Variety: a Collection of Original Poems : electronic version.

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

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

[Title Page]

VARIETY: A COLLECTION OF ORIGINAL POEMS. BY A LADY. LONDON: Printed by T. Davison, White Friars; FOR JAMES WALLIS, PATERNOSTER-ROW; AND CHRISTOPHER AND JENNET, STOCKTON. 1802. CONTENTS. DEDICATION v On Peace 1 The Nosegay 5 The Poet 9 Anecdote of Gustavus 14 Return again 21 Hard indeed the Case is! 26 The Birth of Rosy May 40 Why, Good Folks 44 On the Death of a young Lady 47 The Captive 48 The Request. To a Lady 67 Sonnet to Hope 70 On Eloquence 72 Lines written on the Prison-walls by one of the Victims of Robespierre 74 Translation of the foregoing 75 The Christmas Rose 77 Stanzas 87 Ambition, a Pastoral 89 The Vision of Truth and Justice 93 Sonnet to Spring 121 Henry and Eudora 124 Sonnet to Friendship 133 The Sailor 136 The Winding-sheet 138 The Purchase 141 The Storm 146 The Slave 154 Duet 158 Ejaculation 163 Lines on the Death of Miss M. B. W. 165 DEDICATION. To you, my preceptors, the wreath I here bring, Compos'd of wild flow'rs, the first produce of spring; If the Sov'reign of nature implanted the seed, 'T was the warmth of your care its expansion decreed. But yet so unfinish'd, unstrengthen'd their form, That the chill blasts of censure with ease may deform; Unfit for the critic's, the satirist's view, To good-nature I tend them, indulgence, and you. Of beauty devoid, unpossess'd of a claim That would bear the impression of nice-judging fame, By genius unfashion'd, by grace unadorn'd, Uncultur'd by time and by age uninform'd, The sun of your smiles I may hope they will meet, Should they ne'er gain the sanction, the smile of the great: As you twisted the root, so the stem has since grown; So matur'd into practice the precepts you've sown. 'T was the maxims you early implanted in youth Bade me falsehood detest, love and cherish the truth; Bade honesty's path seem our interest below, As from thence 't is on high every blessing must flow; Bade the sigh of ambition repose on content, Bade the wish of the heart rest in moments well spent; Bade the treasure of mind to all wealth seem superior, Bade me rate ev'ry talent to virtue inferior. If not wise by your care, if in learning not great, Though no partial discernment enlightens my state, Still blest is my lot, you have taught me the road Which leads on to honour, religion, and God; To happiness, end of all human pursuit, Of virtue, mild virtue alone, the sweet fruit. How vain should I seek to repay all the care, Which rais'd my fond hopes to a promise so fair! Yet the mind which you guarded, long cherish'd and taught, For your labour of years is with gratitude fraught: The lov'd sense of your bounty, whilst reason remain, The first seat in her empire shall ever retain; Whate'er be my portion, whate'er be my state, Be prosp'rous, adverse, high or lowly my fate, Attach'd to my soul, as the ivy 't will twine, Shall live ever green in cold poverty's clime, Till nature's remembrance be wrapt in the sod, To rest in the hope of redemption in God. But fortune forbade its first off'ring to prove, But by this slight effusion, avowal of love: Yet if faithful through life to your precepts I prove, Should virtue below gain me favour above, Should you view then hereafter the fruit of your care, In the regions of bliss grow eternally fair, To think that you aided her flight to the sky, Some pleasure at least for your toil may supply; There you, next to God, my just praises must claim, You who guided my steps to the summit of fame. VARIETY. ON HEARING OF PEACE. WHAT heavenly notes, what music dear, Vibrate on my raptur'd ear! Not the trumpet's freezing sound; Not the drum's emphatic bound; Not the clarion, or the horn, On the wings of tumult borne; Not the direful clang of arms, Presaging woe, in war's alarms:— 'Tis the dulcet note of Peace! Cease, every murmur! horror, cease! Stern Oppression's reign is o'er, France and Albion war no more! Who shall now with these contend, When their power, their forces blend? Who shall dare their might defy— Who but God who rules on high? Who shall o'er their strength prevail? Who conquer when their chiefs assail? Who by fear shall be opprest, When the world's great masters rest? Doubt and Danger fly the shore: France and Albion wage no more: Peace reigns upon the dashing tides, And Plenty o'er the earth presides: Hope e'en seeks the barren plain, And deserts promise smiling grain. Now the waste, which war has made, Shall the gentle olive shade: 'T will chase the tear from Misery's eye; Content shall sorrow, want supply. Hush every murmur! horror, cease! Peace comes, long-look'd-for, welcome Peace! Exulting Commerce hails the hour That gives her strength, increase, and power. Now shall Science raise her head, Now her foe Confusion's dead. Now Discord flies, and gentle Peace Welcomes Plenty, joys increase. Oh! then fulfil, enchanting maid, The hopes that at thy shrine are laid. Here see the mother waits her son, And fears the danger yet to run; In every wave she dreads a foe, And chides the winds that adverse blow: And here, the still more anxious wife Demands her all....her lord....her life! And quick, with busy skill, foresees, Prepares whate'er she thinks will please. Favour, ye winds, affection's speed, Nor e'er by storms its course impede: Ah! send to rest, to home again, The gallant chief, his martial train: Long may they taste the sweets of peace, The social charms that hence increase; And, as they count each battle won, Talk o'er each feat of glory done; Paint all the horrors of a war, And honours number in each scar; Dangers o'ercome with rapture tell! Yet, ah! with double rapture dwell On the day, the happy hour, Gentle Peace resum'd her power; When the cries of Death, Despair, Fill'd no more the ambient air; When drooping Pity raised her voice; When Mercy bade her sons rejoice; When the last trump was—Tumult, cease; When Sorrow died in birth of Peace! Who can claim a virtuous heart, And in joy not bear a part? Who possess a noble soul, Not rejoice when peace controuls? Who his country love, nor feel The wounds the olive branch shall heal? Albion sees revive her power, Peace comes, and her triumphal hour: As the sun, she rises bright From the obscurcive shades of night; Neighbouring kingdoms cheers, befriends, Wide and far her wealth extends; Wide and far the smiles of Peace Bid confusion, discord cease: Fear and Danger fly the shore; France and Albion war no more! Hush, every murmur! horror, cease! Hark! 't is the dulcet note of Peace! Plenty comes, and joys increase: Be lasting, then, thy reign, O Peace! THE NOSEGAY. TO A YOUNG LADY. WHILST nature's sweetest flowers I send To you, my Emma dear, Allow me moral truths to blend, And deign these truths to hear. See roses, emblem of your charms, Which winter's frost shall blight, That no returning suns shall warm, When set in death's cold night. Fleeting beauty, what art thou? A simple fading flower:— Now in the rose-bud's vernal hue, Now in its full-blown hour: Now faded every blushing grace, Fled the sweet roses of thy cheek:.... Ah, Emma, heedless of the face, The fruits of virtue early seek. Store honour, wisdom, in your mind; These shall more fragrant sweets diffuse Than the fair flowers I here entwine.... Sweet as the rose-dropp'd morning dews. These, e'en in age, shall charm each heart; These shall ne'er feel the scythe of time; But bliss-like fostering showers impart When lucid suns in shades recline. Cull then, my Emma, cull in youth What years nor aught can e'er impair: To live in all the grace of truth, Be e'er your daily, hourly care. Time, which shall silver o'er your head, Shall still preserve unchang'd your name; And Emma, tho' to beauty dead, Shall bloom in virtue's fairer fame. The flower the blossom, on the tree, The fruit, that more luxuriant grows, May lessons just convey to thee, May teach thee how to find repose. The supple ivy be in duty; Seek in the wise, the strong support; Adhere, and they'll impart their virtue, Nor on thy weakness e'er retort. The humble violet be in mind: Each native beauty, lowly shade, Tho' e'er it lives conceal'd, you find Its fragrance scents the neighbouring glade. Let thy benevolence be warm; Nor from the poor, th' opprest, depart; But, as Sol smiles beneath the storm, Do thou e'er cheer th' afflicted heart. Let worth thy friendship e'er procure; Let int'rest ne'er affection bind; That, e'en to life's declining hour, Ye find in two, one kindred mind. Learn chaste discretion from the reed, Which never quits its lowly sphere, Content to lowly state decreed, Unknowing proud ambition's fear; It 'scapes the blasts which oaks destroy, Secure in every rising storm: No scandal shall thy peace annoy, Suspicion wait not on thy form. Let gratitude luxuriant rise, To him—your guard, defence, and shield; Rich as the juice the vine supplies, To fostering man returning yields. Then as the poplar be upright, Nor stoop to falsehood's winding way; Array'd in truth's celestial light, Thou shalt not soon in error stray. Firm as the rock let faith e'er guide, Religion every action rule; Humanity o'er thought preside; Taste form, in reason, judgment's school. Then, as the rock, thou'lt brave each storm, Wilt rise superior to the tide; Affliction shall not bow thy form; For conscious virtue adverse fate derides. THE POET. A HALF-starv'd poet once began to muse— Not on thin love, blank verse, or foreign news, A weightier matter weigh'd his sinking heart— He felt, alas! he felt cold hunger's smart: His hoard was empty; all his little store, That gave him scanty joy, was now no more; Nay, every avenue of hope was clos'd, And lost each stay, where hope had once repos'd. Now only fill'd the store-house of his brain, All else was vacant, or replete with pain. "O nature!" he exclaim'd, "why, why bestow With double sense to feel, still double woe? Why leave the rich in mind, in fortune poor? Why grant the liberal soul but little store? Why with thy kindness ever cruel prove? Why add the pangs of fear to hopes of love? Why chasten fancy's bliss, by truth's stern hand? Bid nature this, and fortune that, command? Bid pleasure seek, necessity forego? Delight anticipate, yet pain to know? Why warm my mind with verse's magic power, And bid cold poverty that warmth ensure? Unthinking parent, take thy paltry boon, Oh! take, and give relief, ere night, ere noon! Give me but solid food, and cheering wine, No more on fancy's feasts I'd care to dine; No more the nectar of the gods I'd sip, Or in Castalia's troubled fountain dip; No more o'er fields elysian would I stray, But bend o'er earthly walks my safer way; No more in verdant groves or bowers recline, In fortune's softer lap my cares resign: And might I from that pillow never rise Till death should ask its final sacrifice, No more, I say, no more I'd write again.— Mistaken poet! then, and only then, In truth an author eloquent I'd be; Then, only then, I'd soar from bondage free. Did fortune's sun-beam round my mansion play, What warmth, what fire, what feeling I'd betray!" "Hold," cried a genius, who had heard him moan, "I can redress; thou need'st no longer groan: I will prescribe the remedy to grief, Yet leave thee still the choice of the relief: What thou not comprehend'st, I can explain— Thy pleasure only is thy source of pain. Man's evils oft, like thine, in common rise, Which each may cure by some small sacrifice; Yet good's so blended with each bitter here, Thou canst not lose or one but lose it dear. In flying woe, fled is its fellow joy; Pain we may ease, yet never pain destroy: Rhyme is thy pleasure, and it proves thy pain, Because attended with no solid gain. Thou dost repine that fortune's left thee poor, Nor added riches to thy mental dower; Thou sigh'st to live in dull luxurious ease, To measure nature's wants, as whim may please: Yet know, shouldst thou this envied plenty gain, Lost is the poet's fire, the author's reign; For such thy temperament, and such thy frame, To check thy stomach, is to clear thy brain: Too surely wine thy faculties would cloud, Too surely load of food thy fancy shroud. What thou couldst eat, thou mightst not well digest; The cloak thou wear'st, suits thy complexion best; Thy warm imagination needs restraint, And cooling food is given, to suit thy bent; This temporises fancy's lambent fires, With sober judgment damps, what she inspires: Fortune oft aids dame Nature's wise intent, And virtue, virtue dares to be content. To feebler minds than thine is fuel given, To different natures, different states and living. Say, when rapt visions all thy thoughts employ, Dost thou not feel then some superior joy? Awhile, perchance, thou giv'st the subject o'er, And then remember'st that thou art but poor; Then, only then, so transient is thy pain, So lost thy real woe in fancy's chain. The remedy I bring is simply this— Change, take another care, another bliss; Dig in the mine, that yields thee golden ore, Abandon verse, and be no longer poor: The rich man's wealth, his dread of loss, be thine, His fear of death, his gout, his whims, his wine, His chariot; and beware the northern blast, That nips the hot-house plant ere summer's past. Weigh well, ere changing, what thou wouldst forego, What 'tis thou hast, and what thou sigh'st to know; For discontent ne'er feels its present good Till it has chang'd, and evil understood; Then it regrets, regretting finds too late It ow'd contentment to its former state; Pays the sad debt by heartfelt keen remorse, And proves a fickle temper half a curse. Yet when we've evil known, now bliss enjoy, Thought of the past prevents that bliss to cloy; When trifling woe would fain oppress the heart, We but revert, and lost is half the smart. I'll point thee out the path to wealthy fame; Weigh well, I say, the sacrifice 's a name; What else it should be call'd thou best must feel, Thou canst alone decide, alone reveal: Thy hoard is empty; oft before has been, And resupplied as oft in time, I ween; As oft thy hopes and thy repose were o'er, As oft has fortune rais'd again thy store." "Enough," he cried: "content I'll rest, tho' poor; Content to keep the devil from the door." The genius fled in reason's sober gray: How mildly powerful was her parting ray! The poet ate, forgot again his care, Mus'd on the vision, now no more in air; He fix'd her lov'd idea in his breast, And found in her a shield, a guide to rest. When fortune frown'd, and hope no more could charm, This friendly genius smil'd beneath the storm; The more, and more, he call'd her to his aid, The more, and more, she strength of mind convey'd; The more, and more, we take her for our guide, The more she grows our ornament and pride; The more from shame, from sorrow we retreat, The more we truly grow in virtue great. ANECDOTE OF GUSTAVUS, KING OF SWEDEN; OR, FILIAL PIETY REWARDED. FROM THE FRENCH. CLOSE by the covert of a mountain's side, Where the stream dash'd, in gay immeasur'd pride, Auburna watch'd her fleecy white-rob'd flocks; Oft climb'd, with them, fair Sweden's flow'ry rocks; Oft on her pipe would tune the joyful lay, Whilst the troop gather'd round in sportive play. One midst the flock, distinguish'd from the rest, By name Jeannette, she lov'd, avow'd the best; The nymph she'd follow as she pac'd the mead, Come at command, and from her hand would feed: Sometimes she'd turn the fugitive, and stray Beyond her bounds, in mirth and frolic play. How oft in search her mistress has she tir'd, And in her gentle heart despair inspir'd! How couldst thou, Jeannette, torture thus the fair, Who of thy safety took such tender care? How couldst thou cause alarm in that fond breast? The seat of virtue, of content, and rest. 'T would seem thou wouldst, by thus suspending joy, Give double zest, prevent the power to cloy; For when Auburna had believ'd thee lost, When hope's bright ray dark fear had then o'ercast, When as she'd ceas'd to call, thou wouldst again Seek in her arms a welcome to the plain; Skip by her side, to peace restore her breast, Lull every care and every doubt to rest; Again to her protection yield thy power, Pass in obedience each succeeding hour. But from the rocky margin of the deep, The wood, the stream, where drooping willows weep; From bounding o'er the variegated plain, Dales and meads rifling of their sweetest gain; Soon was Auburna call'd to scenes of sorrow, Where joy ne'er cheer'd the night, nor wak'd the morrow: The fiend Disease subdued her parent's frame, Held every nerve a captive to its chain. Yet whilst Auburna liv'd, she still was blest— Still consolation felt, devoid of rest. The maid would tend with anxious love and care, Each wish anticipate, prevent each fear: Now smooth the pillow, to procure her sleep; Now, in her anguish sympathising, weep; And in the moments when she finds repose, To heaven Auburna's prayers emphatic rose. And sure if prayers could pity move above, Inspire divine regard, angelic love, Hers were the prayers which piety had form'd Worth taught affection, rais'd, energic, warm'd. Of every virtue that can mortal grace, Thou, filial love, mayst hold the fairest place; The sweet result, of gratitude and sense Felt, but whose honour holds pre-eminence. One eve, as crossing o'er the village plain, Sweden's great monarch saw, beheld with pain, Auburna's toil, when at the crystal fount The weight she bore, her strength seem'd to surmount; Struck with her mien, awhile he silent gaz'd, Each trait affliction touch'd, each beauty rais'd: Her hazel eyes express'd the virtues meek, Pale sorrow dimm'd the roses of her cheek; The dormant pipe across her shoulder hung, Chaplets lay scatter'd, wither'd and unstrung. Jeannette, with plaintive look, too, droop'd forlorn, And seem'd her mistress' lonely state to mourn: Nature alone contrasted with her mien, Sol's lucid rays illum'd th' enamell'd green, From each near summit seem'd to dart in fire, But o'er the lambent wave, the distant spire, Shot softer glories, whilst the breath of day, In sweet vibrations, chas'd the scorching ray. Such the bright scene, which varied feelings mov'd: Gustavus gaz'd, admir'd, he pitied, lov'd: He ask'd to drink; the crystal draught was given With that superior grace, the gift of Heaven; That emanation of the virtuous soul, Which simple awes unthought of still controul. "Enchanting maid!" the enraptur'd monarch cried; "How hard a fate like this such charms betide! My heart in pity mourns your luckless fate; You seem to merit a superior state: Your labour quit, to rest, to Stockholm go, From want I'll guard you, toil you ne'er shall know; Ease, peace, and plenty, shall attend the day, No care, intruding care, e'er mark your way." "Had I to change my state as much desire As your vow sooths, and as you faith inspire, E'en then impossible! I could not go; Or, going, happiness could never know. My mother, poor and ill, has only me, None else to toil, assuage her misery: Hence, to persuade, vain eloquence will prove, For whilst she lives I'll ne'er another serve; Nor shall one vagrant wish degrading roam Beyond her lov'd embrace, our humble home. Yet could I, going, meliorate her fate; To sickness health impart, thus change our state; Yes then, and then alone, reverse I'd prove, Part ere death will'd, in truth on care improve: But human art can ne'er her strength restore; Long she may live, yet can revive no more. Tho' double ills our fortune should betide, No earthly power shall force me from her side; One common fate we both on earth will share, One common sorrow as one common fare." "Say then, ah! where this happy mother lives: I'd call none wretched who thy care receives; E'en tho' by all the ills of life opprest, In thy affection, beyond fancy, blest! Thy looks are truth, thy words expressive prove Thou liv'st a prodigy in filial love: Foregoing all that youth in common charms, Thou find'st contentment in a parent's arms; Blind to the power of fortune and of fame, Which in the world such beauty e'er must claim, Deaf to suggestions of a better fate, Thou still canst love, prefer, thy lowly state. Come, let me see this mother; lead the way: Sure no plebeian she who gave thee day!" They gain'd the humble cot, to virtue dear: The man, the monarch, greatly soften'd here. Stretch'd on a couch of straw the parent laid; Too well her frame affliction's power betray'd. "How hard!" exclaim'd the king, "how partial fate! Or you, poor mother, ne'er had known this state." "Say God," she said, "is just in all his ways; I his weak creature still can chant his praise: Poor as I am, rich in this child you see, Who by her thousand cares, her industry, Supports my life, tries to prolong my days, Inspire lost hope in all her pious lays: But for her efforts, long I must have left This mortal life, long been of food bereft. May the Eternal, who can worth reward, When I'm no more, still prove her fostering guard! He can alone repay her filial care, Or fully recompense a mind so fair." "Yet man shall render here a tribute due, Perform his duty, and to trust be true. In me behold your king, your sure reward, Now the support of virtue, now the guard. Amiable girl, adieu! Your name shall live; Fame to Auburna a due laurel give. Recording truth shall tell your filial love, And your reward to future age shall prove; That merit e'en on earth will find its due; That kings can recompense, distinguish too." No more the monarch said; with generous speed To Stockholm hasted, to confirm by deed Each promise to the child; the parent made Each vow approv'd on high, to virtue paid. May ye, ye daughters, vie Auburna's work! Tho' no king honour or reward on earth, The King of kings can more than these bestow— Transplant to heaven the worth that grew below. RETURN AGAIN. AS the wood-fuzz'd hill I climb'd, By the parting solar ray, Inhaling the refreshing wind, Chanting heedless on my way, As my flocks I gather'd home, Void of anguish, care, or pain, I heard a note, a note forlorn— "Friend of my youth, return again." The echoes round Repeat the sound It vibrates o'er the neighbouring plain:— "Friend of my youth, return again!" "Say," the lonely wanderer cried, "Ye enlighten'd sons of earth, Where does Constancy reside, If ye find her not with worth? I lov'd a maid, I was belov'd, Equal were our joys and pain, The tender tie on each improv'd— "Friend of my youth, return again." Winds caught the sound, The breezes round Seem'd to murmur in the strain— "Friend of my youth, return again!" My heart ne'er own'd but her controul, Nor other bliss it e'er had sought; It was the union of the soul By sympathetic virtue taught. Soon was I envied all my pleasure, Tho' I was neither proud nor vain A maid more artful stole my treasure: "Friend of my youth, return again." How the warblers seem to say, On the dew-girt blossom'd spray, Chant in lowly plaintive strain, "Friend of my youth, return again!" Superior talents claim'd the fair, But, ah! she could not love more true; Professing more, with wily care She gain'd my friend—to joy adieu! Absent then; with hope sincere To meet that friend, in heart the same, I return'd: no longer dear My promis'd bliss—unlook'd-for pain. The gentle lambkins' bleating moan, The shepherd's pipe, and tuneful horn, Seem'd responsive to the strain— "Friend of my youth, return again!" "Are ye, ye fair, ne'er firm then here? To vows of friendship never true?" I cried with sympathy sincere: The wanderer heard me; heard, and flew. I follow'd with a pitying eye, My heart pursued her o'er the plain; I long'd the lost friend to supply: I hop'd—I sigh'd, "Return again!" Now I hear the curfew toll Peace to some departed soul. But hope with life shall ever reign:— Lovely wanderer, come again! Seek in me a second friend; I, if none else faithful prove, I will love till life shall end, I'll thine every care remove. Banish, then, all vain alarms; Constant, doubt not, I'll remain; Let love supply lost friendship's charms:— Lovely wanderer, come again. The parting day, The twilight gray, Seem'd to soften with the strain— Lovely wanderer, come again! Nature hope shall e'er retain; The setting sun shall rise again. Still she flies, nor hears my lay, Yet my heart to hope I'll give; Hope, nor distant hope, the day In her partial smiles to live. Time shall heal her woe-worn heart; She may pity, then, the swain Whom she taught, devoid of art, To sigh "Return, return again." Now the silver moon appears, Guides my steps, my bosom cheers; Omens, as she lights the plain, The wanderer will return again. Tune my pipe, the cherish'd strain:— "Lovely wanderer, come again!" Well I know, when friends betray, To other kindred minds we fly; The soul can never lonely stray, Till the social feelings die. The heart was made for more than one, Form'd to sooth, as to complain: When the heart's warm friend is gone, What but love shall ease our pain? Source of pure felicity, Heavenly, sacred sympathy! Ye sweetly trill thro' every vein— "Return, dear maid, return again!" Here every eve I'll watch the plain, Perchance she here may come again: Hope on my pipe shall tune the strain— "Lovely wanderer, come again!" HARD INDEED THE CASE IS! WHAT various maxims for our sex are laid! What poor respect to every system paid! Each different author gives for all one rule, And undistinguish'd we are put to school, Without regard to nature, rank, or state, The power of fortune and the gifts of fate. All must conform to one immediate plan, First to the author bow, and then the man. Alas! my sisters, are we blest with reason, And not allow'd its proper use, in season? Sure we may judge ourselves—I see no cause Why these should ever give to women laws. The fair we're call'd, the fickle and the gay; The soul of social life, and porcelain clay: Now, as the treacherous weather, ever changing, Mad after pleasure, e'er with folly ranging; Now less than mortal, more than heavenly, thought, Angelic, insignificant, or nought. Alas! plain sisters, hard indeed the case is! Man centres all our merit in our faces. Deserv'd, or undeserved, alike we share: As each may think of one, we all must bear. From her who with an eye a prince can kill, To her who executes a goose with skill; From her who love of only one demands, To her who praise of all the world commands; From her who early sighs for wedlock's state, To her who vows, she men, and marriage, hates; From her who's had five husbands, to the maid Who ne'er was noos'd, persuaded, or betrayed: In short, wise, foolish, beauteous, and the plain, Alike are fair, are frail, divine, or vain, As each thro' love, caprice, or hatred, speak The experienced knowledge of a month or week. Alas! good sisters, hard indeed the case is! How little own'd our worth, our rights, and places! And then, how more than hard! I vow and swear We're nothing thought of, if we grow not fair; Virtues avail us nought, to gain respect; "Such is the hard condition of our sex!" Vain we prove diamonds of intrinsic worth, If grandame Nature smile not on our birth. But "bound in calf and gilt," unlettered still, Honour's our own, we have it at our will. A sparkling eye, fair skin, or ruby cheek, Will catch the homage merit long might seek. Alas! plain sisters, hard indeed the case is! We're not regarded, without handsome faces: We've no incentive to improve the mind, To grow in virtue, or in sense refin'd. For charms of person most the world admire, And beauty hence becomes our chief desire. Exterior grace we may with justice praise, Yet not make this "the business of our days;" And think of this, this only to improve, As the guide, guardian, and cement of love. Did the world equal prize sense, honour, virtue, We'd strive to excel in these, and every duty. Can skin-deep merit ever better claim Than transient praise a fading earthly fame? But can this satisfy the noble mind? Will it not ask for praise the most refin'd? Say, does not reason bid us seek above For approbation, for angelic love? Should not this prove our first peculiar care? And, gaining this, are we not more than fair? Alas! wise sisters, hard indeed the case is! Our minds are less regarded than our faces. Some deem worth not essential to our nature, Nay, say we're not a soul-informed creature. Oh horrid thought! thus to insult us all, Alike the good, the wise, the great, the small! Ye sex profane! ye then would e'en invade A right by Heaven, by virtue sacred made. By every rule religion can maintain, By every precept held in reason's rein, Ye sisters, ye who claim superior minds, Whose judgment virtue heightens and refines, Assert our rights, oh! speak for all in season, Ere they deprive us of all claim to reason. Should they proceed as now they have begun, Why, we are none, and all our rights undone: Let's be no longer call'd, then, frail by man, Untemper'd clay, that moulds to any plan; Let's sound the alarm! let each, let all resist: The fury of our tongues shall truth insist; For these they say e'er prove our strongest weapon, These shall abet the cause, shall scold and threaten. What! after all our earthly toil and strife, Rob us of well-earn'd bliss, eternal life? Oh sacrilege! is 't thus ye would reward Your best, your first, your kindest, tend'rest guard? But retribution soon must come, Think then, ye sinners, of your doom! Were we not help-meets made?—Oh! shame! abuse! The word, the sex, ye equally traduce. It means an equal, no poor aide-de-camp, No humble walking-stick to general man. No, no, we equal were, are made, Tho' by wrong nursing oft we may have stray'd From our degrees, that equinoctial line, To the antipodes of wisdom's shrine. 'T is true, the half of us are spoilt in teaching; For men so many maxims will be preaching, That right from wrong we hardly can discern, And lose ourselves in seeking how to turn. Be frank, be natural, they oft exclaim, Be gay, be simple, and reserve disclaim. But art simplicity can never be, Nor inborn sorrow the bright soul of glee. Thus new conceit arises; thus we find An affectation of a nicer kind. Thus cunning apes the mild, the feeling heart, And, seeming honest, acts a double part— Acts against nature, when it most would show What nature is, or how it ought to grow. Does the blunt hero play the coxcomb part; The miser smile when from his hoard apart? Does folly dare to wit a vain pretence? To blushing modesty, cool impudence? Why, where's the difference? Each himself forsakes: 'T is affectation still, howe'er it takes. Just as cameleons vary as they turn, Man weeps with those that weep, with those that mourn; Laughs with the jovial, howe'er sad at heart, And scorns with good luck to avow a smart; Eats, drinks, and sleeps, as those he meets shall rule, And with a title deigns to be the fool. But, when we're honest, can we more appear? And, being that, whose censure should we fear? Or whose but wisdom's sanction should be dear? If we're not what we would be in our mind, If not in judgment or in worth refin'd, Let's not assume a part, for shades are frail; The real self soon seen through every veil. More labour 't is our failings to conceal, Than to learn justice, and to justly feel. 'T is most in action worth or merit lies; 'T is most from sentiment that manners rise; 'T is from good sense and knowledge that they flow: But give these first, and we the other know. Let education guide aright the mind, The fruit shall then be of no common kind; Then shall word, action, from conceit be free; Then we appear, are, what we ought to be. Alas! weak sisters, hard indeed the case is! Few know the way to teach us mental graces. Let women right and truth be taught in season, Then they will think, speak, act, live, love, in reason. Give us instruction suited to our sphere, Knowledge, that renders virtue doubly dear; Then, then alone, we shall domestic grow, And all the joys of home superior know. 'T is they who have in self no sweet resource, Who idle pleasures seek, and folly's course; For where no int'rest the senses bind, Where no amusement rises in the mind, The heart ne'er owns content, and seeks in vain In dissipation's path the prize to gain. Let women taste acquire for real joys, For what nor morals, health, nor time, destroys; Improve the talents doubtless wisely given, Nor leave to rust the precious boon of heaven: Give zest for literature, we home shall love, Good sense and honour's path we must approve. But oh! my sisters, hard indeed the case is! Brains are denied us with our heads and faces. Some would make men of us, some strive to prove That we were only form'd for joy, and love: Yet, 'faith, methinks, the greatest load we bear, And ease mankind of half their weight of care. Equal we're form'd; but, being equal, then It ne'er was meant we women should be men. Did God intend that we should prove the same, Be disunited one, be one in name, He had not stamp'd upon our form and feature The different impress of a different creature: He gave us equal reason, for we need An equal share, alike to 'scape and heed The wiles of treach'rous and designing man, Th' erroneous maxims of friends, church, or clan; A mind, if cultivated, to discern Our real duty, whence we bliss may learn. He gave perception, for, were woman blind, Why but half-sighted then were humankind, Half moulded by her care? When she is wise We grow superior, and in wisdom rise: Tuition blind may make us weak appear, Yet custom rarely deems us what we are. If men adhere to virtue, we the same, Then we are equal, different though our name. What is 't can raise or dignify the nature? What makes the just distinction in the creature? The truth-built claim to reason, honour, sense, Alone gives title to pre-eminence. If, as 't is said, we are by nature weak, Why so much censure, why perfection seek? Why on that weakness do ye then retort? Reeds were ne'er made to be of oaks the sport. When little's given, can justice much require? First have the fuel ere ye seek the fire. If such we were, we'd need your pitying love; Then, as ye talk, 't is Heaven ye'd most reprove. Nay, were we e'en in our primeval state So little blest in mind by partial fate, It does not follow that we now should be, Since Eve ate knowledge from fair wisdom's tree. For what is now as in its first-born state? Or who remain as they are first create? Nature herself has various changes prov'd, Her children still more variously have mov'd. Our sex a part have prov'd the changing fashion, And, reason once denied, they dare to dash on; They now begin to claim their pristine right, To drink of Persia's spring, and clear the sight: And sure to knowledge we've a prior claim, Tho' nought to boast, if hence too care we gain. In plenty first, 't is said, the woman ate, And wisely gave but little to her mate; Of course she'd prove the wiser of the two, Since, eating more, the more she learnt and knew: Perceiv'd, through eating, at some future day The sex would strive her daughters to betray; Kindly to us, she gave man smaller share, That less he might transmit to every heir, That, less empower'd, he might less evil do, That we might, better 'scape when they pursue. Thus of the evil deed she made the best, Thus on the blot was wisdom's seal imprest; And would some honest counsel see us righted, We should, we might be found the clearer sighted. Alas! wise sisters, hard indeed the case is! Justice is blind, we lose our rights and places. Is it in genius that ye difference state? This may be prov'd th' impartial gift of fate; Alike to poverty, to rank allied, Precursor oft to each, the wish or guide; Of neither sex, and yet of both the right, Since Heav'n can only will, and give the light: And where he has bestow'd superior reason, Who should presume the gift is out of season? For man or woman it alike may grace, If virtue hold but with it equal place, If bright discretion's staff the power befriend; Else not to good, to comfort, it will tend. If double prudence lead not on the way, From each rude touch preserve the high-wrought lay— And then, e'en then, impossible to pass Uncensur'd in the world's hard trying glass— Each trivial error of superior minds Bears the false import of superior crimes: The rust on polish'd steel we soon discern, But speck on iron not so quick we learn. Genius, to men, to Europe, unconfin'd, Will rise spontaneous with or sex or clime: Superiority if hence ye state, I vow 't is wrong; the like proclaimeth fate: 'T is seen to this we hold an equal claim; Our right is equal, if not so our fame. Alas! wise sisters, hard indeed the case is! Men will allow us nought but fairer faces; Yet they discover, what they most have known, E'en in their gen'ral thought of every one, Those who know only virtuous of the sex, Must give them due will, honour, and respect: But with the rake, the disappointed swain, Frailty and woman are one common name; Few of the best e'en wish us light to gain, Lest we should preach, and preach them out of fame. Here authors cry, "How charming 't is to see A lady's patch-work, rags, embroidery! After a day of toil and mental strife, How sweet to thus unbend in simple life! Small talk the fair, their lovely persons flatter; Sweet nonsense whisper, swear, profess, and chatter; A hat, a cap, a lap-dog's form admire, And vow they live but in your eye's bright fire." Oh! manly pleasures, for the manly mind! Great and superior joys, of souls refin'd! All recreation, more or less, exact, And each betrays himself in what attracts: One seeks a book, and one pursues a bauble, Some cricket play, and some play the diable; Fribbles in gauze and trinkets may delight, And only love what but attracts the sight. Sure reason's pleasures differently will rise, 'T is the true solid e'er its bliss supplies; 'T is reason still, in rest, in toil, and play, In sorrow's night, or fortune's smiling day. Alas! fair sisters, hard indeed the case is! That ye should need to please the aid of laces; That 't is not charms original will win, Your robes must vie the whiteness of your skin; That real beauty must be deck'd with art, That dress, as much as you, shall gain the heart. Let's heed them not, pursue the path of duty, And boldly dare to fix our hearts on virtue: 'T is time we move upon a different plan, Time we seek more the love of God than man; Time our ambition swell to mighty things, Quit earthly monarch's smile, for King's of kings; 'Tis time that Truth our cause and worth should plead, And time dame Custom should revise our creed. Speak then, ye wise, for now's your time, your turn, The good will thank you who our case must mourn; Shew that the soul men would deny us here Can be to honour and to right sincere. Against these proud foes haste ye then declare, Justice shall lead, as justice forms the war: On earth not e'en content to rob our fame, They seek on high to disannul our claim. Speak then, ye wise, ye just, ye good, ye great, Speak for your sex, oh! speak ere 't is too late: I would assist, but must decline in season, Till time empow'r, and old experienc'd reason. Ah! should it chance—as wonders will appear, Rise on the tablet of each passing year— Should I e'er gain essential strength of mind, Be as I'd wish, in judgment, sense, refin'd, Then, my lov'd sex, I would resume the pen, Defend our worth, and dare have at you, men! I'd prove the soul ye vilely would dispute, Reprove in mercy, yet in truth confute: For heav'nly mercy rises in the soul, And where no spirit is, she can't controul. Hence with you, critics, e'en I hope for pity, If I have err'd in this, in every ditty: I grant ye souls, you may in mercy say, Perchance thou'lt better write another day; For time, experience, make the weakest wise, The seasons change, and moths grow butterflies: The vagrant bee seeks home and rest in season, And e'en weak woman may improve in reason. THE BIRTH OF ROSY MAY. 'T WAS the birth of rosy May, Winter's frost no longer chill'd, Sol check'd the dew-drop on the spray, And warmth with joy each bosom fill'd: 'T was the birth of rosy May.... 'T was Maria's natal day. Roses now began to bloom, Lilies grac'd the flow'ry scene, The violet shed its sweet perfume, All nature smiled in fairy green: Warblers caroll'd on the spray; Welcome, rosy birth of May! But vain the rose had sought to vie The radiance of Maria's cheek; Vain would the lily's softer die The whiteness of her bosom speak; Vain the songsters of the spray Equal her melodious lay. Oh pride of nature! pride of may! Wisdom's, beauty's, honour's pride! Whose every smile could render gay, Whose life the censure of a world defied! 'T was the birth of rosy May.... 'T was Maria's natal day. Just eighteen years the maid had seen, Mark'd by truth the radiant course; With virtue every step had been, Untinctur'd with the thorn remorse. Then, ah then! the birth of May Prov'd Maria's funeral day. Love, affection, friendship dear, Come to hail her natal day, Rais'd by joy, undamp'd by fear, On the rosy birth of May: But soon how chang'd their joyful lay! It prov'd Maria's funeral day. The dance began, the pipe, the lute, Beat symphonious to the train; The tabour, violin, and flute, Responded to the jocund strain: Welcome, rosy birth of May! Welcome, Mary's natal day! But fate forbade their joy to last, Death seized Maria in the throng, Dismay in every bosom cast, The dirge usurp'd gay pleasure's song. Unwelcome then thy birth, oh May! That prov'd Maria's funeral day. But death shall ne'er destroy her name, Her name shall live to virtue dear; E'en on her tomb sits mourning Fame, Affection dews the sod with tears: There grateful Mem'ry loves to stray, To chant her worth in plaintive lay: And there maternal love still hies, First and superior in her woe! Such woe while life remains ne'er dies; Death can alone a hope bestow: Will she not welcome then the day, Emancipation from oppressive clay? Ah! when she Mary clasps again, When she beholds her offspring blest, Will she not bid adieu to pain? Will not each woe be then redrest? She'll join the choir in joyful lay, Welcome virtue's holiday! Ah! let us think on rosy May.... Think on Mary's natal day; Think every hour may be our last, Prepare, repent our folly past: That we in heaven may chant the lay.... Welcome virtue's holiday! WHY, GOOD FOLKS. WHY, good folks, should you make such a pother 'Bout bach'lors, old maids, and the like? 'Tis a hard case indeed, All the world seem agreed, To have for the race a dislike. Each petty author thinks he freely may scan A woman unmarried, if she e'en live in peace; Though the apostle have said 'T is as well not to wed, If single we're happy, enjoy perfect bliss. A good woman is sure more respectable single, Than she who is married and kicks up a riot, E'er scolding her dear, And possessing with fear The neighbours, who can't live in quiet. Methinks there's more shame for a woman to marry, When she feels for the object no partial esteem: Now-adays 't is a trade Too generally made To marry for livings, I ween. Thus approaching the altar, no grain of affection To lighten the sorrows of life, Discord will ensue, And the lady may rue That she e'er bore the name of a wife. We all have our use in the grand chain of being; No one, to be sure, was e'er made in vain; And those who are stated, Call'd falsely ill fated, Old maids, have their office 't is plain: If you find one in a hundred a little severe, She has in the world no mean station; She makes the young and fair, The thoughtless beware How they sport with the gem reputation: Having nought else to do, do ye see, they refine Their knowledge of right and of wrong; To examine each thought, With discretion e'er fraught, Is their conduct amidst the gay throng. Of the world's foolish censure, dear tabbies, ne'er think; 'T is the married in malice who envy our station; They say we are curst, But their fate is the worst, Under man's, tyrant man's domination. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. RICH in each grace that can adorn the heart; Young without folly, prudent without art; Friendship, affection, sway'd her youthful mind; Chaste as the morn, beneficent and kind. Heav'n saw her virtues with a godlike love, And snatch'd the fair-one to the realms above; Releas'd her spirit from this load of clay, To mix with angels in eternal day. THE CAPTIVE. Founded on Fact. THE sun was sinking in the shadowy west, Spire, hill, and wave, his partial rays confest; His milder radiance grac'd each distant scene, His ev'ry smile forsook the lowly green. Now the tir'd labourer from his labour goes, To home, to happiness, to sweet repose; There patient waits the glad return of day, As the night ends, in morn begins to pray; Then speeds to toil: around the rough winds blow: He breathes content, that kings but seldom know; Pure as the stream which by his cottage winds, Pure as the wish which there his soul confines. What happy lot! to him who in this tow'r Ne'er sees the sun rise, its declining hour; In one dull tedious night for ever cast, Alike each day, the present and the past! War made him captive, stern oppression chain'd, And to one gloomy cell his feet restrain'd; Torn from his native land, his cherish'd home, Without one friend to cheer the frightful gloom. Here "hope deferr'd" redoubles every smart, And sickens each bright impulse of the heart; Chill'd expectation, fairy phantom! flies, And ready mem'ry's tort'ring visions rise. Here black suspense, with all her direful train, Prolongs, recounts, each care-corroding pain; Relief has seldom reach'd this grated door, Nor mercy e'er imprest the death-cold floor. "Are we to pity lost, to friendship's aid, Because by cruel war in fetters laid? Is it because some other speck of earth," Cries captive Bertrand, "own'd our infant birth? Can there be minds so little in their sphere To scorn each action but their own career? Does not one God incorp'rate and maintain? Does not one soul inform, one pow'r sustain? Has not one spirit on each heart imprest A sense of right and wrong, and rules confest? Life's trembling source, with reason's fragile chain, Health, smiling guest! despair, and ghastly pain? Are we not objects of our Maker's care, And, though exotic, claim compassion's tear? Can man to man thus so illib'ral prove, Forget religion, nature, God, and love, That God from whom he ev'ry good derives, From whom he borrows, from whose word he lives?.... That such there are, too well I feel and know:" Thus Bertrand mourns, while scalding tears o'erflow.... Bertrand, whose hapless and peculiar fate In simple truth I briefly will relate. On pleasure's wing he on the ocean rode, In mind unruffled, as the tide then flow'd; Bright as the sun-beam then around him play'd, Fortune her fairest gifts to him convey'd. Just in life's glorious prime, as then the year, And as on plant and tree the blossoms fair Adorn'd each stem, so beauty grac'd his youth, So shone his virtues, his superior worth. 'T was in the nuptial week, no present care Clouded the prospect bright with doubt or fear.... How quickly chang'd the scene! how sad reverse! Which feeling e'en must pain to think, rehearse. Oh misery! shalt thou ne'er know restraint? Shall ne'er the wicked thy controul content? Must youth, must beauty still thy power confess, And, knowing honour, know thee not the less? Bertrand's a proof of thy despotic pow'r, By foes attack'd in an unguarded hour.... His country's foes, who saw the open boat From port, from signal equally remote; Quickly they tear him from his frantic bride, Her tears, her pray'rs inhumanly deride. Ah! say ye, judges, was there justice here? Could war exact a sacrifice so dear? Soon in the prison's gloom, in horror cast, Usurp'd by present pain each pleasure past, Anticipation is itself a wound, And dreaming visions waking pangs redound. His cherish'd partner e'er in fancy's view, And as himself despairing, and as true: And oft when care-brought sleep his eye-lids close, When through oppression nature seeks repose, In smiling light enwrapp'd, she hovers round, His couch illumes, and in seraphic sound Whispers he soon shall quit this mortal life, In happy regions meet his long-lost wife: But with the night the flatt'ring vision flies, And with the morn does new-born mis'ry rise. Such long has been the state of Bertrand here, Such still may be for many a tedious year. Tho' twilight's curtain veils him from my sight, His sorrowing voice steals thro' the gloom of night, Damps the gay ardour of a feeling mind, Drives gentle peace from ev'ry sense refin'd. PART II. SOL rose again in glory from the east, And blooming nature his glad smile confest. "Shall herb," I cried, "shall tree, shall plant, and flower, Thy influence feel, and man not own thy power? Shall virtue, Bertrand, mourn thy cheering ray, And taste but partially the breath of day? A fate so hard than pity more demands, It asks an int'rest, and redress commands." Resolv'd to aid, I seek the ear of fame, And loud his matchless beauty, praise, proclaim; The curious seek the lonely prison's gloom, Depart, in word compassionate his doom. Edgar, not distant from the dark abode, Heard of the name, and sought the dreary road.... Sought, yet unthinking that he there should find A friend, a kindred soul, an honour'd mind. He enter'd: and what grief, what sad surprise, In the pale captive's form struck Edgar's eyes! Is 't not," he cried, "my Bertrand that I view? Or some illusive shade, or semblance true? Come, sole possessor of thy Edgar's heart, Come to my arms, thus let me feel thou art The man whom here I least would wish to see, And least would dream to view in misery; Behold a captive in a foreign clime, When flatt'ring hope, when fond delusive time, As my steps wander'd, painted to my soul That, blest in love, still friendship might controul. Fatal reverse! say, dost thou equal prove In the expected votive hopes of love? Or does thy Lucia's heart yet vibrate true, Fix'd and superior, only beat for you?" "Truth mark'd her steps, fidelity her lay; I was the husband....captive....in a day. Oh! Edgar, welcome as the matin light To us, inur'd to one unceasing night! Say, can'st thou figure....no, thou dost claim.... The pride of virtue, beauty, and of fame? Thou art a stranger to a tie like mine, Or thou might'st guess what 't is to part, resign. I can no more....Read thro' the rest, my friend; Here present woes, here prior griefs all end. Forgive, thou God....'t is mortal man relates.... If he unjustly blame the wond'ring fates: Ev'n now he doubts if every harsh decree May in the end not give felicity; Raise every feeble, wand'ring wish to thee, Secure our peace....in heav'n, eternity. I see, my Edgar, thy indignant soul Spurns at the chains which here thy friend controul: Patient, resign'd, alike I'd bear my fate, Had I but tidings of my Lucia's state; Could I her every care for me remove, Assuage her fears, our common woe improve; Give her that hope I even dare not claim, The dear idea....we may meet again. Yes, sure we shall, if I deserve her love, Still be united in the realms above. Ah! when I taste, beneath the prison's gloom, The sweets of slumber, dream of life to come; There think I rest, secure from earthly strife; And there in glory view the faithful wife; This proves a prelude to severer pain, The vision flies, a captive I'm again. Can'st thou, my generous friend, some means devise.... Blest in thy counsel, what dost thou advise?" "I'll hie to France, and to the maid impart Each embryo wish, each whisper of the heart." "But shouldst thou, Edgar, tempt the treach'rous main, Thou may'st become, like me, on Gallia's plain, Or in the bosom of the raging deep Find thy last hour, death's dreary joyless sleep: Then might'st thou curse thy friendship's eager speed, Bertrand, the cause, if not th' effective deed; Then should I feel oppression doubly strong, Thy ev'ry pang redound each sense of wrong. Some other plan my Edgar must advise; This proves thee gen'rous, but not proves thee wise." "Canst thou then, Bertrand, patient wait the night, Yet unresolv'd till day's returning light? Haply some kindred spirit may impart Projects congenial to thy feeling heart. I leave thee, Bertrand; doubt not quick return; Hope whispers, long thy fate I shall not mourn: My steps shall wander from this lone abode, My soul shall seek thee and repose in God; And as I praise, for ev'ry bounty given, I'll ask thy better fate in pray'rs to Heaven." PART III. "OH holy friendship! do thou guide my heart, To act the real friend, the christian's part! What tho' from Bertrand I have ne'er received Proofs of his love, too strong to be deceived, Shall weak distrust humanity disarm? Or fancied vice prevent the truth to charm? Tho' different interests our nations rule, He's the world's friend who's train'd in virtue's school. And what though diff'rent were our mortal sires In name, pursuit, in glory, and desires; Still of one father we the children are, His equal love we claim, his equal care: Brothers in mind, if not by nature made, By reason form'd, and virtue's self betray'd. Should I my captive friend, my Bertrand, free, Give up my all to get him liberty; Say that from France the happy edict come, His wish'd redemption from a joyless tomb; Hence he'll not seek to thank, return bestow, Nor e'er perchance may his deliv'rer know..... They are not gen'rous, act no noble part, Who giving, look for gain with sordid art; Their liberality mere traffic grows, They love the practice as their profit flows." Thus reason'd Edgar, whilst with eager speed He flew to execute the noble deed. Restore to liberty.... oh! blissful thought! Say ye, ye happy, by true virtue taught, Is there on earth so pure, divine a joy? Another transport without base alloy? That bliss supreme, which hope of ne'er deceives, Which, pleasing once, again shall soothe and please, To cheer th' oppress'd, the drooping sons of worth.... This, this is virtue's luxury on earth. This Edgar felt, when o'er the distant plain He flew, perform'd, and met his friend again; Met as unconscious of the glad result, And various plans they form and long consult. Then, as resolving, the wish'd orders come, Life, joy, and hope, the pris'ner's cell illume. "Eternal Pow'r!" the grateful Bertrand cried, "What wish'd, unthought-of bliss my fate betides! Oh! France, my native land, I then shall see, Shall hail time once more, once more shall be free! Once more shall clasp to this fond faithful heart My soul's lov'd empress, and its better part! But where, my Edgar, shall I guess the hand, That gives me freedom in thy favour'd land? Had Edgar wealth possest, I'd said 't were he Who gave me life, in giving liberty." "Right then had Bertrand said, for none more true Could have the will, yet want the pow'r to do: Thou sees'st thy Edgar what the world calls poor; Blest with thy love, now rich in friendship's store! Poor through the debts of honour I have paid, Which chance, necessity, incumbent made; And hence impoverish'd, yet I something gain.... Experience oft instructs by stripes of pain." "But mark....To friends in France, 't is said, I owe My purchas'd freedom, and no more can know. Such e'er is virtue, such is worth refin'd; Praises and thanks oppress the gen'rous mind; It loves in secret blessings to diffuse, And, Heaven-like, unseen relieves and views. Yet ah! how painful to congenial souls, When gratitude o'er ev'ry sense controuls, To be denied the debt of thanks to give, And feeling, seem insensible to live! But thee, just God! the first immediate cause, All know, may own, and give thee due applause; And, through the agency of earthly pow'rs, Perceive who counteracts, who good procures; And e'er oppress'd, the soul reverts to thee, Primeval source of joy, felicity! Secure to find, beyond this mortal life, An end to toil, to vanity, and strife: 'T is thus the weary traveller returns, Sighs but for home, and for rest only mourns." PART IV. THE day arriv'd when Bertrand should depart, Leave Albion's isle, with no dejected heart: When fickle fortune deigns but once to smile, Hope counts successive favours in the wile, Affliction's storm believes for ever past, And each surmounted woe still deems the last. Thus expectation views the solar beam Which breaks thro' April showers, illusive gleam! Tempting the steps, the fancy on to stray, But to beguile more deep in sorrow's way. Bertrand claim'd one regret, by friendship form'd, By love, superior love, chas'd, lessen'd, charm'd; And in a neutral vessel bound to France He braves of winds and seas the dang'rous chance. Propitious breezes waft them from the coast, Soon, betwixt sea and sky, the bark is lost; The undulating waves soon lull to rest All but the watch, who dare not feel opprest. Bertrand in sleep forgot each prior pain, Thought fled in dulcet joy and peace again. Ah! short repose!....a night of tranquil ease!.... Who shall e'er seek for safety on the seas? The light of morn was lost in sombrous clouds, And winds loud thund'ring rent the rattling shrouds; The lambent light'ning caught the sportive sails, Quick the flame spread in the quick bursting gales; Loud shrieks of horror in each ear resound, Annihilation's heard in every sound: Now from the trunk they lop the flaming mast, In the devouring sea impatient cast; Descending smoke with rising waves combine, And clouds impending in confusion join. Now half the crew are swept into the main; Some on the crackling deck are toss'd again; Some fall a prey to the dread raging fire, Some in pale horror, deadly fear, expire. The few whom fate still spares launch the long-boat, And leap within her with one common thought; Bertrand amidst the rest, still prizing life, With all its hopes, its dangers, doubts at strife. Again the fiend despair possess'd his heart, And each brave sailor felt its deadly smart: 'T were vain to think the feeble bark could live, Long shield from danger, long protection give; Hour after hour rebuff the raging storm, Fight with the waves, of waves the very scorn. E'en now to rocks the furious winds convey, The light boat shivers on the stony way; Their stay is gone....it flies....no more they see, No more behold than sky and open sea. Now the poor brothers in misfortune claim No other bulwark than the stormy main; Some this way dash'd, and some another borne, Some to, some from, the shelving cliffs are blown; Bertrand, the wretched Bertrand, pants for breath, And ev'ry sense is lost in that of death. Sudden he sinks, then with as sudden rise, Seems with the soaring waves to mount the skies; Then quickly dash'd upon the rocky steep, Senseless he sinks into the arms of sleep; Oppression and fatigue his eyelids close, Night draws her curtain, nature seeks repose. The storm abates, the winds forget to wage, Or in the conflict lose their force to rage, Thunder is silent, light'nings flash no more, Smoothly the current ripples on the shore; Still'd is the rattling of the falling leaves, Ceas'd the rude brushing of the ripen'd sheaves, Hush'd the deep murm'ring round the cottage fire, Which damp'd each youthful innocent desire; Yet still in each anticipating mind Calm horror springs, known but to souls refin'd. Such as when war has spread its dire alarms, When peace returns with renovating charms, Speaks to the soldier rest, joy to the swain, Ease to the mariner, the artist gain; Here still reflection drops the pitying tear O'er every victor's consecrated bier, And in the tempest ceas'd, the battle won, Sees hundreds slain, and thousands counts undone. The morning blush'd, in peace and glory drest, Sol's scorching rays chas'd sleep from Bertrand breast; Wak'd in amaze, the past appear'd a dream, But truth, conviction, brought surrounding scenes. Stretch'd in the arms of death, on the dead shore, A seaman lay, his toil, his dangers o'er; And here and there wrecks of the vessel lost Shew'd the vain strength of art, in tempest tost. "Father of mercies!" grateful Bertrand cried, "Thou who in wonder sav'dst me from the tide! Thou whom the creature ne'er can recompense! Thou with whose aid man never can dispense! Though now by hunger's potent claims opprest, By thirst consum'd, I'll hush each doubt to rest; Patient await my death, if death thou'lt give, Or, if thou deign'st, in thee, religion live..... But, bliss unlook'd for! hope no more betray.... Yes, 't is a bark! it comes, it steers this way!" Eager he waves a signal in the air; And, in the torture of suspense and fear, Forgetting each resolve, he sinks opprest, Blind to the messengers of peace and rest. The gen'rous mariners, who come to save The feeble Bertrand from a hapless grave, Gain the steep summit; now with feeling care The death-like load within their arms they bear: Their mercy to the dead they e'en extend, And pay the last sad duties of a friend; Drop o'er the sinking corpse the pitying tear, Which seem'd to speak him son or father dear. Thought, painful thought, they too might one day prove Alike this fate, the need of fellow-love, Soften'd each manly soul, with tender sense Held o'er each nature sweet pre-eminence. They reach the deck; with eager haste prepare Relief for Bertrand; quick the feeling fair, Whom Heav'n directed here, the form surround, Whom Heav'n had will'd in wonder should be found. First to commiserate see Lucia come, E'er prompt to sooth th' afflicted mourner's doom: But what unlook'd-for joy, surprise, and fear, Oppress each sense in Bertrand's image dear!.... She sees, she calls, she clasps her long-lost lord, And, seeing, doubts him but in death restor'd. The voice electric acts, he moves again, Lost in sensations of hope, bliss, and pain. "Oh! tell me," as he clasp'd th' enraptur'd maid, As the big tear more than his words convey'd, "By what mischance, good fortune, do I see Truth in thy image, on the faithless sea? Moment unlook'd for! worth a world of pain; All that I prize on earth I hold again. Eternal Pow'r! whose ever-wond'rous ways Claim, justly claim, the creature's boundless praise, If future life devoted to thy cause Can speak my gratitude, thy due applause, That future life I dedicate to thee: Hence from the world's vain pomp, its pride I'm free..... But whither dost thou roam? whence art thou here?" "No captive, Bertrand, but a volunteer, Devoted to thy fate, to love sincere. Firm I resolv'd to Albion to go, No more to vainly weep, deplore thy woe, But search thee out, a tender soother prove, Assuage thy sorrows, if not to remove. This ready bark assists the honour'd cause, Love bade me spurn cold caution's coward laws.... Bade thy peace prove its first peculiar care; Bade me ne'er rest whilst thou ne'er rest didst share. To ransom thee our lands, our states I've sold; For this each gem thou gav'st revers'd to gold: Were these found insufficient for mine aim, To give thee liberty, life's precious fame, Then I'd resolved to sympathise and share With thee one equal home, one common fare: That, should thy lot be e'er the prison's gloom, There would I pleasure seek, there fix my doom; Leave the vain world, the virtuous find in thee: Thus, tho' love led, 't was not from interest free." "Oh, faith divine! oh, memorable day! Some god, some angel, led thee on thy way; Inspir'd the thought, and rais'd thy drooping heart, To act the heroine with the christian's part. How lost to bliss are those who ne'er have prov'd What 't is to love, in virtue to be lov'd! With thee, my Lucia, wheresoe'er I roam, Of rest secure, of happiness and home, Without thee France I'd e'en a desert deem; Yet with thee deserts would elysium seem: To England bound, content we there will go, There patient wait till peace the nations know; Till with the laurel olive shall combine; Till warring kingdoms shall in concord join; Till battle, tumult, dread alarm shall cease; Till France, till Albion seal the bond of peace." THE REQUEST. TO A LADY. HOW shall I, my friend, all your bounty repay? How e'en my due sense of that bounty pourtray? I seek, long have sought, an occasion to prove 'T is no sordid ingrate you zealously serve. When my heart would its gratitude warmly display, My tongue, fondly fearful, opposes the lay; To the pen I've recourse, in hopes 't will be kind, And truly avow what I bear in my mind. No time from the tablet of mem'ry shall rase, No future impression your kindness efface: Yet words you'll think vain; they are vain too I say, For the soul of sensation in words dies away; A proof I 'd bestow, yet in fortune too poor To give what I owe, and what else you'd ensure. A simple acknowledgment deign to receive, Till hope shall no longer my wishes deceive: Till fate shall empower to repay as I ought; Be grateful in deed, as in word and in thought. You know, my good friend, I possess a small art, The life-inform'd trait on dead soil to impart: Let me take you then off in a good-natur'd way; You shall smile, and your sweetness I'll only betray. Or have you some lover, whose shade you'd preserve, That no time, that no absence, his charms could remove? Would you not that he knew? His face I can steal, With impunity too, should ill-nature reveal. No crime, I think, justice the theft could e'er deem; It could none or to honour, humanity, seem: From the stealer of hearts 't is the evil ensues, And, shame! that the law the base thief ne'er pursues. I vote for reform; sure, ye will who 've lost... You, my sisters, I pity, who 've prov'd to your cost, That the want of a heart can ne'er be supplied, Do n't you think, now, that hanging the rogue should betide? I mean, when, intending your bliss to impair, He runs off with your happiness, leaves you despair. The case is quite alter'd...I 'm just, be it known, When in chace of your heart he loses his own. Agree to this, won't ye, my sisters, who prove How sweet 's the exchange, when ye gain love for love? Though the mould'ring traits I preserve from decay, I steal not a grain of original clay. Thus the art I profess I can innocent prove; Nay, 't is useful, in waking remembrance and love, In preserving from time the bloom of our youth, In shielding from death the idea of worth. But no more of digression; 't is time I return To my object and end, intent you should learn. Though e'en not by thanks I your friendship have paid, Though in no way my grateful sensations pourtray'd, The hope to repay next my heart shall e'er live, Till fortune prove kind, you conviction receive. SONNET TO HOPE. OH! bear me, Hope, on thy light wing, Thou ever-flatt'ring vision, bear; Raise every sense to pleasure's spring, Undamp'd by wint'ry cold despair. Thy sun-shine will revive my heart, Bright joy and all its sweets impart; Shall dissipate the clouds of grief, Shall bid me seek and find relief. Care shall not then disparage youth, Nor ever chill invention's source; But peace shall bloom, as lasting truth, And aid each step to virtue's course: No fear shall then, with mad controul, Invert the order of my soul; Each passion shall serenely glide, Dejection thou shalt, Hope, deride. Yet ere I give mine heart to thee, Ah! tell me, ere I own thy power, True to thy promise wilt thou be? Befriend me in affliction's hour? E'er just to expectation prove? Or, like the false friend, only serve When fortune smiles; the very hour We need the least of friendship's power? E'en so; unveil'd, and brought to light, I view thee with deceit array'd, Just as the transient meteor bright, As quickly lost in night's dark shade: Thou'lt gain the soul, and then betray, Forsake it in oppression's day; A while thou'lt cheer the drooping heart, And heal, but to redound the smart. Go then, thou treacherous phantom, go, No longer welcome to my breast; Seek not to interrupt my woe; With thee is found no real rest. Thou'lt give a momentary ease, Suspend the pang but to increase; Thou'lt give a time for grief to form, To render doubly dire the storm. Hence, no more mine heart thou'lt warm, Nor aught but certainty shall ever charm. ONELOQUENCE. OH, Eloquence! enchanting maid! At whose shrine thousand hopes are laid! Realms have confess'd thy powerful sway, And sovereigns e'en thy laws obey. Without thy soft persuasive art, The hopes of love would languish in the heart. Then but half-own'd were friendship's powers, Then but half-charming social hours. Without thy all-emphatic aid, Tyrants had double slaughter made; Pity had mourn'd oppression's rage, And unrewarded virtue sunk in age. Through thee the orphan's claims first reach the heart, And in each nerve sensations new impart: 'T is in thy soil first heav'nly mercy grew, 'T is there she holds her sovereign empire too: And like a summer softening shower, Which temporises in the scorching hour, Soft balm she pours in every bleeding wound, Corrects, refines, and soothes, where'er she's found. 'T is on her pinnacle Religion soars, Elysium mounts, and God in heaven adores; Glides through the regions of immeasur'd space, And opes the bounds prescrib'd by time and place. From her faith grows; she gives conviction life; Peace first she sow'd on earth, and buried strife: Through her we breathe each fervour of the soul, And truth's bright influence spread from pole to pole. She planted liberty on Britain's isle, And caus'd the lonely hut with joy to smile: Nations she joins in bonds of social bliss, And seals in every state the joys of peace. LINES WRITTEN ON THE PRISON-WALLS BY ONE OF THE VICTIMS OF ROBESPIERRE. LA fleur laissant tomber, sa tête languissante, Semble dire au zephir, Pourquoi m'éveilles tu? Zephir, ta vapeur bienfaisante Ne rendra point la vie à mon front abattu. Je languis; le matin a ma tige epuisée, Apporte vainement le tribut de ses pleurs, Et les bienfaits de la rosée Ne ranimeront point l'éclat de mes couleurs. Il approche le noir orage! Sous l'effort ennemi d'un soufle detesté Je verrai périr mon feuillage. Demain le voyageur, temoin de ma beauté, De ma beauté sitôt flétrie, Viendra pour me revoir; Oh, regrets superflus! Il viendra, mais dans la prairie Ses yeux ne me trouveront plus. TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGOING. THE flower when cut down in its prime, as it dies, Seems to say to the zephyrs that round its form play, In vain would ye raise me, for life swiftly flies, My strength and my beauty untimely decay; I droop, am forlorn; Not the smiles of the morn Can my charms e'er restore, health awaken again. In the noon-tide of life, in my bloom, I decline; The tears of the sky on my head shower in vain, Vain the dews all their sweets in my bosom resign. The night quick approaches, the storm gathers round; The breath of a pestilence hated Disperses the plants which in friendship surround, And the fairer each flower, the worse fated. Vain for me smiles the morn, I droop, am forlorn: The traveller who saw me of late on the plain, Who Heaven oft for me would implore, With rapturous hope, to review me again, Shall return...shall return, to behold me no more. THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. CHILL December's blasts blew keen, Clouds obscur'd the rising day, Nature no longer smil'd in green, The vapid leaf forsook the spray: Then on the thorn, Of all forlorn, A blooming rose appear'd; No sister bud adorn'd its side, No genial warmth its bosom cheer'd, In storms it sprung, it liv'd, and died. Omen dire! as stories tell, That some who near it grew Must soon to life bid long farewel: