions writhing in her hands
To urge th' offender's unavailing tear!
Dread Goddeſs, I obey!
Ah! ſmooth thy awful terror-ſtriking brow,
Hear and record MATILDA's ſacred vow!
Ne'er will I quit th' undeviating LINE,
Whoſe SOURCE THOU art, and THOU the LAW DI⯑VINE.
The Sun ſhall be ſubdued, his ſyſtem fade,
Ere I forſake the path thy FIAT made;
Yet grant one ſoft regretful tear to flow,
Prompted by pity for a Lover's woe,
O grant, without REVENGE, one burſting ſigh,
Ere from his deſolating grief I fly.—
'Tis paſt,—Farewel! ANOTHER claims my heart,
Then wing thy ſinking ſteps, for here we part,
WE PART! and liſten, for the word is MINE,
ANNA MATILDA NEVER CAN BE THINE!"

She ceas'd, and ſudden like an evening wind
Ruſhing, ſome priſon'd tempeſt to unbind,
And all regardleſs of the ſcenes it leaves,
Skimming o'er bending blooms, and ruſſet ſheaves,
[317] MATILDA fled! the cloſing Night purſu'd,
And the cold INGRATE ſcarce I longer view'd;
Her form grew indiſtinct—each ſtep more dim,
And now a diſtant vapour ſeems to ſwim,
Her white robe gliſtens on my eye no more,
Its ſtrainings are all in vain—THE FOND DELU⯑SION'S O'ER.*

MY SONG SUBSIDES, yet ere I cloſe
The ling'ring lay that feeds my woes,
Ere yet forgotten DELLA CRUSCA runs
To torrid gales, or petrifying ſuns,
Ere bow'd to earth my lateſt feeling flies,
And the big paſſion ſettles on my eyes;
O may this ſacred ſentiment be known,
That my adoring heart is ANNA'S OWN;
YES, ALL HER OWN, and tho' ANOTHER claim
Her mind's rich treaſure, ſtill I love the ſame;
And tho' ANOTHER, O how bleſt! has felt
Her ſoften'd ſoul in dear delirium melt,
While from her gaze the welcome meaning ſprung,
As on her neck in frantic joy he hung,
Yet I will bear it, and tho' Hell deride,
My pangs ſhall ſooth, my curſe ſhall be my pride.
Nor can HE boaſt like me; O no, HE found
The tranquillizing balm that cures the wound;
HE never knew the loftier bliſs, to rave,
Without a pow'r to aid, a chance to ſave;
[318] HE never bath'd him in the Nightſhade's dew,
Nor drank the pois'nous meteors as they flew,
Nor told his rending ſtory to the Moon,
Link'd with the demons of her direct noon;
HE never ſmil'd Diſtraction's ills to ſhare,
Nor gain'd th' exalted glory of deſpair.

Then be it HIS, for many a year t' enfold
Thoſe charms, and wanton in her curls of gold,
Drain the ſweet fountain of her eye's fond ſtream,
And fancy ſuff'rance but the wretch's dream;
While I will prove that I deſerve my fate,
Was born for anguiſh, and was form'd for hate,
With ſuch tranſcendent woe will breathe my ſigh,
That envying fiends ſhall think it ECSTACY,
And with fierce taunts my cheriſh'd griefs invade,
Till on my pow'rleſs tongue the laſt "MATILDA" fade.

DELLA CRUSCA.

June 16, 1789.

TO PHILANDER,^* Who ſaid, "WHEN I AM DEAD, WRITE MY ELEGY"

[]

—ibimus, ibimus,
Utcunque praecedes, ſupremum
Carpere iter comites parati.

YES, I would write; the ſad command
Lives in each melancholy throb
Which lifts my heart. Thy ANNA's hand,
When death that melting eye ſhall rob
Of the blue flames which flaſhing there,
Thy burning ſoul ſo well declare—
Thy ANNA's hand that ſoul ſhall then diſcloſe,
And by indulging, charm her weary woes.

Forth would I ruſh, whilſt Night's dim orb
The blackeſt vapours of the ſky abſorb;
And ſhould a lingering Star with glittering beam,
Send thro' the air its ſilvery ſtream,
[320] I'd tell it that PHILANDER WAS NO MORE—
Strait would its glittering beam be ſad;
And the wide heavens in darkneſs clad
Would join to mourn, WHOM I ſhould then deplore.
Quick to the cypreſs foreſt I would hie,
Whoſe thick gloom never drank the healthful ſky,
And from its deepeſt central ſpot,
Where miſery had rais'd her flinty grot,
A bough I'd tear;
Whilſt ſhrieking thro' the ebon air
The Night Bird's voice would diſmal echo wake,
And with its lorn complaints the reſting vallies ſhake.
Then would I find where yew-trees wave,
O'er ſome unhappy Lover's grave,
Their deſolated ſhade;
And from their baleful branches bruſh
The pois'nous dews!—or madly cruſh
The juices from the riven rind
That ne'er again the naked trunk ſhould bind.
My choſen cypreſs reed I'd then immerſe,
And calling on the Muſe of melancholy verſe,
With the YEW'S TEARS I'd ſtory all my woe,
Nor ſhould a mingling TEAR of MINE preſume to flow.

No! I would ſcorn to weep. The glorious grief
Should gorge upon my heart, and ſpurn relief.
[321] How I would write of dear PHILANDER dead!
O! I would weave ſuch verſe, that round my hea!
The Demons of the Night,
Arreſted in their wheeling ſlight,
Should learn to pity and to mourn,
And curſe their bounded pow'r,
Which would not let them ſay RETURN! RETURN!
I'd paint his form, and every varying grace
Impreſs'd by FEELING on his manly face,
Then ſhould forever live his SAPPHIRE EYE,
And tho' his ſenſate heart in earth diſſolves,
As Time, obliterating, round revolves,
THAT BEAM at leaſt ſhould never, never die!

But O! how ſhould I paint his mind,
A taſte ſo true, and ſo refin'd!
How ſhould I ſpeak of his IMMORTAL MUSE
That now can ſuch delight diffuſe?
A Muſe which forms a NATION'S TASTE!
And o'er the weedy waſte
Of long-neglected Poetry had thrown
A vivid light, which ſo ſublimely ſhone.
That to its ſource ten thouſand poets flew,
And form'd their ſongs, and tun'd their harps anew.

But yes! e'en of HIS MUSE I'd ſpeak;
And tho' I know the ſwelling theme
Would ſhake my ſoul, till in th' extreme
Of ſtrong ſenſation every nerve would break;
[322] Yet having then fulfil'd my taſk,
Done, what laſt night's ſoft ſhadows heard him aſk,
What could I next but die?
Yes, I would court HIM vainly fam'd
THE KING OF TERRORS! Oh, how lightly nam'd!
Would he not be my boſom's friend?
Would not the ſighs his agonies would rend
From my torn heart, be paſſports bright
To wing me to the fields of living light;
Where, from the rapt ſeraphic throng
My own PHILANDER's powerful ſong
Would be the firſt to ſeize my ear,
And make me feel that HEAVEN WAS NEAR?
Come then, pale King! feed on my feeble breath;
O! come, thou ſtay'ſt too long—too long EN⯑CHANTING DEATH.

ANNA MATILDA.

June 19, 1789.

TO A—E B—N.

[]

THINK not, TRANSCENDENT MAID! my woe
Shall ever trouble thy repoſe;
The mind no laſting pang can know,
Which lets the tongue that pang diſcloſe.

Sorrow is ſacred when 'tis true,
In deep concealment proudly dwells,
And ſeems its paſſion to ſubdue,
When moſt th' impulſive throb compels.

For HE who dares aſſert his grief,
Who boaſts the anguiſh he may prove,
Obtains, perhaps, the wiſh'd relief,
BUT O! THE TRAITOR DOES NOT LOVE,
The LOVER is a Man afraid,
Has neither grace, nor eaſe, nor art,
Embarras'd, comfortleſs dimay'd,
He ſinks the VICTIM OF HIS HEART.

He feels his own demerits moſt,
When he ſhould moſt aſpire to gain,
And is at length completely loſt,
Becauſe he cannot urge his pain.

[324]

But tho' he be ſo much ſubdu'd,

And ev'ry ſcene of ſpirit leave

As if he mourn'd for all he view'd,

As if he only liv'd to grieve.

Yet let his FAIR-ONE's wrongs be told,
Sudden he ruſhes forth to ſave,
The Foreſt's King is not ſo bold!
O! IF HE LOVES HE MUST BE BRAVE.

And if, alas! her hand ſhould bleſs
Some more attractive youth than HE;
HE never would adore the leſs,
But glory in his agony.

He'd ſee her to the altar led,
And ſtill command his ſtruggling ſigh,
Nor would he let one tear be ſhed,
He'd triumph then;—FOR THEN HE'D DIE.*

DELLA CRUSCA.

June 30, 1791.

THE END.

Appendix A CONTENTS.

[]

THE Adieu and Recal to Love Page 1
To Della Cruſca 3
To Anna Matilda 5
To Della Cruſca 8
To Anna Matilda 10
Elegy, written on the plain of Fontenoy 13
Stanzas to Della Cruſca 17
To Anna Matilda 22
To Della Cruſca 26
Ode to Prudence 29
Ode to Death 32
Elegy on the Thirty-firſt of December 35
Invocation to Horror 39
To Anna Matilda 43
To Reuben 44
Ode to Mrs. Siddons 49
Ode to Simplicity 52
Ode to Miſs Farren 55
The Slaves, an Elegy 58
Monody 63
Ode to Indifference 67
Ode to Anna Matilda 71
Ode to Della Cruſca 76
To Anna Matilda 79
To Della Cruſca 82
To Anna Matilda 89
To Della Cruſca 94
A Tale for Jealouſy 99
Ambitious Vengeance. A Tragic Drama. 113
Stanzas on Friendſhip 163
Verſes to a young Lady at Bath 166
The Complaint 168
Ode. To ***** 172
Prayer to Venus 174
Complimentary Verſes 176
Stanzas on Lady Craven's Children 177
The Retroſpect 179
Stanzas to Ill Nature 183
The Confeſſion 187
Prologue to the Comedy of the Provok'd Huſband 189
The Invitation 191
Stanzas on a young Lady's Birth Day 195
Lines ſent to a Friend with a Watch 197
Song, addreſſed to a young Lady 199
Ballad, founded on Fact 201
To Laura 208
Elegy 211
Love renew'd. A Sonnet 215
Characteriſtic Song 217
The Repentance of Paſſion 219
Diverſity, a Poem 224
Sonnet. To the Muſe 241
[] Sonnet. To Meliſſa's Lips 242
Sonnet. The Valentine of Hopeleſs Love 243
Sonnet. Meliſſa's Retire⯑ment 244
Sonnet. To May 245
Sonnet. To Meliſſa 246
Sonnet. To Do. 247
Sonnet. The Invitation 248
Sonnet. Meliſſa 249
Sonnet. To the River Uſk 250
Sonnet. To General Elliott 251
Parting addreſs to Della Cruſca 252
The African Boy 254
To Miſs Farren 257
The Voice we love 258
Henry deceived 261
To Emma 267
Monologue 270
A Fragment 273
On Miſs Farren's Portrait 275
General Conway's Elegy on Miſs C. Campbell 276
Epitaph on Do. 279
Marquis Townſhend's verſ⯑es on Miſs Gardiner 281
To Anna Matilda 283
To Him who will under⯑ſtand it 287
To Laura 291
To Della Cruſca 294
Laura to Anna Matilda 299
To Anna Matilda 303
To Della Cruſca 308
The Interview 313
To Philander 319
To A—e B—n 323

1.

TO RICHARD BR INSLEY SHERIDAN, ESQ.

PREFACE.

THE ADIEU AND RECAL TO LOVE.

TO DELLA CRUSCA. THE PEN.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

ELEGY, Written on the PLAIN OF FONTENOY.

STANZAS TO DELLA CRUSCA.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

ODE TO PRUDENCE.

ODE TO DEATH.

ELEGY ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF DECEMBER, MDCCLXXXVII.

INVOCATION TO HORROR.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

TO REUBEN.

ODE TO MRS. SIDDONS.

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.Addreſſed to MRS. WELLS.

ODE TO MISS FARREN.

THE SLAVES. AN ELEGY.

MONODY.Addreſſed to MR. T—

ODE TO INDIFFERENCE.

ODE TO ANNA MATILDA.

ODE TO DELLA CRUSCA.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

A TALE FOR JEALOUSY.A Recent Event in CATALONIA.

CHARACTERS.

AMBITIOUS VENGEANCE; A TRAGIC-DRAMA.*

ACT I. SCENE I.

ACT II. SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

ACT III. SCENE I.

SCENE II.

STANZAS ON FRIENDSHIP.

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY AT BATH,In whoſe Pocket-Book the AUTHOR had, at a very early Period of Life, written ſome Lines.

THE COMPLAINT.TO LORD *****.

ODE To ****.

PRAYER TO VENUS.

COMPLIMENTARY VERSES.

STANZASWritten on the Children of Lady CRAVEN, performing a PLAY, before her at Queensbury Houſe ſome years ago.

THE RETROSPECT.

STANZAS TO ILL-NATURE.

THE CONFESSION.TO MISS ****.

PROLOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE PROVOK'D HUSBAND.Spoken ſome time ago at a Private Performance at WEYBRIDGE.

THE INVITATION.TO DELIA.

STANZAS ON A YOUNG LADY's BIRTH-DAY. In the Month of November.

LINES SENT TO A FRIEND WITH A WATCH.

SONG.Addreſſed to A YOUNG LADY.

BALLAD, FOUNDED ON FACT.

TO LAURA.

ELEGY.To the LADY who will beſt remember it.

LOVE RENEW'D, A SONNET.

CHARACTERISTIC SONG.

THE REPENTANCE OF PASSION.

DIVERSITY. A POEM.

SONNET. TO THE MUSE.

SONNET. TO MELISSA's LIPS.

SONNET. THE VALENTINE OF HOPELESS LOVE!

SONNET. MELISSA'S RETIREMENT.

SONNET. TO MAY.

SONNET. TO MELISSA.

SONNET. TO MELISSA.

SONNET. THE INVITATION.

SONNET. MELISSA!

SONNET. TO THE RIVER USK, IN MONMOUTHSHIRE.

SONNET. TO GENERAL ELLIOTT, ON HIS ARRIVAL FROM GIBRALTAR.

PARTING ADDRESS TO DELLA CRUSCA.

THE AFRICAN BOY.

TO MISS FARREN, ON HER BEING ABSENT FROM CHURCH.

THE VOICE WE LOVE.

HENRY DECEIVED.

TO EMMA.

MONOLOGUE.

A FRAGMENT.ADDRESSED TO ***.

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.
Addreſſed to MRS. WELLS.

MONODY.
Addreſſed to MR. T—

A TALE FOR JEALOUSY.
A Recent Event in CATALONIA.

AMBITIOUS VENGEANCE; A TRAGIC-DRAMA.^*

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY AT BATH,
In whoſe Pocket-Book the AUTHOR had, at a very early Period of Life, written ſome Lines.

THE COMPLAINT.
TO LORD *****.

STANZAS
Written on the Children of Lady CRAVEN, performing a PLAY, before her at Queensbury Houſe ſome years ago.

THE CONFESSION.
TO MISS ****.

PROLOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE PROVOK'D HUSBAND.
Spoken ſome time ago at a Private Performance at WEYBRIDGE.

THE INVITATION.
TO DELIA.

SONG.
Addreſſed to A YOUNG LADY.

ELEGY.
To the LADY who will beſt remember it.

A FRAGMENT.
ADDRESSED TO ***.

TO PHILANDER,^* Who ſaid, "WHEN I AM DEAD, WRITE MY ELEGY"