Sympathy: or, a sketch of the social passion. A poem.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- INTRODUCTION.

- BOOK I.

- BOOK II.

SYMPATHY.

THE END.

SYMPATHY; OR, A SKETCH OF THE SOCIAL PASSION.

A POEM.

THE THIRD EDITION.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL.

M DCC LXXXI.

INTRODUCTION.

THE Reader is requested to consider the following Poem as nothing more than what a part of its title-page expresses,—a SKETCH, and only a sketch, of the Social Passion, or Sympathetic Principle, applied, first to the Author's particular situation, and thence extended more generally, as influencing the whole animal creation.

Upon visiting the Villa of a friend, and finding it deserted by a family extremely dear to the Author, he experienced precisely the sensations he has endeavoured to describe. It was natural for him to pass beyond his own case, and contemplate that of others under similar circumstances. The fairest productions of animated nature were before him. They occupied the same spot. He was seated in the midst of them. His heart dilated. If, as seems to be admitted, a virtuous enthusiasm be necessary to the proper enjoyment of such scenery, the Critic of Nature will hardly know how to be offended, should he find, that here and there have been indulged effusions, which, if closely examined when the mind is cold, may be sound not altogether in strict connection.

It were easy to have thrown out from the argumentative parts some sentiments not quite in keeping with the theme; but, zealous to prove the powers of Universal Sympathy, the writer felt the sollicitudes of an author, united with those of a philanthropist. Of course, the idea of obliterating what had any chance of cementing the social affections was too painful to be adopted.

If, therefore, candour should urge that in stepping occasionally out of his path, his intention has been rather to gather flowers than weeds, he will be forgiven. The poetical licence becomes a matter rather of right than of courtesy, when an author pleads his privilege in the cause of Benevolence. He pretends not to have preserved an exact correspondence between the several members.

Immethodical, however, as the poem confessedly is, the lucidus ordo of composition has not been by any means wantonly discarded; nor ought the Author to conceal (what it is, indeed, his chief pride to acknowledge) the obligations he is under to some of the first and greatest writers in this country, for many valuable hints, of which he has availed himself in the course of the performance.

BOOK I.

OE'R you fair lawn, where oft in various talk

The fav'ring Muses join'd our evening walk,

Up yonder hill that rears its crest sublime,

Where we were wont with gradual steps to climb,

To woo the dew-bath'd zephirs on the wing,

And hear the Lark her earliest matin sing;

Fast by you shed, of roots and verdure made,

Where we have paus'd, companions of the shade,

In yonder cot just seated on the brow,

Whence unobserv'd we view'd the world below;

Whence oft we cull'd fit objects for our song,

From land or ocean largely stretch'd along,

The morning vapours passing through the vale,

The distant turret, or the lessening sail,

The pointed cliff which overhangs the main,

The breezy upland, or the opening plain;

Or down yon foot-way saunter'd by the stream,

Whose little rills ran tinkling to the theme;

More softly touch'd the woe in Hammond's lay,

Or laps'd responsive to the lyre of Gray;

O'er these dear bounds like one forlorn I roam,

O'er these dear bounds, I fondly call'd my home.

And yet to touch me various powers combine,

Here summer revels with a warmth divine;

The bloomy season every charm supplies,

From earth's rich harvest crown'd with cloudless skies,

Or future plenty bursting through the grain,

From golden sheaves that circle round the swain.

Here as I stop, beneath Eliza's tree,

Far, oh belov'd associate! far from thee,

Some little CHANGE thy absence to declare

I pray to find, and friendship forms the pray'r:

Less bright the sun-beams, or less soft the show'rs,

Some essence wanting to the fruits or flow'rs:

Those fruits and flow'rs, alas! more ripe appear,

And the lawn smiles as though my friend were here;

From the soft myrtle brighter blossoms spring,

In mellower notes the plumy people sing:

Near yonder church where we retir'd to pray,

The good man's modest cottage I survey;

The pious Pastor, who each sabbath taught

The listening rustic's noblest reach of thought:

That modest cottage and its garden still

Seek the soft shelter of the friendly hill;

The column'd smoke still curls its wreathes around,

And not one lessen'd beauty marks the bound.

As near you bow'r with pensive steps I go,

To view the shrubs your culture taught to grow,

The fair exotics boast a happier bloom

Than when their patron shar'd the rich perfume:

The orange still its tawny lustre shews

The late rose reddens and the balsam blows;

While roving o'er the hedge the woodbine fair

Embalms with heaven's own essence heaven's own air,

Not softer and not sweeter flew the gale,

When we together trod this blooming vale;

When far beyond the busy world's controul,

Nature our guide, we open'd all the soul.

Whence this neglect? say, in thy lov'd domain,

Where all the virtues in thy presence reign;

Where gathering round thee, youth and age conspire,

While some as brother court thee, some as sire;

Where all the social passions softly blend,

To give the similing neighbourhood a friend;

Where somewhat of thy gentle heart is seen,

A grace, or goodness, adding to the green;

Where the babe lisps thy mercies on the knee,

And second childhood leans it's crutch on thee;

Whence this neglect? Ingratitude retreat!

Go: and in shades less sacred fix thy seat:

Go to the treach'rous world, thy proper sphere;

But oh! forbear to scatter poisons here:

About this dwelling and these harmless bounds,

Friendship and Love alone should take their rounds,

Fair as the blossoms which the walls sustain,

Rich as the fruits, and generous as the grain;

Secure as yonder warblers nesting near,

Like Honour steady, and like Faith sincere.

But soft, my friend! tho' shrubs and bow'rs remain

The fix'd productions of th' unconscious plain;

Though these no gentle sympathies can know,

But as the planter bends them learn to grow;

To higher parts as nature lifts her plan,

The kinder creatures, haply, feel for man;

The tame domestics, which attend his board,

Haply partake the fortune of their lord,

His presence hail, his absence long deplore,

Droop as he droops, and die when he's no more.

Pleas'd at the thought, still onward let me tread

Where flocks and herds diversify the mead,

Where breathing odours, winnow'd by the gale,

Fan the soft bosom of the smiling vale;

Behind, the rooks their brawling councils hold,

And the proud peacock trails his train of gold;

Around, the doves their purple plumage shew,

And clucking poultry saunter, pleas'd, below;

While there the housedog with accustom'd glee,

Fawns on the hind—and ne'er remembers thee.

These crop the food, those press the flow'ry bed,

Nor weep the absent, nor bewail the dead;

Their stinted feelings seem but half awake,

Dull as you steer now slumbering in the brake.

Whence then the gloom that gathers in the sky?

Whence the warm tear now starting to the eye?

Whence then th' apparent change when friends depart?

'Tis FANCY striking on the feeling heart:

'Tis varied Fancy, whose aetherial wand

Bids plastic nature move to her command:

Oh should I follow where she leads the way,

What magic meteors to her touch would play!

Far, far from thee, this sun which gilds my brow

In deep eclipse would darken all below:

The herds, though now plain reason sees them feed,

Smit by her touch would languish in the mead;

The breeze which now disports with yonder spray,

The flocks which pant beneath the heats of day,

The pendent copse in passing shadows drest,

The scanty herbage on the mountain's crest,

The balmy pow'rs that essence ev'ry gale,

The glassy lakes that fertilize the dale,

Struck by her mystic sceptre all would fade,

And sudden sadness brood along the shade:

Thus Chloe weds, but she the garland twines;

Thus Bacchus revels, but she twists the vines;

Thus falls a friend, but she around the grave

Bids willows whisper, and the cypress wave.

As poets sing, thus Fancy takes her range,

Whose fairy fables can the system change.

Soon as the gen'rous master leaves his home,

Behold how thick the alterations come!

Soon as the much-lov'd mistress quits the scene,

The earth, be sure, no longer smiles in green;

In solemn sable ev'ry flow'r appears,

And skies relent in sympathizing tears!

Scarce had the Bard of Leasowes' lov'd domain

Clos'd his dimm'd eye upon the conscious plain;

Ere birds, and beasts, and hills, and dales, 'tis said,

Mourn'd his sad fate, and funeral honours paid;

His gay parterres a serious habit wore,

His larks wou'd sing, his lambs wou'd frisk no more,

A deeper cadence murmur'd from the floods,

And elegiac sorrow shook his woods:

A solemn dirge the sable raven sung,

The muses wept, their lyres were all unstrung;

But chief his bowers their verdant honours shed,

And ev'ry laurel knew that he was dead.

Yet separate facts from fairy scenes like these,

Nature, we find, still keeps her first decrees;

The order due which at her birth was giv'n

Still forms th' unchanging law of earth and heav'n,

In one fair tenor, on the circle goes,

And no obstruction, no confusion knows.

When Shenstone, nay, when Shakespeare press'd the tomb,

The shrubs that saw their fate maintain'd their bloom;

Clear ran the streams to their accustom'd shore,

Nor gave one bubble less, one murmur more;

Nor did a single leaf, a simple flower,

Or fade, or fall, to mark their mortal hour.

But, is it Fancy ALL! what, no reserve?

From one dull point can nature never swerve?

Is change of seasons all the change she knows,

From autumn's sickly heats to winter snows;

From chilling spring, to summer's dog-star rage;

From boy to man; from man to crawling age?

These her transitions, ling'ring, sad, and slow,

Whence then, embrac'd by flowers, my bosom's woe?

Ah! is it fancy, that with silent pace,

Impels me thus to range from place to place;

On ev'ry side to see an harvest bend,

Yet look on ev'ry side to find my friend?

Or is it fancy makes the village train,

For now 'tis evening, sport around in vain?

That plighted pairs, amidst the hazel boughs,

To me unseen, impart their tender vows;

While unsuspicious of a witness near,

They mix with nature's language, nature's tear?

That twilight's gentle grey which now comes on,

To wait, a sober hand-maid, on the sun;

To watch his parting tinge, his soften'd fires,

Then blush with maiden grace as he retires;

The crescent moon which now ascended high,

Her silver mantle throws across the sky;

The still serene that seems to lull the breeze,

Soft in a leafy cradle 'midst the trees;

The lessen'd sound of yonder requiem bell,

With resignation in each mournful knell;

The dropping dew that settles on my cheek,

The frugal lights that from each cottage break;

The just-dropp'd latch, the little lattice clos'd,

To shield from eve's damp air the babe repos'd,

And note the hour when temperance and health

Give the pale vigils of the night to wealth:

Say, is it Fancy's vision works the charm,

When these blest objects lose their power to warm?

Ah! no; from other sources springs the smart,

Its source is here, hard pressing on my heart.

Yes, 'tis the heart which rules the roving eye,

And turns a gloomy to a cloudless sky;

The soft magician governs every scene,

Blossoms the rock, or desolates the green;

Along the heath bids fancied roses blow,

And sunshine rise upon a world of snow.

Yes, 'tis the heart endears each smiling plain,

Or to his native mountain binds the swain;

His native mountain where his cottage stands,

More lov'd, more fair, than all the neighb'ring lands;

For though the blast be keen, the soil be bare,

His friends, his wife, his little ones, are there.

Oh, had the brother of my heart been nigh,

When morning threw her mantle o'er the sky;

Or when gay noon a gaudier robe display'd,

Or modest ev'ning took her softest shade;

Then had each shrub breath'd forth its full perfume,

And like the flow'rs the feelings been in bloom:

For still to prove the natal bias right,

The senses with the season must unite.

The bias SOCIAL, man with men must share

The varied benefits of earth and air;

The leading law of life which governs all,

To some in large degrees, to some in small;

To lowest insects, highest pow'rs a part,

Wisely dispens'd to ev'ry beating heart;

To every creature just proportion's giv'n,

From the mole's mansion to the seraph's heav'n.

See the wing'd legions which at noon-tide play,

Together clust'ring in the solar ray,

There sports the social passion; see, and own,

That not an atom takes its flight alone.

Th' unwieldy monsters of the pregnant deep;

The savage troops that through the forest sweep;

The viewless tribes that populate the air;

The milder creatures of domestic care;

The rooks which rock their infants on the tree;

The race which dip their pinions in the sea;

The feather'd train, gay tenants of the bush,

The glossy blackbird, and the echoing thrush,

The gaudy goldfinch which salutes the spring,

Winnowing the thistle with his burnish'd wing;

Jove's eagle, soaring to you orb of light;

Aurora's lark, and Cynthia's bird of night:

All these the laws of Sympathy declare;

And chorus heav'n's first maxim, BORN TO SHARE.

Instinct, or Sympathy, or what you will,

The social principle is active still;

Of every element it glows the soul,

Touches, pervades, and animates the whole;

Floats in the gale, surrounds earth's wide domain,

Ascends with fire, and dives into the main;

Whilst dull, or bright, the affections know to play,

As full, or feebly, darts this social ray;

Dimly it gleams on insect, fish, and fowl,

But spreads broad sunshine o'er man's favour'd soul.

Man's favour'd soul then trace through every state,

And see it fitted for a social fate;

Behold how nature to connection tends,

Each seeks from each his relatives and friends.

You spacious dome which earth and sea commands,

Where Titus dresses his paternal lands;

Where water gushes, and where wood extends,

To share each beauty, Titus calls his friends;

A naked waste, till they adorn his flow'rs,

A desert scene, till they partake his bow'rs:

Nor this, though sweet, the greatest bliss he feels,

That greatest bliss his modesty conceals.

Pass the green slope which bounds his fair domain,

And seek the valley dropping from the plain;

There, in a blossom'd nook, by pomp unseen,

An aged couple lead a life serene;

And there, behind those elms, a sickly pair

Exchange their labours for a softer care:

'Twas Titus gave to sickness this repose,

And plac'd life's second cradle near the rose;

In his own hall though louder joys prevail,

A dearer transport whispers from the vale;

Though mirth and frolic echo through the dome:

In those small cots his bosom finds a home.

Fame, fortune, friends, can providence give more?

Go, ask of heav'n the blessings of the poor!

A greater comfort would you still supply?

Then wipe the tear from sorrow's streaming eye;

For social kindness to another shewn,

Expands the bliss to make it more your own.

Lo! the rude savage, naked and untaught,

Shares with his mate what arts and arms have caught;

When winter darkness clouds his long, long night,

See how he strives to find the social light;

His woodland wife, his forest children dear,

Smooth the bleak storms that sadden half his year.

For them he tracks the monster in the snow;

For them he hurls his sling, and twangs his bow;

Nor scorching sunshine, nor the driving show'r,

The vollied thunder, nor the light'ning's pow'r,

Nor climes, where sickness pants in every breeze,

Nor worlds of ice, where nature seems to freeze,

Checks the fair principle, which bursts away,

Like Sol when clouds attempt his noon-tide ray.

Hence, ever lean the feeble on the strong,

As tender sires their children lead along;

While, by degrees, as transient life declines,

And florid youth to withering age resigns,

The social passion shifts with place and time,

And tender sires are led by sons in prime;

The guide becomes the guided in his turn,

While child and parent different duties learn.

Not then from fancy only, from the heart,

Pours the keen anguish on th' immortal part,

And truth herself destroys the bloom of May,

When death or fortune tears a friend away;

From virtuous passion, virtuous feeling flows,

The grief that dims the lilly and the rose.

Drops a soft sorrow for a friend in dust?

There, truth and fancy both may rear the bust;

While one pours forth the tribute of the heart,

The other plies her visionary art,

Potent she calls her airy spectres round,

And bids them instant consecrate the ground;

In magic circles, lo, the illusions come,

To shroud the earth in monumental gloom;

Fancy presides as sov'reign of the scene,

And dark is every leaf of every green;

Whilst reason loves to mix with her's the tear,

And the fair mourners form a league sincere;

Her airy visions, fancy may impart,

And reason listen to the charmer's art.

In life's fair morn, I knew an aged seer,

Who sad and lonely past his joyless year;

Betray'd, heart-broken, from the world he ran,

And shunn'd, oh dire extreme, the face of man;

Humbly he rear'd his hut within the wood,

Hermit his beard, a hermit's was his food,

Nitch'd in some corner where the gelid caves

With chilling drops the rugged rockstone laves;

Hour after hour, the melancholy sage,

Drop after drop to reckon, would engage

The ling'ring day, and trickling as they fell,

A tear went with them to the narrow well.

Then thus he moraliz'd as slow it past,

"This, brings me nearer Lucia than the last;

"And this, now streaming from the eye," said he,

"Oh, my lov'd child, will bring me nearer thee."

When first he roam'd, his dog with anxious care,

His wandring's watch'd, as emulous to share;

In vain the faithful brute was bid to go,

Vain sought the sage a solitary woe;

The pilgrim paus'd, th' attendant dog was near,

Slept at his feet, and caught the falling tear;

Up rose the pilgrim, up the dog would rise,

And every way to win a master tries.

"Then be it so. Come, faithful fool," he said;

One pat encourag'd, and they sought the shade;

An unfrequented thicket soon they found,

And both repos'd upon the leafy ground;

Mellifluous murm'rings told the fountains nigh,

Fountains, which well a pilgrim's drink supply.

And thence, by many a labyrinth it led,

Where ev'ry tree bestow'd an evening bed;

Skill'd in the chace the faithful creature brought

Whate'er at morn or moon-light course he caught;

But softest pity gave the sage to all,

Nor saw unwept his dumb associates fall.

He was, in sooth, the gentlest of his kind,

And though a hermit had a social mind:

"And why, said he, must man subsist by prey,

"Why stop you melting music on the spray?

"Why, when assail'd by hounds and hunter's cry,

"Must half the harmless race in terror fly?

"Why must we work of innocence the woe?

"Still shall this bosom throb, these eyes o'erflow.

"A heart too tender, here from man retires,

"A heart that aches if but a wren expires."

Thus liv'd the master good, the servant true,

Till to its God the master's spirit flew;

Beside a fount which daily water gave,

Stooping to drink, the pilgrim found a grave;

All in the running stream his garments spread,

And dark, damp verdure ill conceal'd his head;

Crouch'd in the water the survivor stood,

Sick'ning with sorrow, and rejecting food,

The faithful servant from that fatal day

Watch'd the lov'd corpse and piteous pin'd away;

Five nights he fill'd the forest with his moan,

Five nights he join'd the passing spectre's groan;

At length the screech-owl flapping, boded death,

And soon the servant yielded up his breath:

His head upon his master's cheek was found,

While the obstructed waters mourn'd around.

But sordid souls are ever in distress,

To bless himself each must a second bless;

Then kindle on till he the world embrace,

And in love's Caestus gird the human race.

Thus social grief can finer joys impart

Than the dull pleasures of a miser heart:

Thus with more force can melancholy warm,

Than wild ambition's solitary charm.

And oh, just heav'n, what gift canst thou bestow,

What gem so precious as a tear for woe?

A tear more full of thee, oh power divine,

Than all the dross that ripens in the mine!

As man with man, with creature creature keeps,

In summer feeds in view, in winter creeps

More close; but take the lamb apart

From its lov'd mother, then the social heart

Plains in its voice, while sad, the dam around

Bleats o'er the theft and leaves uncropt the ground.

In yonder huts, at this profound of night,

The twelfth hour striking as these lines I write,

In yonder scatt'ring huts, now ev'ry swain,

With ev'ry maid and matron of the plain,

In sleep's soft arms on wholsome pallets prest,

Breathe forth the social passion as they rest:

But should dire fate the father make its prey,

Or snatch untimely one lov'd child away;

Should the fair damsel sicken in her bloom,

Or bear the faithful housewife to the tomb,

No aid from fancy seeks the sorrowing heart,

But truth with force unborrow'd points the dart.

For me, as weary of myself I rise,

To seek the rest which wakeful thought denies;

O'er the long mansion as I lonely range,

Condemn'd at ev'ry step to feel the change;

Through each apartment, where so oft my heart

Hath shar'd each grace of nature and of art,

Where mem'ry marks each object that I see,

And fills the bosom, oh my friend, with thee;

Through each apartment as I pass along,

Pause for relief, and then pursue my song;

For me, who now with midnight taper go,

In sleep to soothe a solitary's woe;

No greater good my closing thoughts can bless,

Ere this remember'd, little couch I press,

Than the sweet hope, that at this sacred hour

My friend enjoys kind nature's balmy power;

Than the soft wish that on my bended knee,

I offer up, Eliza, warm for thee!

Wife of my friend; alike my faithful care,

Alike the object of each gentle pray'r;

Far distant though thou art, thy worth is near,

And my heart seals its blessing with a tear.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

BOOK II.

AND now again 'tis morn, the orient sun

Prepares once more his radiant course to run;

O'er you tall trees I see his glories rise,

Tinge their green tops, and gain upon the skies;

The SOCIAL PRINCIPLE resumes the shade,

Basks on the banks, or glides along the glade:

See how it pants, my friend, in yonder throng,

Where half a village bear thy sheaves along;

Low stoops the swain to dress his native soil,

And here the housewife comes to soothe his toil;

While heav'n's warm beams upon her bosom dart,

She strains her wedded husband to her heart;

Or from his brow the labour'd drop removes,

And dares to shew with what a force she loves;

Where'er the mother moves her race attend,

And often cull the corn, and often bend;

Or bear the scrip, or tug the rake along,

Or catch the burthen of the reaper's song;

Or shrinking from the sickle's crescent blade,

Cling to the gown, half pleas'd, and half afraid;

While he who gave them life looks on the while,

And views his little houshold with a smile;

Imprints the kiss, then blessing ev'ry birth,

Carols his joy, and cultivates the earth.

But not to scenes of peasantry confin'd,

Though haply those more free, and unconfin'd;

Not to this spot, the object of thy care,

Nor to the neighb'ring greens that checquer fair,

The views which stretch beyond the western main,

And mark the district of a diff'rent plain;

Not circumscrib'd to these the social plan,

Which more extends, as more pursu'd by man.

Just as you path-way, winding through the mead,

Grows broad and broader by perpetual tread,

The social passion turns the foot aside,

And prompts the swains to travel side by side;

Both edge, by turns, upon the bord'ring sod,

And the path widens as the grass is trod.

In cities thus, though trade's tumultuous train

Spurn at the homely maxims of the plain,

Not all the toss of rank, the trick of art,

Can chase the social passion from the heart:

Nay more, a larger circle it must take,

Where men embodying, larger int'rests make,

And each perforce round each more closely twine,

Where thousands lean their weight upon the line.

As slow to yonder eminence I bend,

Gradual the views of social life extend,

Where benches soften the ascent I stray,

And stop at each to take a just survey;

At ev'ry step, as sinks the vale behind,

A wider prospect opens on mankind.

Far to the lest where those blue hills arise,

And bathe their swelling bosoms in the skies;

The barks of commerce set the flapping sail,

And the dark sea-boy sues the busy gale;

There the deep warehouse shews its native store,

And there flame riches of a foreign shore;

Thick swarm the sons of trade on every hand,

And either India breathes along the strand:

Gold, give me gold, each bustler cries aloud,

As hope or fear alternate seize the croud;

To careless eyes the love of pelf alone,

Seems to drain off the golden tide for one;

But closer view'd a various course it takes,

And wide meanderings in its passage makes;

Through many a social channel see it run,

And carry plenty down from sire to son;

From thence in many a mazy stream it flows,

And feels no ebb, nor dull stagnation knows;

Gain, pleasure, passion, property, induce

Each single man to study general use.

Thus nature and necessity agree

The social chain to stretch from land to sea.

Thus e'en the miser opes his sordid soul,

Loves but himself, and yet befriends the whole.

Ask you a stronger proof? Place wealth alone;

With some hard niggard lock up all his own;

Pile bills, and bags, and bonds, upon his shelf,

And a close prisoner chain him to his pelf.

Unhappy man! from family and friends,

From all which heav'n in soft compassion sends,

From touch of kindred, tune of tender speech,

And exil'd from the social passion's reach;

How would he sigh his station to regain,

And buy a glance at man with half his gain!

How, at some chink or crevice would he ply,

And envy each poor beggar limping by!

Far happier he, who breasting ev'ry wind,

Lives on the common mercy of his kind,

Who roams the world to tell his piteous case,

And dies at last amidst the human race.

Ye friends to self, ye worshippers of gold,

Who deem a passion lavish'd if unsold;

Who farm the principles with statesman's art,

And like a us'rer traffick with the heart:

Who to that idol in its nich confine

The holy incense due at nature's shrine;

Say, can your sordid merchandize deny

The sacred force of heav'n-born Sympathy?

Ah, no! the gen'rous spirit takes a part,

As goodness, glory, pity, move the heart.

Else, why at ev'ry virtue do we glow?

Else, why at sorrow do the eyes o'erflow?

Why with the fabled hero do we bleed,

And scorn the base, and love the gen'rous deed?

Why ev'ry turn of fortune do we share,

As with old Homer's chiefs we rush to war?

Why with the wife of Hector do we mourn,

Weep with poor Priam, with Achilles burn?

Attentive hear Apollo's priest complain,

Or join our griefs for good Patroclus slain?

Spite of your arts the sympathies arise,

And aid the cause of all the brave and wise;

Spite of your little selves, when virtue charms,

To nature true, the social passion warms;

Vain to resist, imperial nature still

Asserts her claim, and bends us to her will.

Hence the great principle to all expands,

Thaws Lapland's ice, and glows on India's sands;

Above, below, its genial splendours play,

Where'er an human footstep marks the way.

"Oh, for one trace of man upon the snow,

"The track of sweet society to shew;

"Oh, for one print on swarthy Afric's shore!"

Thus prays the wanderer scap'd from ocean's roar;

In every clime is felt the throb divine,

By land, by water, here, and at the Line.

Nor Climates only, for each Age imparts

The kindly bias to our social hearts;

See the swath'd infant cling to the embrance,

And feel instinctive fondness for its race;

See it, ascending, strengthen as it grows,

Till ripe and riper the affection glows,

Then view the child, its toys and trinkets share,

With some lov'd partner of its little care:

Behold the man a firmer bond requires,

For him the passion kindles all its fires;

Next, see his numerous offspring twining near,

Now move the smile, and now excite the tear;

Terror and transport in his bosom reign,

Succession sweet of pleasure and of pain.

As Age advances, some sensations cease,

Some, lingering, leave the heart, while some increase:

Thus, when life's vigorous passions are no more,

Self-love creeps closest to the social power;

The stooping veteran of the silver hair

Crawls to the blazing hearth and wicker chair,

There huddled close, he fondly hopes to spy

His goodly sons and daughters standing by,

To the lisp'd tale he bends the greedy ear,

And o'er his children's children drops a tear;

Or, every friend surviv'd, himself half dead,

Frail nature still demands her board, her bed;

And these some kindred spirit shall bestow,

His wants supply, or mitigate his woe;

Still Symphathy shall watch his fleeting breath,

And gently lead him to the gates of death.

Yet more; e'en WAR, the scourge of human kind,

But serves more close the social links to bind;

Confederate courage forms the embattled line,

Firm on each side connecting passions join;

'Tis social danger either troop inspires,

'Tis social honour either army fires,

'Tis social glory burnishes the van,

'Tis social faith spreads on from man to man:

These, all combining, agitate the breath,

Stake life on life, and hazard death for death.

As front to front the warring parties meet,

For social ends they dare the martial feat;

As breast to breast, and eye to eye they fix,

For social ends they separate or mix.

King, country, parents, children, prompt the fight,

For these alone they bleed, resist, unite;

And, haply, first hostilities arose

From nice distinctions made of friends and foes;

Some scornful slight where nature most can smart,

Some stinging insult sorest to the heart,

Some wrong detected, forfeited some trust,

A treaty broken, or a barrier burst,

Bade Sympathy call Justice to her aid

Till laws were fashion'd, and till wars were made:

Affection sought from Power the wish'd relief

To smite the assassin, and to hang the thief,

And over those who faith's fair league invade

To wield the battle-axe, or lift the blade;

Or from the spoiler's hand to fence the flowers

That sweetly blossom round life's private bowers:

'Tis thus, the steady eye of Reason finds

What seems to snap the chain more closely binds;

And thus each peril like each pleasure try'd

Unites the rosy bonds on either side.

But less do arms than ARTS assist the plan,

If those defend, 'tis these embellish man;

These softly draw him nearer to his kind,

And mark distinct his seraph form of mind.

Lo, in firm compact, hand, and head, and heart,

To aid the system take a helping part,

Their various powers by various modes they lend,

And serve in union as one common friend;

Hence, by consent, men clear the unthrifty wood,

New model earth, and navigate the flood;

And hamlets grow into the city's pride,

While the soul opens like the talents wide.

By social pleasure, profit, passion, sway'd,

Some soar to learning, and some stoop to trade.

Studious to gain the love of human kind,

The social sage at midnight stores his mind,

Robs weary nature of her just repose,

Nor drinks the dew that bathes the morning rose,

Nor when the sun to Cynthia gives the night,

Eyes the soft blessing of her tender light,

But o'er the taper leans his pensive head,

And for the Living communes with the Dead.

The dusky artizan, his effort made,

Asserts his rights, and leaves the sickly shade;

At eve he quits the spot where glooms annoy,

And seeks the bosom of domestic joy;

The social faggot, and the light repast,

Await to chear him when his toils are past.

Hence too, each class of Elegant and Great,

Art decks the dome, and commerce crouds the street;

The heav'n-born Muse impetuous wings her way,

When her lov'd Seward seeks the realms of day;

The painter hence his magic pencil plies,

And Reynolds bids a new creation rise;

Fair Kauffman sketches life's lov'd forms anew,

And holds the mirror of past times to view,

Restores each grace that mark'd the Grecian age,

And draws her lovely comment on the page;

And still to chear the solitary hour,

For this has [*] Beach display'd his happiest power;

When far from thee, I hail his generous art,

And bless the hand which thus relieves my heart;

I see my friend upon the canvas glow,

And feel the smile that lightens every woe.

All, SYMPATHY, is thine; th' Immortal strung

For thee, that more than golden harp the Tongue,

The spheres' best music taught it to impart,

And bade each soft vibration strike the heart.

Thine too, the varied fruitage of the fields,

The clustering crops which yonder valley yields,

The mossy down which feeds a thousand sheep,

The bowers umbrageous, and the cultur'd steep;

The still smooth joys that bloom o'er life's serene,

And all the bustle of the public scene.

These several efforts slow or rapid rise,

As men are good, or bad, or weak, or wise;

Here quick, there slow the impulse; but the whole

Points to this centre, Sympathy of Soul.

Nor think the dull, cold reasoner can disprove

These varied powers of sympathetic love;

Nor hope, ye cynics, sedulous to find

From partial spots a flaw in human kind;

As well the panther might you charge with sin,

And call each streak a blemish on his skin;

Allow to self the broadest scope you can,

Still breathes the social principle in man.

Oft when pride whispers that he stands alone,

His strength proceeds from other than his own;

Oft when he seems to walk the world apart,

Another's interest twines about his heart;

And call his project rash, his effort vain,

Still social pleasure is the END to gain;

Or say, this builds for pomp, that digs for bread,

This shews you pictures, that a pompous bed,

This toils a niggard at his lonely trade,

That rears the bower, but asks not to its shade;

Say, for himself this bids the arches bend,

Or that directs the column to ascend;

This through his grot commands the streams to glide,

As that for Avarice braves the tossing tide;

That this for Vanity his wealth displays,

As that for Pride unravels learning's maze;

Trace but their PURPOSE to one general end,

You see it work the good of wife, or friend,

Parent, or child, their privilege still claim,

And social comfort springs from what we blame:

Frailty itself our sympathy may spare,

A graceful weakness when no vice is there.

Who hopes perfection breaks down nature's fence,

And spurns the modest bounds of sober sense.

When straw-like errours lean [*] to virtue's side,

Ah, check, ye bigots, check your furious pride;

Some venial faults, like clouds at peep of day,

Blush as they pass, and but a moment stay;

Those venial faults from sordid bosoms start,

And spring up only in the generous heart,

As florid weeds elude the labourer's toil,

From too much warmth or richness of the soil;

While meaner souls, like Zembla's hills of snow,

Too barren prove for weeds or flowers to grow.

This then is clear, while human kind exist,

The social principle must still subsist,

In strict dependency of one on all,

As run the binding links from great to small.

Man born for Man some friendly aid requires,

The contract strengthening till the soul retires;

Nor then, ev'n then it breaks, for still we pay

A brother's homage to the breathless clay,

Jealous of destiny the heart would save

Its favour'd object from the closing grave,

Its favour'd object chosen from the rest,

In grief, in joy, the monarch of the breast;

To earth we trust what fondness would retain,

And leave the corpse to visit it again;

Or unconsin'd by partial ties of blood,

Brave sternest peril for a stranger's good.

Once, and no second stroke of fancy this,

A truth too tender for the heart to miss,

Once, and not far from these lov'd feats serene,

Just where you white huts peep the copse between,

A damsel languish'd, all her kin were gone,

For God who lent, resum'd them one by one;

Disease and penury in cruel strife,

Had ravish'd all the decent means of life,

E'en the mark'd crown, her lover's gift she gave

In filial duty for a father's grave,

That so the honour'd clay which caus'd her birth

Might slumber peaceful in the sacred earth,

Chim'd to its grass-green home with pious peal,

While hallow'd dirges hymn the last farewell;

At length, these searching woes her sense invade,

And lone and long the hapless wanderer stray'd

O'er the bleak heath, around th' unmeasur'd wood,

Up the huge precipice, or near the flood,

Or mount the rock at midnight's awful hour,

Enjoy the gloom, and idly mock the shower;

Now scorn her fate, now patient bend the knee,

And call on every star to set her free,

Then, starting wilder, think those stars her foes,

Now smite her breast, now laugh amidst her woes;

Or child-like, chace the bee, or braid the grass,

Or crop the hedge-flower, or disorder'd pass;

Else, would she loiter in the mid-way mead,

Sing to the birds at roost, the lambs at feed;

Or if a nest she found the brakes among,

No hand of her's destroy'd the promis'd young;

And when kind nature brought the balmy sleep,

Too soon she woke to wander and to weep;

Across her breast the tangled tresses flew,

And frenzied glances all around she threw;

Th' unsettled soul those frenzied glances speak,

And tears of terror hurry down her cheek;

Yet still that eye was bright, that cheek was fair,

Though pale the rose, the lilly blossom'd there.

A pilgrim swain, the beauteous Maniac found,

Her woes wild warbling to the rocks around;

A river roll'd beside, aghast she ran,

Her vain fears starting at the sight of man;

And, save me God! my father's ghost! she cry'd,

Then head-long plung'd into the sparkling tide.

The pilgrim follows, strikes each eager limb,

But these, alas! his first essays to swim;

Attempt, how vain! full wild the waters rose,

And o'er their heads in circling surges close,

He grasps the damsel struggling with the wave,

Till both untimely find a wat'ry grave.

And lives the man, oh Nature, tell me where,

Whose rebel bosom knows no triumph here;

Whose coward cheek no tinge of honour feels,

Flush'd with no pride at what the Muse reveals?

Lives there, who all unconscious could have stood

To see the victim buffet with the flood?

If such a man, if such a wretch there be,

Thanks to this aching heart, I am not he.

Hail, lovely griefs, in tender mercy giv'n,

And hail, ye tears, like dew-drops fresh from heav'n;

Hail, balmy breath of unaffected sighs,

More sweet than airs that ventilate the skies;

Hail, sacred source of sympathies divine,

Thine ev'ry social pulse, each fibre thine;

Hail, symbols of the God to whom we owe

The nerves that vibrate, and the hearts that glow;

Love's tender tumult, friendship's holy fires,

And all which beauty, all which worth inspires,

The joy that lights the hope-illumin'd eye,

The bliss supreme that melts in pity's sigh,

Affection's bloom quick rushing to the face,

The choice acknowledg'd and the warm embrace:

Oh power of powers, whose magic thus can draw

Earth, air, and ocean, by one central law,

Join bird to bird, to insect insect link,

From those which grovel up to those which think;

Oh, ever blest! whose bounties opening wide

Fill the vast globe, for mortals to divide,

Whose heavenly favours stretch from pole to pole,

Encircle earth, and rivet soul to soul!

Cease then to wonder these lov'd scenes impart

No more the usual transport to my heart;

Though modest Twilight visit Eve again,

At whose soft summons homeward steps the swain;

Though from the breath of oxen in the vale,

I catch the spirit of the balmy gale,

And from the brakes the answering thrushes sing,

While the grey owl sails by on solemn wing;

Nor wonder, if when morning blooms again,

In discontent I quit the flowery plain.

Thus the poor mariner, his traffick o'er,

Crouds ev'ry sail to reach his native shore,

With smiles he marks the pennons stream to port,

And climbs the top-most mast to eye the fort;

Dim through the mist the distant land appears,

And far he slopes to hail it with his tears;

From foreign regions, foreign faces, come,

Anxious he seeks his much-lov'd friends at home,

Warm, and more warm, the social passion glows,

As near and nearer to the place he goes;

Quick beats his heart as pressing on he sees

His own fair cottage canopy'd with trees;

For there, in blessed health, he hopes to find

His wife and cradled infant left behind;

Panting, he plucks the latch that guards the door,

But finds his wife, his cradled babe, no more!

Like some sad ghost he wanders o'er the green,

Droops on the blossom'd waste, and loaths the scene.

Yet haply you, by SYMPATHY, may know

That here a-while I paus'd to paint my woe,

For sure if ever Silph or Silphid bore

One true friend's message to a distant shore;

If ever spirit whisper'd gentle deed,

In such an absence most its aid we need.

Perhaps, for now let fancy take her flight,

My friend, like me, may wander through the night,

Amidst a different scenery may roam,

And many a gentle sigh address to home;

Ev'n now, where moon-beams tremble on the wave,

And circling seagulls their long pinions lave,

Where anchor'd vessels in the harbour ride,

To wait the flux of the returning tide,

Where the salt billow beats against the strand,

My friend may take his solitary stand;

Or on the rock projecting to the main

May sit him down to mark the social strain,

Along the frothing beach may bend his way,

And suit, like me, his sorrows to his lay.

FAREWELL, my hour approaches with the dawn,

And up I spring to leave the flowery lawn;

The pain increases as I stay to trace

Another sunshine rising o'er the place:

Adieu then, balmy shrubs and shades, adieu,

This passing incense o'er your leaves I strew;

Adieu, thou dear and hill-screen'd cottage fair;

Adieu, thou decent dome of Sunday prayer;

To each, to all, adieu; your lonely guest

Retires. The SOCIAL PASSION speaks the rest.

Notes

*
A very ingenious and rising artist, who has painted for the author an admirable portrait of the gentleman to whom this poem is inscribed: Mr. Beach now resides at Bath, where he is gaining that celebrity which is due to uncommon genius, and which nothing but uncommon modesty could so long have impeded.
↵

*
In the former Edition printed leap, very improperly.
↵

Information about this book

Title statement

Sympathy: or, a sketch of the social passion. A poem.

Pratt, Mr. (Samuel Jackson), 1749-1814.

Publication

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5023

ID [isbn10]

1106020227

ID [isbn13]

9781106020222

ID [TCP]

K094645.000

ID [BIBNO]

cw3312474144

ID [ECLL]

0443601100

Availability

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Source

— Sympathy: or, a sketch of the social passion. A poem., Pratt, Mr. (Samuel Jackson), 1749-1814.. The third edition.. viii,49p. ; 4⁰. London :: printed for T. Cadell,. 1781.. [Anonymous. By Samuel Jackson Pratt.] [With a half-title.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT118085.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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