The British album: A collection of poems. [Three lines of anonymous verse]

Table of contents

- [frontispiece]

- [titlepage]

- [titlepage]

- TO RICHARD BR INSLEY SHERIDAN, ESQ.

- PREFACE.

- THE ADIEU AND RECAL TO LOVE.

- TO DELLA CRUSCA. THE PEN.

- TO ANNA MATILDA.

- TO DELLA CRUSCA.

- TO ANNA MATILDA.

- ELEGY, Written on the PLAIN OF FONTENOY.

- STANZAS TO DELLA CRUSCA.

- TO ANNA MATILDA.

- TO DELLA CRUSCA.

- ODE TO PRUDENCE.

- ODE TO DEATH.

- ELEGY ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF DECEMBER, MDCCLXXXVII.

- INVOCATION TO HORROR.

- TO ANNA MATILDA.

- TO REUBEN.

- ODE TO MRS. SIDDONS.

- ODE TO SIMPLICITY. Addressed to MRS. WELLS.

- ODE TO MISS FARREN.

- THE SLAVES. AN ELEGY.

- MONODY. Addressed to MR. T—

- ODE TO INDIFFERENCE.

- ODE TO ANNA MATILDA.

- ODE TO DELLA CRUSCA.

- TO ANNA MATILDA.

- TO DELLA CRUSCA.

- TO ANNA MATILDA.

- TO DELLA CRUSCA.

- A TALE FOR JEALOUSY. A Recent Event in CATALONIA.

- [play]

- [frontispiece]

- [titlepage]

- CHARACTERS.

- AMBITIOUS VENGEANCE; A TRAGIC-DRAMA.

- 1

- ACT I. SCENE I.

- 2

- ACT II. SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- SCENE III.

- 3

- ACT III. SCENE I.

- SCENE II.

- STANZAS ON FRIENDSHIP.

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

- THE COMPLAINT. TO LORD *****.

- ODE To ****.

- PRAYER TO VENUS.

- COMPLIMENTARY VERSES.

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

- THE RETROSPECT.

- STANZAS TO ILL-NATURE.

- THE CONFESSION. TO MISS ****.

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

- THE INVITATION. TO DELIA.

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

- LINES SENT TO A FRIEND WITH A WATCH.

- SONG. Addressed to A YOUNG LADY.

- BALLAD, FOUNDED ON FACT.

- TO LAURA.

- ELEGY. To the LADY who will best remember it.

- LOVE RENEW'D, A SONNET.

- CHARACTERISTIC SONG.

- THE REPENTANCE OF PASSION.

- DIVERSITY. A POEM.

- SONNET. TO THE MUSE.

- SONNET. TO MELISSA's LIPS.

- SONNET. THE VALENTINE OF HOPELESS LOVE!

- SONNET. MELISSA'S RETIREMENT.

- SONNET. TO MAY.

- SONNET. TO MELISSA.

- SONNET. TO MELISSA.

- SONNET. THE INVITATION.

- SONNET. MELISSA!

- SONNET. TO THE RIVER USK, IN MONMOUTHSHIRE.

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

- PARTING ADDRESS TO DELLA CRUSCA.

- THE AFRICAN BOY.

- TO MISS FARREN, ON HER BEING ABSENT FROM CHURCH.

- THE VOICE WE LOVE.

- HENRY DECEIVED.

- TO EMMA.

- MONOLOGUE.

- A FRAGMENT. ADDRESSED TO ***.

- PORTRAIT OF MISS FARREN.

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

- EPITAPH ON MISS CAROLINE CAMPBELL.

- MARQUIS TOWNSHEND's VERSES ON HIS NIECE MISS GARDINER.

- Advertisement.

- TO ANNA MATILDA.

- TO HIM WHO WILL UNDERSTAND IT.

- TO LAURA.

- TO DELLA CRUSCA.

- LAURA TO ANNA MATILDA.

- TO ANNA MATILDA.

- TO DELLA CRUSCA.

- THE INTERVIEW.

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

- TO A—E B—N.

- CONTENTS.

B•…ton Published Belknap & Hall 179•
ANNA MAT•…

THE BRITISH ALBUM. A COLLECTION OF POEMS.

Oft from her careless hand the Wand'ring Muse

Scatters luxuriant sweets, which well might form

A living wreath to deck the brows of Time.

ANON.

BELKNAP AND HALL's EDITION.

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

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

REVISED AND CORRECTED BY THEIR RESPECTIVE AUTHORS.

FIRST AMERICAN EDITION, FROM THE FOURTH LONDON EDITION.

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

TO RICHARD BR INSLEY SHERIDAN, ESQ.

SIR,

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

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

I have the honour to be, SIR, Your most obedient humble Servant, THE EDITOR.
Dec. 20, 1789.

PREFACE.

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

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

THE ADIEU AND RECAL TO LOVE.

Go, idle Boy! I quit thy pow'r;

Thy couch of many a thorn and flow'r;

Thy twanging bow, thine arrow keen,

Deceitful Beauty's timid mien;

The feign'd surprize, the roguish leer,

The tender smile, the thrilling tear,

Have now no pangs, no joys for me,

So fare thee well, for I am free!

Then flutter hence on wanton wing,

Or lave thee in yon lucid spring,

Or take thy bev'rage from the rose,

Or on Louisa's breast repose:

I wish thee well for pleasures past,

Yet bless the hour, I'm free at last.

But sure, methinks, the alter'd day

Scatters around a mournful ray;

And chilling ev'ry zephyr blows,

And ev'ry stream untuneful flows;

No rapture swells the linnet's voice,

No more the vocal groves rejoice;

And e'en thy song, sweet Bird of Eve!

With whom I lov'd so oft to grieve,

Now scarce regarded meets my ear,

Unanswer'd by a sigh or tear.

No more with devious step I choose

To brush the mountain's morning dews;

"To drink the spirit of the breeze,"

Or wander midst o'er-arching trees;

Or woo with undisturb'd delight,

The pale-cheek'd Virgin of the Night,

That piercing thro' the leafy bow'r,

Throws on the ground a silv'ry show'r.

Alas! is all this boasted ease

To lose each warm desire to please,

No sweet solicitude to know,

For others' bliss, for others' woe,

A frozen apathy to find,

A sad vacuity of mind?

O hasten back, then, heavenly Boy,

And with thine anguish bring thy joy!

Return with all thy torments here,

And let me hope, and doubt, and fear.

O rend my heart with ev'ry pain!

But let me, let me love again.

DELLA CRUSCA.
June 29, 1787.

TO DELLA CRUSCA. THE PEN.

O! SEIZE again thy golden quill,

And with its point my bosom thrill;

With magic touch explore my heart,

And bid the tear of passion start.

Thy golden quill APOLLO gave—

Drench'd first in bright Aonia's wave:

He Snatch'd it flutt'ring thro' the sky,

Borne on the vapour of a sigh;

It fell from Cupid's burnish'd wing

As forcefully he drew the string;

Which sent his keenest, surest dart

Thro' a rebellious frozen heart;

That had till then defy'd his pow'r,

And vacant beat thro' each dull hour.

Be worthy then the sacred loan;

Seated on Fancy's air-built throne;

Immerse it in her rainbow hues,

Nor, what the Godheads bid, refuse.

APOLLO, CUPID, shall inspire,

And aid thee with their blended sire.

The one, poetic language give,

The other, bid thy passion live;

With soft ideas fill thy lays,

And crown with LOVE thy wintry days!

ANNA MATILDA.
July 10, 1787.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

I KNOW thee well, enchanting Maid,

I've mark'd thee in the silent glade,

I've seen thee on the mountain's height,

I've met thee in the storms of night;

I've view'd thee on the wild beach run

To gaze upon the setting sun;

Then stop aghast, his ray no more,

To hear th' impetuous surge's roar.

Hast thou not stood with rapt'ious eye

To trace the stary worlds on high,

T' observe the moon's weak crescent throw

O'er hills, and woods, a glimm'ring glow:

Or, all beside some wizard stream,

To watch its undulating beam?

O well thy form divine I know—

When youthful errors brought me woe;

When all was dreary to behold,

And many a bosom-friend grew cold;

Thou, thou unlike the summer crew

That from my adverse fortune flew,

Cam'st with melodious voice, to cheer

My throbbing heart, and check the tear.

From thee I learnt, 'twas vain to scan

The low ingratitude of Man;

Thou bad'st me Fancy's wilds to rove,

And seek th' extatic bow'r of Love.

When on his couch I threw me down,

I saw thee weave a myrtle crown,

And blend it with the shining hair

Of her the Fairest of the Fair.

For this, may ev'ry wand'ring gale

The essence of the rose exhale.

And pour the fragrance on thy breast,

And gently fan thy charms to rest.

Soon as the purple slumbers sly

The op'ning radiance of thine eye,

Strike, strike again the magic lyre,

With all thy pathos, all thy fire;

With all that sweetly-warbled grace,

Which proves thee of celestial race.

O then, in varying colours drest,

And living glory stand confest,

Shake from thy locks ambrosial dew,

And thrill each pulse of joy a-new;

With glowing ardours rouse my soul,

And bid the tides of Passion roll.

But think no longer in disguise

To screen thy beauty from mine eyes;

Nor deign a borrow'd name to use,

For well I know thou art the MUSE!

DELLA CRUSCA.
July 31, 1787.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

THOU bid'st!—"my purple slumbers fly!"

Day's radiance pours upon my eye,

I wake—I live! the sense o'erpays,

The trivial griefs of early days.

What! tho' the rose-bud on my cheek

Has shed its leaves, which late so sleek,

Spoke youth, and joy—and careless thought,

By guilt, or fear, or shame un-smote:

My blooming soul is yet in youth,

Its lively sense attests the truth.

O! I can wander yet, and taste

The beauties of the flow'ry waste;

The nightingale's deep swell can feel,

Whilst from my lids the soft drops steal;

Rapt! gaze upon the gem-deck'd night,

And mark the clear moon's silent flight;

Whilst the slow river's crumpled wave

Repeats the quiv'ring beams she gave.

Not yet, the pencil strives in vain,

To wake upon the canvas plain,

All the strong passions of the mind,

Or hint the sentiment refin'd;

To its sweet magic yet I bow,

As when Youth deck'd my polish'd brow.

The chisel's feath'ry touch to trace,

Thro' the nerv'd form, or soften'd grace,

Is lent me still. Still I admire,

And kindle at the Poet's fire—

My torch, at Della Crusca's light,

And distant follow his superiour flight.

O Time! since these are left me still,

Of lesser thefts e'en take thy fill:

Yes, steal the lustre from my eye,

And bid the soft Carnation fly:

My tresses sprinkle with thy snow,

Which boasted once the auburn glow;

Warp the slim form that was ador'd

By him, so lov'd my bosom's Lord—

But leave me, when all these you steal,

The mind to taste, the nerve to feel!

ANNA MATILDA.
Aug. 4, 1787.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

AND art thou then, alas! like me,

OFFSPRING of frail mortality?

Must ruthless Time's rude touch efface

Each lovely feature's varying grace?

And must tow'rds earth that form incline,

And e'en those eyes forbear to shine?

Yet, when with icy hand he throws,

Amongst thine auburn locks, his snows,

The freezing influence ne'er shall dart,

To chill thy warmly-beating heart;

And scorning Death's oblivious hour,

Thou shalt exult—beyond his pow'r.

Methinks, as Passion drives along,

As frantic grown, I feel thy Song;

Eager I'd traverse LYBIA's plain,

The tawny Lion's dread domain

To meet thee there: nor flagging Fear,

Should ever on my cheek appear:

For e'en the Forest King obeys

Majestic WOMAN's potent gaze.

Or left on some resourceless shore,

Where never ceasing billows roar;

Which teeming clouds, and heavy hail,

And furious hurricanes assail,

Far to the Pole—while half the year,

On Ebon throne sits NIGHT severe;

And to her solitary court,

Sea-fowl, and monsters fierce resort—

E'en there, MATILDA! there with thee,

Impending horrors all should flee;

Thy lustre of poetic ray,

Should wake an artificial day.

Sure thou wert never doom'd to know

What pangs from care and danger flow;

But fairest scenes thy thoughts employ,

And Art, and Science, bring thee joy.

The quick'ning sense, the throb divine,

Fancy, and feeling, all are thine;

'Tis thine, by blushing Summer led,

A shower of roses round thee shed,

To hie thee forth at Morn's advance,

In wild excess of rapt'rous trance;

And see the Sun's proud deluge stream,

In copious tides of golden beam;

While faint his Sister-orb on high,

Fades to a vapour of the sky.

When gradual evening comes, to hide,

In sabling shades, CREATION's pride;

When heaving hills, and forests drear,

And less'ning towns, but scarce appear;

While the last ling'ring western glow,

Hangs on the lucid lake below.

Then trivial joys (I deem) forgot,

Thou lov'st to seek the humble cot,

To scatter Comfort's balm around,

And heal pale Poverty's deep wound;

Drive sickness from the languid bed,

Raise the lorn Widow's drooping head:

Render the new-made Mother blest,

And snatch the infant to thy breast.

O ANNA, then, if true thou say,

Thy radiant beauties steal away,

Yet shall I never fail to find

Eternal beauties in thy mind.

To those I offer up my vows,

And Love which Virtue's self allows;

Unknown, again thou art ador'd

As once by him, thy bosom's "Lord."

DELLA CRUSCA.
Aug. 21, 1787.

ELEGY, Written on the PLAIN OF FONTENOY.

CHILL blows the blast, and Twilight's dewy hand

Draws in the West her dusky veil away;

A deeper shadow steals along the land,

And NATURE muses at the DEATH OF DAY!

Near this bleak Waste no friendly mansion rears

Its walls, where Mirth, and social joys resound,

But each dim object melts the soul to tears,

While Horror treads the scatter'd bones around.

As thus, alone and comfortless I roam,

Wet with the driz'ling show'r; I sigh sincere,

I cast a fond look tow'rds my native home,

And think what valiant BRITONS perish'd here.

Yes, the time was, nor very far the date,

When carnage here her crimson toil began;

When Nations' Standards wav'd in threat'ning state,

And Man the murd'rer, met the murd'rer Man.

For WAR is MURDER, tho' the voice of Kings

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

Yet from worst motives, fierce Ambition springs,

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

But sure, 'tis Heaven's immutable decree,

For thousands ev'ry age in fight to fall;

Some NAT'RAL CAUSE prevails, we cannot see,

And that is FATE, which we Ambition call.

O let th' aspiring warrior think with grief,

That as produc'd by CHYMIC art refin'd;

So glitt'ring CONQUEST, from the laurel-leaf

Extracts a GEN'RAL POISON for Mankind.

Here let him wander at the midnight hour,

These morbid rains, these gelid gales to meet;

And mourn like me, the ravages of Pow'r!

And feel like me, that vict'ry is defeat!

Nor deem, ye vain! that e'er I mean to swell

My feeble verse with many a sounding Name;

Of such, the mercenary Bard may tell,

And call such dreary desolation, Fame.

The genuine Muse removes the thin disguise,

That cheats the World, whene'er she deigns to sing;

And full as meritorious to her eyes

Seems the Poor Soldier, as the Mighty king!

Alike I shun in labour'd strain to show,

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

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

I turn from these, and DWELL UPON THE DEAD.

Yet much my beating breast respects the brave;

Too well I love them, not to mourn their fate,

Why should they seek for greatness in the Grave?

Their hearts are noble—and in life they're great.

Nor think 'tis but in war the Brave excel,—

TO VALOUR EV'RY VIRTUE IS ALLIED!

Here faithful Friendship 'mid the Battle fell,

And Love, true Love, in bitter anguish died.

Alas! the solemn slaughter I retrace,

That checks life's current circling thro' my veins;

Bath'd in moist sorrow, many a beauteous face;

And gave a grief, perhaps that still remains.

I can no more—an agony too keen

Absorbs my senses, and my mind subdues;

Hard were that heart which here could beat serene,

Or the just tribute of a pang refuse.

But lo! thro' yonder op'ning clouds afar

Shoots the bright planet's sanguinary ray

That bears thy name, FICTITIOUS LORD OF WAR!

And with red lustre guides my lonely way.

Then FONTENOY, farewel! Yet much I fear,

(Wherever chance my course compels) to find

Discord and blood—the thrilling sounds I hear,

"The noise of battle hurtles in the wind."

From barb'rous Turkey to Britannia's shore,

Opposing int'rests into rage increase:

Destruction rears her sceptre, tumults roar,

Ah! where shall hapless man repose in peace!

DELLA CRUSCA.
Oct. 15, 1787.

STANZAS TO DELLA CRUSCA.

HUSH'D, be each ruder note!—Soft silence spread,

With ermine hand, thy cobweb robe around;

Attention! pillow my reclining head,

Whilst eagerly I catch the golden sound.

Ha! What a tone was that, which floating near,

Seem'd Harmony's full soul—whose is the lyre?

Which seizing thus on my enraptur'd ear,

Chills with its force, yet melts me with its fire.

Ah, dull of heart! thy Minstrel's touch not know,

What Bard but DELLA CRUSCA boasts such skill?

From him alone, those melting notes can flow—

He, only knows adroitly thus to trill.

Well have I left the Groves, which sighing wave

Amidst November's blasts their naked arms,

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

And give again to dust May's vernal charms.

Well have I left the air-embosom'd hills,

Where sprightly Health in verdant buskin plays;

Forsaken fallow meads, and circling mills,

And thyme-dress'd heaths, where the soft stock yet strays.

Obscuring smoke, and air impure I greet,

With the coarse din that Tread and Folly form,

For here the Muse's Son again I meet—

I catch his notes amidst the vulgar storm.

His notes now bear me, pensive, to the Plain,

Cloth'd by a verdure drawn from Britain's heart;

Whose heroes bled superior to their pain,

Sunk, crown'd with glory, and contemn'd the smart.

Soft, as he leads me round th' ensanguin'd fields,

The laurel'd shades forsake their grassy tomb,

The bursting sod its palid inmate yields,

And o'er th' immortal waste their spirits roam.

Obedient to the Muse the acts revive

Which Time long past had veil'd from mortal ken

Embattled squandrons rush, as when alive,

And shadowy fulchions gleam o'er shadowy men.

Ah, who art thou, who thus with frantic air

Fly'st fearless to support that bleeding youth:

Bind'st his deep gashes with thy glowing hair,

And diest beside him, to attest thy truth?

"His Sister I: an orphan'd pair, we griev'd,

For Parents long at rest within the grave,

By a false Guardian of our wealth bereav'd—

The little ALL parental care could save.

Chill look'd the world, and chilly grew our hearts,

Oh! where shall Poverty expect a smile?

Gross lawless Love assum'd its ready arts,

And all beset was I, with fraud and Guile.

My Henry sought the war, and drop'd the tears

Of love fraternal as he bade farewel;

But fear, soon made me rise above my fears,

I follow'd—and Fate tolls our mutual knell,"

Chaste Maiden rest; and brighter spring the green,

That decorates the turf thy bloom will feed!

And oh, in softest mercy 'twas I ween,

To worth like thine, a Brother's grave's decreed.

The dreadful shriek of Death now darts around,

The hollow winds repeat each tortur'd sigh,

Deep bitter groans, still deeper groans resound,

Whilst Fathers, Brothers, Lovers, Husbands die.

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

To hamlets, cities, empires bend its beam!

'Twill there such multiplying deaths descry,

That all before thee'll but an abstract seem.

Why waste thy tears o'er this contracted Plain?

The sky which canopies the sons of breath,

Sees the whole Earth one scene of mortal pain,

The vast, the universal BED OF DEATH!

Where, do not Husbands, Fathers, dying moan?

Where, do not Mothers, Sisters, Orphans weep?

Where, is not heard the last expiring groan,

Or the deep throttle of the deathful Sleep!

If as Philosophy doth often muse,

A state of war, is natural state to man,

BATTLE's the sickness bravery would choose—

Noblest DISEASE in Nature's various plan!

Let vulgar souls stoop to the fever's rage,

Or slow, beneath pale atrophy depart,

With Gout and Scroupula weak variance wage,

Or sink, with sorrow cank'ring at the heart;

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

The FIRM select an illness more sublime;

By languid pains, scorn their high souls to free,

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

ANNA MATILDA.
Sat. Nov. 17th, 1787.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

ON the sea-shore with folded arms I stood,

The Sun just sinking shot a level ray,

Luxuriant crimson glow'd upon the flood,

And the curl'd turf was ting'd with golden spray.

Far off I faintly track'd the feath'ry sail;

When thy sweet numbers caught my yielded ear,

Borne on the bosom of the flutt'ring gale,

They struck my heart—and rous'd me to a tear.

Yet flow'd no bitter anguish from mine eye,

A while remembrance left my wayward state;

And the soft cadence of thy warbled sigh,

Pour'd healing balm into the wounds of Fate.

What tho' grim Winter's desolating frown,

The wild waves uproar when rough Eurus blows,

The tangled forest, and the desert down,

Be all the folace DELLA CRUSCA knows:

Yet from MATILDA's pure celestial fire,

One ruby spark shall to his gloom be given,

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

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

Vain in the morn of life, and thoughtless too,

He rush'd impetuous, as strong passion drove,

But soon each flatt'ring prospect fled his view,

Deceiv'd by Friendship much, but more by Love.

Yes, he has lov'd to Transport's dire excess,

Has felt the potent eye inflict the wound;

Has felt the female voice each pulse oppress,

And grown a breathless statue at the sound.

But why recal the moments that are fled?

For ever fled, like yonder sweeping blast;

With Love, each active principle is dead,

And all, except its sad regret, is past.

Ah! had he met thee in his happier hour,

Ere yet he languish'd in the gripe of Care,

Thy Minstrel then had fondly own'd thy pow'r,

Thy Minstrel then might have escap'd Despair.

O diff'rent lot! for he who daily grieves,

Then with thy beauty blest, and gen'rous mind,

Had not, like sallow Autumn's falling leaves,

Been shrunk, alas! and scatter'd in the wind.

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

On many a rugged Alp, and foreign shore;

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

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

He would have led thee with attentive gaze,

Where the brown Hamlet's neighb'ring shades retire,

Have hung entranc'd upon thy living lays,

And swept with feebler hand a kindred lyre.

While the dear Song stress had melodious stole

O'er ev'ry sense, and charm'd each nerve to rest,

Thy Bard, in silent ecstasy of soul.

Had strain'd the dearer Woman to his breast.

Or had she said, that War's the worthiest grave,

He would have felt his proud heart burn the while

Have dar'd, perhaps, to rush among the brave,

Have gain'd, perhaps, the glory—of a smile.

And 'tis most true, while Time's relentless hand,

With sickly grasp drags others to the tomb,

The Soldier scorns to wait the dull command,

But springs impatient to a nobler doom.

Tho' on the plain he lies, outstretch'd and pale,

Without one friend his stedfast eyes to close

Yet on his honour'd corse shall many a gale,

Waft the moist fragrance of the weeping rose.

O'er that dread spot, the melancholy Moon

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

And starry Night, amidst her awful noon,

Sprinkle light dews upon his hallow'd head.

There too the solitary Bird shall swell

With long-drawn melody her plaintive throat,

While distant echo from responsive cell,

Shall oft with fading force return the note.

Such recompense be Valour's due alone!

To me, no proffer'd meed must e'er belong,

To me, who trod the vale of life unknown,

Whose proudest boast was but an idle song.

DELLA CRUSCA.
Dec. 5, 1787.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

I HATE the tardy Elegiac lay—

Choose me a measure jocund as the day!

Such days as near the ides of June

Meet the Lark's elab'rate tune,

When his downy fringed breast

Ambitious on a cloud to rest,

He soars aloft; and from his gurgling throat

Darts to the earth the piercing note—

Which softly falling with the dews of morn

(That bless the scented pink, and snowy thorn)

Expands upon the Zephyr's wing,

And wakes the burnish'd finch, and linnet sweet to sing.

And be thy lines irregular and free,

Poetic chains should fall before such Bards as thee.

Scorn the dull laws that pinch thee round,

Raising about thy verse a mound,

O'er which thy muse, so lofty! dares not bound.

Bid her in verse meand'ring sport;

Her footsteps quick, or long, or short,

Just as her various impulse wills—

Scorning the frigid square, which her fine fervour chills.

And in thy verse meand'ring wild,

Thou, who art FANCY's favourite Child,

May'st sweetly paint the long past hour,

When, the slave of Cupid's power,

Thou couldst the tear of rapture weep,

And feed on Agony, and banish Sleep.

Ha! didst thou, favour'd mortal, taste

All that adorns our life's dull waste?

Hast THOU known Love's enchanting pain—

Its hopes, its woes, and yet complain?

Thy senses, at a voice, been lost,

Thy madd'ning soul in tumults tost?

Ecstatic wishes fire thy brain—

These, hast thou known, and yet complain?

Thou then deserv'st ne'er more to FEEL;—

Thy nerves be rigid, hence, as steel!

Their fine vibrations all destroy'd,

Thy future days a tasteless void!

Ne'er shalt thou know again to sigh,

Or, on a soft idea die;

Ne'er on a recollection gasp;

Thy arms, the air—drawn charmer, never grasp.

Vapid Content her poppies round thee strew,

Whilst to the bliss of TASTE thou bidst adieu!

To vulgar comforts be thou hence confin'd,

And the shrunk bays be from thy brow untwin'd.

Thy statue torn from Cupid's hallow'd niche

But in return thou shalt be dull, and rich;

The Muses hence disown thy rebel lay—

But thou in Aldermanic gown, their scorn repay;

Crimson'd, and furr'd, the highest honours dare,

And on thy laurels tread—a PLUMP LORD MAYOR!

ANNA MATILDA.
Dec. 20, 1787.

ODE TO PRUDENCE.

WHERE didst thou hide thee, CAUTIOUS POW'R,

When first my vent'rous Youth began?

Thou cam'st not to the festive bow'r,

Nor at the genial board wert found;

And when the liquid grape went round,

Thou never show'dst thy warning face,

The wantonness of mirth to chase,

And tell of short life's shad'wy span:

Nor then didst prophesy of woe,

To chill my breast's impetuous glow;

But provident, and shrewd, from me afar,

THOU SUNK'ST TO SOBER REST, WITH DAY'S RETIRING STAR!

'Tis true, indeed, I thought with scorn,

Thy miserable maxims quaint,

Were but of sour Suspicion born:

"Let selfish souls," I madly cried,

"Submit to such a coward guide,

Be't mine to seek the sportive vale,

With Friends, whose truth can never fail,

And banish thence each base restraint!"

Dull that I was—I feel it now,

And offer late th' imploring vow:

Too well convinc'd, who dare thy vengeance urge,

Can ne'er, alas! escape an agonizing scourge!

Ah! wilt thou, deign then, to receive

Thy Foe, profess'd for many a year?

And wilt thou teach him, not to grieve?

Forget the weakness of past time,

When frantic Passion was his crime;

When to imperious charms a prey,

His Morn of Life stole swift away,

Yet gemm'd by Love's delicious Tear,

That bath'd his Bosom with delight;

Tho' sometimes on the Gales of Night,

He heard thy whisper'd threat aspire,

How could he heed it then—was not his heart on fire?

But now to gain thy frugal smile,

Each wonted transport I forego,

No more shall Beauty's self beguile,

Altho' her blue Orbs softer stream

Than the clear Moon's enchanting beam;

Tho' her still varying charms arise,

As to the hast'ning Trav'ller's eyes,

HELVETIA's summer prospects show:

Or should MEEK WORTH to me repair,

And tell a Tale of deep Despair,

I'd strive to bid each fond emotion sleep,

Yes, I would turn away!—BUT I WOULD TURN TO WEEP!

Then, as with decent step and mien,

I tread the path of fair repute,

Thy Civic hand shall oft be seen,

To freight me with the sordid Ore,

Which most thy Votaries adore,

Then, then shall FLAGGING FANCY die,

Then all my lov'd illusions fly,

Then will I break my rustic Flute:

And as the marble-hearted crowd,

Be vainly rich, and meanly proud;

Until I fix, like yonder blighted Thorn,

That, deck'd WITH GOLDEN BEAMS, NO VERNAL SWEETS ADORN.

DELLA CRUSCA.

ODE TO DEATH.

THOU, whose remorseless rage,

Nor vows, nor tears assuage,

TRIUMPHANT DEATH!—to thee I raise

The bursting notes of dauntless praise!—

Methinks on yonder murky cloud

Thou sit'st, in majesty severe!

Thy regal robe a ghastly shroud!

Thy right arm lifts th' insatiate spear!

Such was thy glance, when, erst as from the plain,

Where INDUS rolls his burning sand,

Young AMMON led the victor train,

In glowing lust of fierce command:

As vain he cried with thund'ring voice,

"The World is mine, rejoice, rejoice,

"The World I've won!" Thou gav'st the withering nod,

Thy FIAT smote his heart,—he sunk,—a senseless clod!

"And art thou great?"—Mankind replies

With sad assent of mingling sighs!

Sighs, that swell the biting gales

Which sweep o'er LAPLAND's frozen vales!

And the red TROPICS' whirlwind heat

Is with the sad assent replete!

How fierce yon Tyrant's plumy crest!

A blaze of gold illumes his breast,

In pomp of threat'ning pow'r elate,

He madly dares to spurn at Fate!

But—when Night, with shadowy robe,

Hangs upon the darken'd globe,

In his chamber,—sad,—alone,

By starts, he pours the fearful groan!

From flatt'ring crowds retir'd—he bows the knee,

And mutters forth a pray'r—because he THINKS OF THEE.

GAYLY smiles the NUPTIAL BOW'R,

Bedeck'd with many an od'rous flow'r!

While the spousal pair advance,

Mixing oft the melting gaze,

In fondest ecstacy of praise.

Ah! short delusive trance!

What tho' the festival be there;—

The rapt Bard's warblings fill the air;

And joy and harmony combine!

TOUCH BUT THY TALISMAN, and ALL IS THINE!

Th' insensate lovers fix in icy fold,

And on his throbbing lyre, the Minstrel's hand is cold!

'Tis THOU canst quench the Eagle's sight

That stems the cataract of light!

Forbid the vernal buds to blow—

Bend th' obedient forest low—

And tame the monsters of the main!

Such is thy potent reign!

O'er earth, and air, and sea!

Yet, art thou still DISDAIN'D BY ME.

And, I have reason for my scorn;—

Do I not hate the rising morn!

The garish noon; the eve serene;

The fresh'ning breeze; the sportive green;

The painted pleasures' throng'd resort;

And all the splendors of the court!

And has not SORROW chose to dwell

Within my hot heart's central cell;

And are not Hope's weak visions o'er,

Can Love, or Rapture reach me more?

Then tho' I scorn thy stroke—I call thee FRIEND,

For in thy calm embrace, my weary woes shall end.

DELLA CRUSCA.

ELEGY ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF DECEMBER, MDCCLXXXVII.

YES, I will climb yon rough Rock's giddy height,

That o'er the Ocean bends his brow severe;—

And as I muse on TIME'S NEGLECTED FLIGHT,

Wait the last sunshine of the parting Year!

Why do the winds so sadly seem to rave?

Why broods such solemn horror o'er the deep?

It is, that FANCY points the yawning grave;—

And sick'ning, shudders at the pond'rous sleep!

For O! since LAST DECEMBER's hoary head

Bow'd to Oblivion's wave, and sunk beneath,

From this strange World what flutt'ring crowds are fled

To throng the caverns of relentless Death!

And every transitory shade is lost,

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

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

And Autumn's purple honours pass'd away!

And now, tho' WINTER, in rude mantle drest,

Extends his icy sceptre o'er the plain!

Soon shall he sink on APRIL's dewy breast!

And laughing MAY shall re-assume her reign!

But MAN, when once his bright day's slush is o'er,

And Youth's too-fleeting pleasures take their wing,

Must on life's scene re-vegetate no more,

But leap its gulph, to find a second Spring.

And can that something each man calls "HIMSELF,"

'Midst this wide miracle of earth and sky,

Waste the swift moments in the toil for pelf,—

Nor raise one thought to Nature's Majesty;

On the Globe's surface creep, a grov'ling worm!

Nor joy the noon-tide radiance to behold,—

Nor trace the Mighty Hand that guides the storm,—

But deem existence relative to gold?

Ah! since this awful Now remains for me,

To think, to breathe, to wonder at the whole,

To move, to touch, to taste, to hear, to see,

To call the mystic consciousness, my Soul;

Fain would I seek a-while the sportive shade,

Ere the scene close upon this doubtful state;

Catch every painted phantom ere it fade,

And leave the vast Uncertainty to Fate.

But GRIEF IS MINE—yet can I quit the crew

Whose bosoms burn with avarice and pride,

In yon blue vault to quench my thirsty view,

Or tell my feelings to the boist'rous tide.

For are there not, as journeying on we go,

With pilgrim step thro' an unfriendly vale,

Oppression, Malice, Cruelty, and Woe,

And do not Falsehood's venom'd shafts assail?

Were it not nobler far, with social love,

As fellow-trav'lers in a rugged road,

That each the other's evils should remove,

And with joint force sustain the gen'ral load?

O! while such fancied happiness I trace,

A glow of gladness runs thro' ev'ry vein;

Rapture's warm tear steals silent down my face,

And thus I wake the philanthropic strain.

Long, long, may Britain's gen'rous Isle be blest

With foreign fame, domestic joys increase;

At ev'ry insult, shake the warlike crest;

Then weave her laurels in the Bow'r of Peace!

Blest be her Sons in hardy valour bold,

And all who haunt meek Learning's sacred shade;

Th' aspiring young; and the reposing old;

The modest matron; and th' enchanting maid!

And may the BARD upon HIMSELF bestow

One humble wish, that soon his cares shall end;

With the dead year, resign his weight of woe!

Or with the thorns of life, at least some roses blend!

DELLA CRUSCA.

INVOCATION TO HORROR.

FAR be remov'd each painted scene!

What is to me the sapphire sky?

What is to me the earth's soft dye?

Or fragrant vales which sink between

Those velvet hills? yes, there I see—

(Why do those beauties burst on me?)

Pearl-dropping groves bow to the sun;

Seizing his beams, bright rivers run

That dart redoubled day:

Hope ye vain scenes, to catch the mind

To torpid sorrow all resign'd,

Or bid my heart be gay?

False are those hopes!—I turn—I fly,

Where no enchantment meets the eye,

Or soft ideas stray.

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

The murky church-yard, and forsaken bower,

Where 'midst unwholesome damps

The vap'ry gleamy lamps

Of ignes fatui, shew the thick-wove night,

Where morbid MELANCHOLY sits,

And weeps, and sings, and raves by fits,

And to her bosom strains, the fancied sprite.

Or, if amidst the arctic gloom

Thou toilest at thy sable loom,

Forming the hideous phantoms of Despair—

Instant thy grisly labours leave,

With raven wing the concave cleave,

Where floats, self borne, the dense noctural air.

Oh! bear me to th' impending cliff,

Under whose brow the dashing skiff

Beholds Thee seated on thy rocky throne;

There, 'midst the shrieking wild wind's roar,

Thy influence, HORROR, I'll adore,

And at thy magic touch congeal to stone.

Oh! hide the Moon's obtrusive orb,

The gleams of ev'ry star absorb,

And let CREATION be a moment thine!

Bid billows dash; let whirlwinds roar,

And the stern, rocky-pointed shore,

The stranded bark, back to the waves resign!

Then, whilst from yonder turbid cloud,

Thou roll'st thy thunders long, and loud,

And light'nings flash upon the deep below,

Let the expiring Seaman's cry,

The Pilot's agonizing sigh

Mingle, and in the dreadful chorus flow!

HORROR! far back thou dat'st thy reign;

Ere KINGS th' historic page could stain

With records black, or deeds of lawless power:

Ere empires Alexanders curst,

Or Faction, madd'ning Caesars nurst,

The srighted World receiv'd thy awful dower!

Whose pen JEHOVAH's self inspir'd;

He, who in eloquence attir'd,

Led Israel's squadrons o'er the earth,

Grandly terrific paints thy birth.

Th' ALMIGHTY 'midst his fulgent seat on high,

Where glowing Seraphs round his footstool fly,

Beheld the wanton cities of the plain,

With acts of deadly name his laws disdain;

He gave the irrevocable sign,

Which mark'd to man the hate divine;

And sudden from the starting sky,

The Angels of his wrath did fly!

Then HORROR! thou presided'st o'er the whole,

And fill'd, and rapt, each self-accusing soul!

Thou didst ascend to guide the burning shower;

On THEE th' Omnipotent bestow'd the hour!

'Twas thine to scourge the sinful land,

'Twas thine to toss the fiery brand;

Beneath thy glance the temples fell

And mountains crumbled at thy yell.

ONCE MORE thou'lt triumph in a fiery storm

ONCE MORE the Earth behold thy direful form;

Then shalt thou seek, as holy prophets tell,

Thy native throne, amidst th' eternal shades of HELL!

ANNA MATILDA.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

To THEE, a Stranger dares address his theme!

To thee, proud Mistress of APOLLO's lyre;

One ray emitted from the golden gleam,

Prompted by LOVE, would "set the World on fire."

Adorn then LOVE, in fancy-tinctur'd vest,

Camelion like, anon of various hue;

By "Penseroso," and "Allegro" drest—

Such Genius claim'd, when she Idalia drew.

I see the Pencil on the canvas shine!

REYNOLDS admires! in Science then proceed;

The name of Poet, Painter, both are thine,

We view the speaking painting—as we read.

REUBEN.

TO REUBEN.

'MIDST the proud fervor of the day,

Whilst the sun darts a torrid ray,

The humble daisy sinks her head

And faints upon her lowly bed;

But when moist eve hath quench'd his fire,

And treads the fields in cool attire,

The daisy spreads again her bloom,

And offers up her mild persume.

Thus your recuscitating praise,

Breathed life upon my dying lays.

REYNOLDS ADMIRES! flatt'ry so sweet,

With blushing vanity I meet;

But, Bard polite! how hard the task,

Which with such elegance you ask.

When DIDO bade ENEAS tell

The woes he knew to paint so well—

Did he not tell the Queen, she tore

His closing wounds, and drew fresh gore

From stabs that time had almost heal'd?—

Such, REUBEN, such, the thorn conceal'd.

Within your verses' slow'ry spell,

Which, barb'rous! dares my pen compel.

Yet how describe the various god,

T' whom PROTEUS' self's a heavy clod?

Diff'ring in ev'ry diff'ring heart,

Scorning to play a constant part.

A tyger!—tyrant!—such is he,

Whom painted with bandeau you see,

With downy wings, and childish face,

As tho' of the blest Cherub's race—

But oh! a serpent in disguise,

And as the lynx, his piercing eyes!

A raging fire, a deadly pain,

That gentlest heart-strings most will strain;

A fever, tempest, madness he—

Of all life's ills—A DREAD EPITOME!

Ha! dost thou fear, and wilt thou run?

The little monster try to shun?

And wilt thou REUBEN, too succeed—

And shall thy bosom never bleed,

Never his poison'd ranckling dart

Quiver within thy burning heart?

Oh, hapless man!—oh, wretched fate!

Fly to love's altar ere too late,

And deprecate the doom accurst,

Or bid that heart with sorrow burst.

Welcome the deadly fiery pain,

That gentlest heart-strings most will strain—

MADNESS IS HIS—but 'tis replete

With all that makes life's blessings sweet;—

A TYRANT he, but oh! his chains

Are richer than an empire's gains!

Sweet the delirium which by love is spread,

Whate'er the paths his raptur'd vot'ries tread!

He paints the mist which hangs upon the eve.

With colours clearer than the sun can give;

'Tis he who lends the nightingale its trills,

When her rich pipe the Empyrean fills;

Oh! 'tis the softness in his heart

Which makes the lover in her song take part.

And faint upon each touching pause,

And lengthen out each added clause,

Till rapt attention, strain'd too high,

Rolls down its gushing tear, and breathes its gentle sigh.

Charming to LOVE is MORNING's hour,

When, from her chrystal roseate tow'r,

She sees the Goddess HEALTH pursue

The skimming breeze thro' fields of dew;

Charming, the flaming hour of noon,

When the sunk Linnet's fading tune

Allures him to the beechy grove;

Or when some cragg'd grotesque alcove

Sounds in his ear its tinkling rill,

And tempts him to its moss-grown sill;

Most charm'd when on his tranced mind

Is whisper'd in the passing wind

The name of her, whose name is bliss;

Or when he all unseen can kiss

The fringed bank where late she lay,

Hidden from th' imperious day.

Oh, ye rapt glades, which glitt'ring LUNA decks,

Whose stretching shadows her resulgence checks!

Oh, ye soft floods, that hang upon the peak

Of lofty rocks, and bound in wanton freak,

Where thirsty meads your rushing streamlets crave

And crowd their flow'rs around to drink your wave—

What are ye all, should love withhold the dart?

Which wakes nice feelings in the torpid heart?

Where is the heart, that would such feelings fly,

Or fear th' enchanting MADD'NING CUP to try?

Must I speak more of love! the boundless theme

Might run beyond the edge of life's short dream:

His spells are blessings—witch'ries so sublime,

They triumph o'er distress, and fate, and time.

Would'st ask the joys of love? Oh! change the pray'r,

Thou little know'st his pow'r, to fasten there!

Let the mean bosom crave its love's return,

Thine shall with more distinguish'd ardors burn:

To know the passion—yes, be that thy strain,

Invoke the god of the mysterious pain?

Whate'er thy nature—gentle—fiery—rough—

To LOVE—learn but TO LOVE—and thou hast bliss enough!

ANNA MATILDA.

ODE TO MRS. SIDDONS.

THEE, Queen of Pathos, shall my proud Verse hail,

Illustrious SIDDONS; should I go,

Whether to Zembla's waste of snow,

Or Aetna's cavern'd height, or Tempe's vaunted vale;

Or where on Caucasus the fierce storm blows,

Or near the violated flood

Of Ganges, blushing oft with blood;

Or where his rainbow arch loud Niagara throws.

For, not th' exulting Monarch on his throne,

Tho' grateful nations round him bow,

Is more a Potentate than thou:

Feeling, and Sense, and Worth, and Virtue are thy own;

And e'en thy mighty spell the soul can sway:

While Sympathy with melting eye,

Hangs on thy bosom's fervid sigh,

And finds th' unbidden tear down her hot cheek to stray.

Lo! at thy voice, from solitary cave,

With hair erect, peeps forth pale FEAR,

Nor will he longer wait to hear,

But flies with culprit haste a visionary grave.

Amongst the hollow mountain's shadowy cells,

Dark-brow'd REVENGE, that strangely walks,

And to himself low-mutt'ring talks,

While with convulsive throb his breast unsated swells.

And gelid HORROR in the haunted hall,

That with dread pause, and eye stretch'd wide,

Marks the mysterious spectre glide,

Nor dare his flagging knees obey the Phantom's call.

And lost DESPAIR with desolating cry,

That head-long darts from some tall tow'r

On fire, at thick Night's saddest hour,

When not a watchman wakes, and not an aid is nigh.

These own thy pow'r—and baresool MADNESS too,

Dancing upon the flinty plain,

As tho' 'twere gay to suffer pain,

That sees his tyrant Moon, and raving runs to woo.

Alike the mild, benevolent desires,

That wander in the pensive grove,

Pity, and generous-minded Love,

To thrill thy kindred pulse, shoot their electric fires.

Ah! let not then my fond admiring Muse

Restrain the ardor of her song,

In silent wonder fix'd so long,

Nor thou! from humble hands the homage meet refuse.

And I will hasten oft from short repose,

To wake the lily on moist bed,

Reclining meek her folded head;

And chase with am'rous touch the slumber of the rose.

Then will I bathe them in the tears of Morn,

That they, a fresher gale may breathe,

Then will I form a votive wreath

To bind thy sacred brows,—to deprecate thy scorn.

But should'st thou still disdain these proffer'd lays,

Which choak'd, alas! with weedy woe

Like yon dull stream can scarcely flow—

Take from BRITANNIA's HARP, the Triumph of thy praise.

DELLA CRUSCA.

ODE TO SIMPLICITY.
Addressed to MRS. WELLS.

O COME, ye fragrant gales that sweep

The surface of the summer deep,

Nor yet refuse to waft my lay,

And with it fan the breast of May;

For humble though it be,

It hails benign Simplicity.

Why do we haunt the Mountain's side,

Ere yet the curly vapours glide?

Why mark the op'ning buds of SPRING,

Or trace the shrill Lark's quiv'ring wing?

It is, that then we see

Meek NATURE's sweet Simplicity.

The length'ned shades that Evening draws,

Of calm repose the general pause,

The Stream that winds yon meads along,

The Nightingale's transcendent song,

Borrow each charm from thee,

O soft-ey'd Nymph, Simplicity!

Then to thy brow, lov'd WELLS! is due,

A lasting wreath, of various hue,

Hung with each perfum'd flow'r that blows,

But chief, the Cowslip and the Rose:

For surely thou art she!

THYSELF—benign Symplicity!

And when thy MIMIC Pow'rs are shewn,

Each other's talents are thy own,

Appropriate to thyself we find,

The Thrilling voice, the wounded mind;

The starting tear we see

In Nature's pure Simplicity.

Hast thou beheld the infant Moon

Hie to her couch, ere Night's full noon?

Then hast thou heard the Lover train,

In tones of sad regret complain;

So absent, all agree,

To mourn for lost Simplicity.

So when upon thy well-wrought scene,

The curtain drops its closing green,

We grieve the mirthful hour is past,

And murmur that it fled so fast;

We wish again to see

The Beauties of Symplicity.

And Loveliness delights to dwell,

Upon thy bosoms's snowy swell,

To bid the streamy lightnings fly,

In liquid peril from thine eye;

And to each heart decree

The Triumph of Simplicity.

Ah! tho' I vent'rous pour the verse,

Unskill'd thy praises to rehearse;

Yet may'st thou kindly smile to hear,

For O, the Tribute is sincere!

The off'ring paid by me,

In genuine TRUTH's Simplicity.

DELLA CRUSCA.

ODE TO MISS FARREN.

FROM her own garden, BEAUTY chose,

In all its bloomy pride, the ROSE,

And from the feather'd race, the DOVE;

Then, FARREN! on thy cheek she threw

The blushing Flow'r's enchanting hue,

Then form'd thy temper from the Bird of Love.

Ah! though I'm doom'd to roam afar,

Yet shall the Morning's beamy star,

Yet shall the placid glow of Eve

Recal thy charms to bless my mind:

Dear charms! with dearer virtues join'd,

So shall my heart at times forget to grieve,

And often will I loit'ring stay,

Till the dark mountains veil the Day,

While thus delicious Fancy cheers—

For then more sweet on ev'ry plain

The Linnet trills her farewel strain,

And then more lovely NATURE's self appears.

And sure the happy Youths who gaze

Upon thine Eyes resistless blaze,

Where gay Life's polish'd circles shine,

Or view amid the Comic Scene,

Thy dimpled smiles, and graceful mien,

Shall find "their bosoms sympathize with mine."

Whether thou show'st with matchless skill,

Unsteady Fashion's froward will,

As heartless Maid, or heedless Wife,

Truth, Nature, Sentiment prevail,

And through the Mirth-inspiring Tale,

All FICTION seems absorb'd in REAL LIFE.

Oh, what delight to hourly trace

The fine expression of thy face,

Thy winning elegance, and ease;

To see those teeth, of lust'rous pearl,

Thy locks profuse of many a curl,

And hear thy voice, omnipotent to please!

With thee to pace the mountain's side,

Or mark the rushy riv'let glide,

That murm'ring rolls a scanty stream;

Till winding in the vale below,

It seems t'exult with vainer glow,

And gaily wanton in the lunar beam.

Still might the seasons change—with thee,

Not Winter's self could dreary be,

Nor sultry Summer's heats offend.

The howling winds the pelting show'r,

Could not disturb my rapt'rous hour,

Nor ever gloom my mind—with such a friend.

At midnight then no more I'd stand,

Where Ocean's surges lash the land,

Nor fondly list the Screech-owl's tongue—

Ah me! I dream—th' illusion's o'er—

Henceforth in silence I'll adore,

And thou, sweet Nymph! forgive the ardent song.

DELLA CRUSCA.

THE SLAVES. AN ELEGY.

IF late I paus'd upon the Twilight plain

Of FONTENOY, to weep the FREE-BORN BRAVE;

Sure Fancy now may cross the Western Main,

And melt in sadder pity for the SLAVE.

Lo! where to yon PLANTATION drooping goes,

The SABLE HERD of Human Kind, while near

Stalks a pale DESPOT, and around him throws

The scourge that wakes—that punishes the Tear.

O'er the far Beach the mournful murmur strays,

And joins the rude yell of the tumbling tide,

As faint they labour in the solar blaze,

To feed the luxury of BRITISH PRIDE!

E'en at this moment, on the burning gale

Floats the weak wailing of the female tongue;

And can that Sex's softness nought avail—

Must naked WOMAN shriek amid the throng?

Are drops of blood the HORRIBLE MANURE

That fills with luscious juice, the TEEMING CANE?

And must our fellow creatures thus endure,

For traffic vile, th' indignity of pain?

Yes, their keen sorrows are the sweets we blend

With the green bev'rage of our morning meal,

The while to love meek Mercy WE pretend,

Or for fictitious ills affect to feel.

Yes, tis their anguish mantles in the bowl,

Their sighs excite the Briton's drunken joy;

Those ign'rant suff'rers know not of a SOUL,

That we enlighten'd may its hopes destroy.

And there are MEN, who leaning on the LAWS,

What they have purchas'd, claim a right to hold—

Curs'd be the tenure, curs'd its cruel cause—

FREEDOM's a dearer property than gold!

And there are Men, with shameless front have said,

That Nature form'd the NEGROES for Disgrace;

That on their limbs subjection is display'd—

The doom of slav'ry stampt upon their face.

Send your stern gaze from Lapland to the Line,

And ev'ry Region's natives faily scan,

Their forms, their force, their faculties combine,

And own the VAST variety OF MAN!

Then why suppose Yourselves the chosen few,

To deal Oppression's poison'd arrows round,

To gall with iron bonds the weaker crew,

Enforce the labour, and inflict the wound.

'Tis SORDID INT'REST guides you; bent on gain,

In profit only can ye reason find;

And pleasure too:—but urge no more in vain,

The selfish subject, to the social mind.

Ah! how can He whose daily lot is grief,

Whose mind is vilify'd beneath the Rod,

Suppose his MAKER has for him relief,

Can he believe the tongue that speaks of GOD!

For when he sees the Female of his Heart,

And his lov'd daughters torn by Lust away,

His sons, the poor inheritors of smart—

—HAD HE RELIGION, THINK YE HE COULD PRAY?

Alas! He steals him from the loathsome shed,

What time moist Midnight blows her venom'd breath,

And Musing, how he long has toil'd and bled,

DRINKS THE DIRE BALSAM OF CONSOLING DEATH!

Haste, haste, ye Winds, on swiftest pinions fly,

Ere from this World of Misery he go,

Tell him his wrongs bedew a NATION'S EYE,

Tell him, BRITANNIA blushes for his Woe!

Say that in future, NEGROES SHALL BE BLEST,

Rank'd e'en as Men, and Men's just rights enjoy;

No more be either Purchas'd, or Oppress'd—

No griefs shall wither, and no stripes destroy!

Say, that fair Freedom bends her Holy Flight

To cheer the Infant, and console the Sire;

So shall He, wond'ring, prove at last, delight,

And in a throb of ecstacy expire.

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

Torn from the bosom of the raging sea,

Boast 'midst the glorious leaves, a Gem divine,

The radient Gem of PURE HUMANITY!

DELLA CRUSCA.

MONODY.
Addressed to MR. T—

IF ever for fictitious grief

My soul a transient sorrow knew;

If sometimes I have heav'd a sigh,

But to behold the virgin leaf

Of the lost LILY with'ring die!

Sure tend'rest sympathy is due

To THEE, from whom each cherish'd bliss is fled,

Who mourn'st by day and night, thy own MARIA dead;

O T—! in the murm'ring gale,

Oft have I found thy plaintive voice prevail;

When the wet fingers of the morn,

Shook the cold pearl-drops from the bending thorn;

Or, when, at close of day,

To the lone vale I took my way,

The sad vibration of faint ECHO's breath,

Brought to my heart the dirge of Death.

Then all dejected, have I paus'd to hear,

And felt a kindred pang sincere;

Sincere as erst thy Father's PARENT prov'd,

When for the [*] Friend he lov'd,

He wove a cypress wreath, and pour'd the verse,

That sooth'd the Poet's shade, and hung upon his hearse.

Ah! let me take my simple reed,

And seek the moonlight mead;

Or where 'mongst rocks, the headlong stream,

Flashes the lucid beam:

Woo calm REFLECTION in her sober bow'r,

As pond'ring at the midnight hour,

She flings her solace on each passing wind,

That wafts the heavenly balm to heal the wounded mind.

So may her mighty spell,

Thy desolating anguish quell,

So may'st thou quit at length the Forest's gloom,

Nor thus for ever dwell upon the Sainted Tomb.

O think, when wand'ring on the shore,

Thou mark'st with musing eye,

O'er the rude cliffs the tempest fly,

And rouse to sudden rage the howling main.

Think, SHE thou lov'st, has left a World,

Where jarring elements are hurl'd,

And where contending atoms roar,

To join, 'midst endless joy, th' adoring Seraph's strain!

Yes, she was mild and lovely as the star

That in the Western hemisphere afar,

Lifts its pure lamp above the mountain's head,

To light meek Evening to her dewy bed.

And as the waning Moon displays,

With mirror clear, Morn's rising rays,

She, in decay, show'd VIRTUE'S ORB refin'd,

Reflected fairer from her angel mind;

Till at the last, too fierce a blaze was given,

And then she shrunk from sight, and FADED into HEAVEN.

Yet do not mourn, be grief away,

For see how swift the dark clouds go;

Soon silence drinks the Linnet's lay,

And yonder sapphire waves shall cease to flow,

Scared by the hissing brand,

Of thirsty Summer's sultry hand.

From the lorn wood the leaves descend,

And all of Nature, as of Art, must end.

Sad Consolation, true! yet why,

If soon must close the languid eye,

Since a short moment but remains,

For all our fears, and all our pains,

Why should we fondly brood on care,

Ah! why devote us to despair!

But time assiduous loves to urge

Our footsteps to his utmost verge,

Because that there a rapt'rous scene appears,

Where ANGUISH never throbs, nor SORROW sinks in tears.

Meanwhile, forbear not to disclose,

The Scions of that beauteous Stem;

And tho' the PARENT ROSE,

Was prematurely lost,

By a remorseless frost;

O view the op'ning Buds, and smile at least for them!

DELLA CRUSCA.

ODE TO INDIFFERENCE.

OH Nymph, long sought of placid mien,

With careless steps, and brow serene!

I woo thee from the tufted bowers,

Where listless pass thy easy hours—

Or, if a Naiade of the silver wave

Thou rather lov'st thy pearly limbs to lave

In some clear lake, whose fascinating face

Lures the soft willow to its pure embrace;

Or, if beneath the gelid rock

Thy smiles all human sorrows mock,

Where'er thou art, in earth or air,

Oh! come, and chase the fiend DESPAIR!

Have I not mark'd thee on the green

Roving, by vulgar eyes unseen?

Have I not watch'd thy lightsome dance

When Evening's soften'd glows advance?

Dear Goddess yes! and whilst the Rustic's mirth

Proclaims the hour which gives wild gambols birth,

Supine, I've found thee in the elm row's shade,

Lull'd by the hum returning bees have made,

Who, chary of their golden spoils,

Finish their fragrant, rosy toils,

With rest-inviting slumb'rous song,

As to their waxen couch they throng.

Chaste Nymph! the Temple let me seek

Where thou resid'st in lustre meek;

My future life to thee I give—

Irradiate ev'ry hour I live!

'Tis true no glowing bliss thy vot'ries know,

From thee no poignant ecstacy can flow,

But oh! thou shield'st the heart from rankling pain,

And Misery strikes, when blest with thee, in vain;

Wan Jealousy's empoisoning tooth,

And Love, which feeds upon our youth,

And holy Friendship's broken tie,

Ne'er dim the lustre of thy eye.

For thee it is all nature blooms,

For thee, the spring new charms assumes,

Nor vainly slings her blossoms round,

Nor vainly bids her groves resound;

Her music, colours, odours, all are thine,

To thee her months their richest gifts consign;

To thee the morn is bright, and sweet the ray

That marks the progress of the sinking day;

Each change is grateful to thy soul,

For its fine taste no woes controul,

The powers of Nature, and of Art,

Alike entrance the easy heart.

And oh! beneath thy gentle dome

Which the calm comforts make their home,

That cruel imp is never found

Whose fame such idle songs resound—

Dread SENSIBILITY!—Oh! let me fly

Where Greenland darkness drinks the beamy sky,

Or where the Sun, with downward torrid ray

Kills, with the barb'rous glories of the day!

I'd dare th' excess of ev'ry clime,

Grasp ev'ry evil known by Time,

Ere live beneath that Witch's spells

With whom no lasting pleasure dwells.

Her lovely form deceives the heart,

The tear, for ever prompt to start,

The tender look, the ready sigh,

And soft emotion always nigh;

And yet Content th' insiduous fiend forbids—

Oh! she has torn the slumbers from my lids:

Oft rous'd my torpid sense to living woe,

And bid chill anguish to my bosom grow.

She seals her prey!—in vain the Spring

Wakes Rapture, thro' her groves to sing;

The roseate Morn's hygean bloom,

Fades down, unmark'd, to Evening's gloom.

Oh SENSIBILITY! thy sceptre sad

Points, where the frantic glance proclaims THEE MAD!

Strain'd to excess, Reason is chain'd thy slave,

Or the poor victim shuns thee in the grave;

To thee each crime, each evil owes its birth,

That in gigantic horror treads the earth!

SAVAGE UNTAM'D! she smiles to drink our tears,

And where's no solid ill, she wounds with fears;

Riots in sighs, is sooth'd when most we smart—

Now, while she guides my pen, her FANG's within my heart.

ANNA MATILDA.
Jan. 16, 1788.

ODE TO ANNA MATILDA.

O CEASE MATILDA! Cease the strain

That wooes INDIFFERENCE to thy arms;

For what are all her boasted charms?

But only to be free from pain!

And would'st thou then her torpid ease,

Her listless apathy to know,

Renounce the magic POW'R to PLEASE;

And lose the LUXURY of WOE?

Why does thy stream of sweetest song,

In many a wild maze wind along;

Foam on the Mountain's murm'ring side;

Or through the vocal covert glide;

Or among fairy meadows steal?—

It is because thy HEART can FEEL!

Alas! if peace must be unknown,

Till ev'ry nerve is turn'd to stone,

Till not a tear-drop wets the eye;

Nor throbs the breast for Sorrow's sigh.

O may I never find relief,

But PERISH, in the PANG of GRIEF!

Think not I reason thus, my Fair!

A stranger to corroding Care!

Ah! if Thou, seldom find'st repose,

"I, rest not on a bed of rose."

DESPAIR, cold Serpent, loves to twine

About this helpless heart of mine!

Yet, tho' neglected and forlorn,

I scarce can check the smile of Scorn,

When those the VULGAR call the GREAT,

Bend the important brow of state;

And strive a consequence to find

By seeming more than human kind.

Well, let them strut their hour away,

Till grinning death demand his prey!

Meanwhile, my ANNA! let us rove

The scented vale, the bending grove,

Mix our hot tears with evening dews

And live for FRIENDSHIP and the MUSE!

Yes, let us hasten hand in hand,

Where the blue billows lave the land,

And as they quick recoiling fly,

Send on the surf a lengthen'd sigh,

That strikes the soul, with truth sublime

As 'twere the whisp'ring TONGUE of TIME;

For thus our short Life's ebbing day

Murmurs awhile, and hastes away!

Or let us seek the mould'ring wall

Of some lone Abbey's Gothic Hall;

Recline upon the knee-worn stone,

And catch the North Wind's dismal moan,

That 'midst his sorrows, seems to boast

Of many a gallant vessel lost!

Friends and Lovers sunk in death—

By the fury of his breath!

What tho' at the imagin'd Tale,

Thy alter'd cheek be sadly pale;

Ne'er can such SYMPATHY annoy;

For 'tis the price of dearest JOY!

When far off the Night Storm flies,

Let us ponder on the SKIES!

Where countless stars are ever roll'd,

Which yet our weak eyes dare behold;

Adore the SELF-EXISTING CAUSE

That gives to each its sep'rate laws;

That, when the impetuous comet runs

Athwart a wilderness of Suns;

Tells it what mandate to obey,

Nor ever wander from its way;

Till back it hastens whence 'twas brought,

Beyond the boundaries of thought!

Let not the studious Seer reply,

"Attraction regulates the Sky,

And lends each orb the secret force,

That urges on, or checks its course."

Or with his Orrery expound

Creation's vainly fancied round.

Ah! quit thy toil, presumptuous Sage!

Destroy thy calculating page;

No more on Second Causes plod;

'Tis not ATTRACTION, but 'tis GOD!

And what the UNIVERSE we call,

Is but a POINT, compar'd to ALL.

SUCH BLISS the sensate bosom knows,

Such bliss Indiff'rence ne'er bestows;

Tho' small the circle we can trace,

In the abyss of time and space;

Tho' learning has its limits got,

The feelings of the soul have not.

Their vast excursions find no end;

And RAPTURE needs not comprehend!

'Tis true, we're ign'rant how the Earth

Wakes the first principles of birth,

With vegetative moisture feeds

To diff'rent purpose, diff'rent seeds;

Gives to the Rose, such balmy sweet,

Or fills the golden ear of Wheat,

Paints the ripe Peach with velvet bloom,

Or weaves the thick Wood's mingling gloom—

YET we can wander in the bow'r;

Can taste the fragrance of the flow'r;

Drink the rich fruit's nectareous juice,

And bend the harvest to our use.—

Then give thy pure perceptions scope,

And sooth thy heaving heart with hope.

HOPE shall instruct my sorr'wing Friend;

The soul's fine fervour ne'er can end;

But when her limbs by Death are laid

Beneath some yew-tree's hallow'd shade,

Then shall her soaring spirit know

The Seraphim's ecstatic glow.

Then shall th' ESSENTIAL MIND confess,

That ANGUISH has the pow'r to BLESS,

That FEELING was in BOUNTY given,

And own THE SACRED TRUTH—IN HEAVEN.

DELLA CRUSCA.
Jan. 30, 1788.

ODE TO DELLA CRUSCA.

O THOU!

Who from "a wilderness of Suns"

Canst stoop to where the low brook runs!

Thro' space with rapid comets glow;

Or mark where, soft, the snow-drops grow!

O THOU!

Whose burning Pen now rapture paints!

Then moralizes, cold, with Saints!

Now trembling ardors can infuse—

Then, seems as dipp'd in cloister'd dews—

O say! thy BEING quick declare?

Art thou a Son of Earth, or Air?

Celestial Bard! though thy sweet song

Might to a Seraph's strains belong,

Its wondrous beauty, and its art

Can only touch, not change, my heart.

So Heaven-sent light'ning powerless plays,

And wanton, throws its purple rays;

It leaps thro' Night's scarce pervious gloom

Attracted by the Rose's bloom,

Th' illumin'd shrub then quiv'ring round,

It seems each scented bud to wound:

Morn shakes her locks, and see the Rose

In renovated beauty blows!

Smiles at the dart which past away,

And flings her perfume on the day.

Thy light'ning Pen 'tis thus I greet,

Fearless its subtile point I meet;

Ne'er shall its spells my sad heart move,

From the calm state it vows to love.

All other bliss I've prov'd is vain—

All other bliss is dash'd with pain.

My waist with myrtles has been bound,

MY BROW WITH LAURELS HAS BEEN CROWN'D;

LOVE, has sigh'd hopeless at my feet,

LOVE, on my couch, has pour'd each sweet;

All these I've known, and now I sly

With thee, INDIFFERENCE, to die!

Nor is thy gift "dull torpid ease,"

The Mind's quick powers thou dost not freeze:

No! blest by Thee, the soul expands,

And darts o'er new-created lands;

Springs from the confines of the earth

To where new systems struggle into birth;

The germ of future Worlds beholds,

The secrets of dark space unfolds;

Can watch how far th' ERRATIC runs,

And gaze on DELLA CRUSCA's Suns;

In some new orb can meet !"his starry mail,"

And him, on earth unknown, in Heaven with transport hail!

ANNA MATILDA.
Feb. 2, 1788.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

NOR will I more of Fate complain;

For I have liv'd to feel thy strain;

To feel its sun-like force divine,

Swift darting through the clouds of woe,

Shoot to my soul a sainted glow.

Yet, yet MATILDA, spare to shin!

One moment be the blaze supprest!

Lest from this clod my spirit spring,

And borne by Zephyrs' trembling wing,

Seek a new Heaven upon thy BREAST.

But say, does calm INDIFFERENCE dwell

On the low •…ead or mountain swell,

Or at grey Evening's solemn gloom,

Bend her bosom to the tomb?

Or when the weak dawn's orient rose,

In silv'ry foliage deck'd, appears;

Tell me, if perchance she goes

To the fresh garden's proud array,

Where, doubtful of the coming day,

Each drooping flow'ret sheds translucent tears.

Ah! tell me, tell me where,

For thou shalt find me there,

Like her own son, in vestment pure,

With deep disguise of smile secure:

So shall I once thy form descry,

For once, hold converse with thine eye.

Vain is the thought, for at thy sight,

Soon as thy potent voice were found,

Could I conceal the vast delight,

Could I be tranquil at the sound,

Could I repress quick Rapture's start,

Or hide the bursting of my heart?

Let but thy lyre impatient seize,

Departing Twilight's filmy breeze,

That winds th' enchanted chords among,

In ling'ring labyrinth of song:

Anon, the amorous Bird of Woe,

Shall steal the tones that quiv'ring flow,

And with them sooth the sighing woods,

And with them charm the flumb'ring floods;

Till, all exhausted by the lathe

He hang in silence on the spray,

Drop to his idol flow'r beneath,

And, 'midst her blushes, cease to breathe.[*]

Warn'd by his Fate, 'twere surely well,

To shun the fascinating spell;

Nor still, presumptuous, dare to fling

My rude hand o'er the sounding string;

As though I fondly would aspire,

To match MATILDA's heavenly fire.

Yet may I sometimes, far remote,

Hear the lov'd cadence of her note,

And though the Laurel I resign,

O may the bliss of TASTE be mine!

DELLA CRUSCA.
March 5, 1788.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

"—Does calm Indifference dwell,

On the low mead, or mountain swell?

O tell me where,

For thou shalt find me there."

YES, on the mountain's haughty swell,

And in the prostrate dell,

And where the Dryades fling their shades—

There may'st thou meet the Maid serene,

Or trace her on the zephyr'd green,

Whilst Day's carnation gently fades.

Doth Nature make the prospect vast,

With rocks o'erhang, and rivers cast,

Tumbling headlong to their base?

Do seas stretch out their foamy plains,

Compelling with their chrystal chains

Wide Continents t' embrace?

All these attract the smooth brow'd fair;

Or where can Art evince her powers,

Where Science strew immortal flowers,

And gay Indifference—haste not there?

Whilst PASSION narrows up the heart,

TASTE can no ray of bliss impart,

One strong idea grasps the mind,

Extends itself thro' all the soul,

Thro' ev'ry vein its furies roll,

And tears with fangs unkind.

When NEWTON trod the starry roads,

And view'd the dwellings of the Gods,

And measur'd every Orb—

Did silly Love his steps attend,

His mighty purposes suspend,

Or his grand mind absorb?

When intellectual LOCKE explor'd

The Soul's sad vacuum, where no hoard

Of budding young ideas lay—

Oh tell, thus rob'd in Wisdom's stole,

Did Love's coarse torch his view control,

Or light him in the darksome way?

Ha! DELLA CRUSCA, cease to feign,

Thy cheek with red repentance stain,

For having feign'd so long;

Quick seize thy Lyre, sweep each bold string,

O'er every chord thy music fling—

To calm INDIFFERENCE raise the Song!

Propitiate first, then with her haste

O'er the Globe's peopled, motley waste;

Watch CHARACTER where-e'er it runs;

Drink newer air, see fiercer suns:

Seek the bland realms where first the Morn

Pours dawn-light from her beamy horn;

Pours scent and colours o'er the vale,

And wakes its song, and wakes its tale.

Mark how CONFUCIUS' feeble race,

(Whose records vast fail not to trace)

To Imitation still confine

Their powers, nor deviate from its line.

Their fourteen thousand glowing springs

Passing thro' their yearly rings,

Not one Suggestion left behind,

No Art, nor Virtue more refin'd;

Philosophy no inroads made,

But mute, within its awful shade,

Its thoughts occult arrang'd—

Whilst Learning, blindfold in its pen,

This costly precept gave to men—

"BE WISE, but be unchang'd."

Haste!—leave th' insipid herd—away!

Where EGYPT's sons imbrown the day,

For there primeval Wisdom form'd her wreath,

And Science first was taught to breathe.

O linger here! the Classic clime

Demands, and will reward thy time.

Here shalt thou seek th' immortal Dome

Where Pleasure triumph'd over ROME;

And tread where CLEOPATRA trod,

And moisten with thy tear the sod

Where Taste and Love their banners wav'd,

Snatching from the grave Old Time—

Whose life fast-fading, Rapture sav'd,

And Phoenix-like renew'd its prime.

Then find the myrtled tomb,

The now unenvied Lover's home;

But, lest thy pensive steps should stray,

To guide thee in the unknown way,

The Moon her bright locks quick unshrouds,

Her veil of gossamour, thin clouds,

Dissolves to air, and her soft eye

Thro' the Palm Grove's haughty shade,

And the lofty Aloed glade

Shall guide thee where thy long-ow'd sigh

Breath'd o'er the mingling Lover's dust,

Shall gratify their hov'ring souls

Beyond an EMPIRE's votive Bust.

Is a soft willow bending near,

Whose drooping leaves speak grief sincere?

Its drooping leaves, ah! instant seize,

The happy violence will please—

Bend its tender flaccid boughs

(Murm'ring soft mysterious vows)

Into garlands—leave them there

OFFERINGS to the love-lost pair!

These duties paid, with ling'ring look,

With heart by silent Sorrow shook,

The marbled desert next explore

Where Beauty's glance, and Learning's lore,

Ages long past the soul beguil'd—

Oh think! in that unletter'd wild

LONGINUS wrote, ZENOBIA smil'd!

Where now a humbled column lies,

Stream'd radiance from impassion'd eyes;

The roof where odious Night Birds rest,

Once shelter'd Wit, once echo'd Jest;

Where Peasants' cumbrous oxenstall,

THERPSICHORE swam through the ball;

Serpents convolve, where Music trill'd,

And lost Palmyra's fate's fulfill'd.

Doth splendid scenes thy light heart prize?

Fly to Italia's downy skies!

Where Fancy's richest strokes abound,

Where Nature's happiest points are found;

The pleasures here—a rosy band!

Link'd to her car with flow'ry chains,

Bear their rapt Goddess o'er the plains

And strew their glories o'er her land.

The dulcet groves, burst with rich notes,

Caught by a thousand trembling throats,

The wavey rivers as they fly—

Their soft embroder'd bounds between,

Whose glowing tints be-gem the green,

Bear on their curls th' extatic sigh;—

The breeze detain'd rests its pure wing,

To hear blest Love its triumphs sing.

And ah! be Italy ne'er nam'd

Without a pause to those so fam'd—

The glorious MEDICIS!

Oh SCULPTURE! lift thy pillar high,

And grave the name amidst the sky!

Its base, let marble sorrows tend,

And chisel'd woes in high relief,

Look their unutterable grief,

And mute Despair its tresses rend!

Blest POETRY! compel thy lyre

To sound the loud immortal praise

Of those who cherish'd thy proud bays,

And fed thy near extinguish'd fire!

Thy pencil, PAINTING! dip in shades

To last till Europe's Glory fades—

Thy trophy'd canvas shall be Fame

To those who nurs'd thy infant Art.

And bear to mightier shores the Name!

Swiftly, my DELLA CRUSCA, turn,

To where the Medicean Urn,

The once proud City hallows still,

There thy fine taste may drink its fill.

To FLORENCE fly—

O, no! for ever shun her tempting skies,

For there, if right I ween, the Maid INDIFFERENCE dies!

ANNA MATILDA.
April 2, 1788.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

Age, jam meorum,

Finis amorum.

AND have I strove in vain to move

Thy Heart, fair Phantom of my Love?

And cou'dst thou think 'twas my design,

Calmly to list thy Notes Divine,

That I responsive Lays might send,

To gain a cold Platonic Friend?

Far other hopes thy Verse inspir'd,

And all my breast with passion fir'd.

For Fancy to my mind had given

Thy form, as of the forms of Heaven—

Had bath'd thy lips with vermil dew;

Had touch'd thy cheek with morning's hue!

And down thy neck had sweetly roll'd

Luxuriant locks of mazy gold.

Yes I had hopes, at last to press,

And lure thee to the chaste caress:

Catch from thy breath the quiv'ring sigh,

And meet the murder of thine eye.

Ah! when I deem'd such joys at hand,

Remorseless comes the stern command,

Nor calls my wand'ring footsteps home;

But far, and farther bids me roam;

And then thy vestal notes dispense

The meed of COLD INDIFFERENCE!

Curs'd Power! that to myself unknown,

Still turns the heart I love, to stone!

Dwells with the Fair, whom most I prize,

And scorns my tears, and mocks my sighs.

Yes ANNA! I will hasten forth

To the bleak regions of the North,

Where Erickson, immortal Lord!

Pour'd on the Dane his vengeful sword;

Or where wide o'er the barb'rous plain,

Fierce Rurick held his ancient reign.

Then once more will I trace the Rhine,

And mark the Rhone's swift billows shine;

Once more on VIRGIL's tomb I'll muse,

And Laura's, gemm'd with evening dews?

Once more ROME's Via Sacra tread,

And ponder on the mighty dead.

More Eastward then direct my way,

To thirsty Egypt's deserts stray,

Fix in wonder, to behold

The Pyramids renown'd of old;

Fallen near one of which, I ween,

The Hieroglyphic Sphinx is seen!

The[*] Lion Virgin Sphinx, that shows

What time the rich Nile overflows,

Then will I sail th' Egean tide,

Or seek Scamander's tuneful side;

Wander the sacred groves among,

Where HOMER wak'd th' immortal song:

Traverse the Nemaean wood,

Mark the spot where Sparta stood;

Or at humbled Athens see

Its still remaining Majesty!—

Yet to Indiff'rence e'er a foe,

May Beauty other joys bestow;

Her rapt'rous Science I'll pursue,

The Science NEWTON never knew.

Now blows the wind with melancholy force,

And o'er the Baltic points my weary course;

Loud shout the Mariners, the white sails swell—

ANNA MATILDA! fare thee, fare thee well!

Farewel whoe'er thou art, and mayst thou find

Health and repose, and lasting peace of mind;

Still pour the various Verse with fancy clear,

To thrill the pulse, and charm th' attentive ear;

Nor may relentless Care thy days destroy,

But ev'ry hope be ripen'd into joy!

And O! farewel to distant Britain's shore,

Which I perhaps are doom'd to see no more;

Where Valour, Wisdom, Taste, and Virtue dwell,

Dear Land of Liberty, alas! farewel!—

Yet oft, e'en there, by wild Ambition tost,

The Soul's best season settles in a frost.

Yet even there, desponding, late I knew,

That Friendship foreign-form'd, is rarely true.

For they, whom most I lov'd, whose kindness sav'd

My shatter'd Bark when erst the tempest rav'd:

At Home, e'en with the common herd could fly,

Gaze on the wounded Deer, and pass him by!

Nor yet can Pride subdue my pangs severe,

But Scorn itself evap'rates in a Tear.

Thou too, delusive Maid! whose winning charms

Seduc'd me first from slow Wealth's beck'ning arms;

Sweet POETRY! my earliest, falsest Friend,

Here shall my frantic adoration end.

Take back the simple flute thy treach'ry gave,

Take back, and plunge it in Oblivion's wave,

So shall its sad notes hence no malice raise—

The Bard unknown—forgotten be the Lays.

But should with ANNA's Verse, his hapless Rhime,

In future meet th' impartial eye of Time,

Say, that thy wretched victim long endur'd

Pains, which are seldom felt, and never cur'd!

Say 'midst the lassitude of hopes o'erthrown,

MATILDA's strain could comfort him alone.

Yet was the veil mysterious ne'er remov'd,

From him th' admiring, and from her the lov'd.

And no kind intercourse the song repaid,

But each to each remain'd—a Shadow and a Shade.

DELLA CRUSCA.
May 15, 1788.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

OH stay, oh stay! thy rash speed check,

Not yet ascend the flying deck;

Nor Europe's Hemisphere forsake,

Nor from THY NATION's pleasures take

A bliss so exquisite and chaste—

A feast so dear, to polish'd taste,

As that thy Lyre correctly flings,

As that they feel when DELLA CRUSCA sings.

Alas! thou'rt gone, and to my straining eye

Thy Bark seems buoyant on the distant sky;—

See! in the clouds its mast it proudly laves,

Scorning the aid of Ocean's humble waves:

Well may it soar and bear aloft the prize

Whose verse immortal links him to the skies;

Well may it scorn rough Neptune's rocky way,

Which bears the Genius of the GOD OF DAY!

And now, MATILDA, bind thy lyre

With cypress wreathes! the lambent fire

Thou kindlest at his fervid rays

Can gleam no more; thy future days

Lost to the Muses and to Taste,

Each torpid hour will joyless waste.

In vain each morning now will glow—

In vain, soft MAIA's music flow,

And to my pillow force its way,

And on my wak'ning senses play.

Her notes my wak'ning senses fill,

And conscious slumbers own the trill;

But when at length Remembrance bids

The filmy slumber quit my lids,

Saying "THE WORLD its wit hath brought,

Its various point, its well turn'd thought,

But DELLA CRUSCA lends no ray"—

Oh what is Morning—what is May?

Yet hold! some solace yet remains,

And pensive joys await my pains

I too must leave this laurel'd coast

Which all, that ROME adorn'd, can boast;

But not like thee, for GRECIAN shores;—

Ah no! my humbler prow explores

The sea unsung, which lies between

Dover's proud cliffs, and France serene.

Thou'lt skim th' Egean's brilliant tide,

I, o'er the British channel glide,

Thou, all enthusiast! fondly trace

The Isle where PHAON's beauteous face

Gave birth to SAPPHO's glorious art—

Illum'd her name, but tore her heart:

Thy SAPPHO seek the shores vicine,

Where England's lovely great-soul'd QUEEN

Sublimely knelt, and snatch'd from blushing Fate

The Godlike victims of her Edward's hate.

Thou, at AONIA's sacred feet

Wilt duly pour libations meet;

I roam o'er GALLIA's sportive plains,

Where thoughtless Pleasure ever reigns.

But 'tis not sportive GALLIA's plains,

Tho' Pleasure there for ever reigns,

Which promises the boasted bliss—

No, BARD BELOV'D! the hope is this,

That there thy footsteps I may tread,

Press the same turf where sunk thy head;

Sip the quick stream thy thirst hath slaked,

And greet the Dawn where thou hast waked,

Fancy'ng her waves of mazy gold

Ne'er with such rich refulgence roll'd;

And when her tints of various dye

Burst from the pallid sickly sky,

There rush in violet, there in green,

Here in soft red imbue the scene;

Then lose themselves by growing bright,

Till swallow'd up in one vast flood of light—

Thus shall I say, HE saw her rays,

Thus was he rous'd t' adore and praise!

Oh, SYMPATHY, of birth divine,

Descend, and round my heart-strings twine!

Touch the fine nerve whene'er I breathe

Where DELLA CRUSCA dropt his wreath!

Lead me the sacred way of ROME,

Lead me to kneel at Virgil's tomb,

Where he th' enduring marble round

With fresh wove laurels, graceful bound.

Then guide where still with sweeter note

Than flow'd from Petrach's tuneful throat,

On Laura's grave he pour'd the lay

Amidst the sighs of sinking day:

Then point where on the sod his tear

Fell from its chrystal source so clear,

That there my mingling tear may sink,

And the same dust its moisture drink.

Thus dying Swans are said to sing,

And their last breath in numbers fling

O'er the dear liquid shining plains,

Which nurs'd their joys, and sooth'd their pains.

Like them my Muse pines fast away,

And this her last, her closing day.

When one blest word her lips hath seal'd,

In lasting silence she'll be veil'd.

Expiring, still her note's the same,

She murmurs DELLA CRUSCA's name!—

The SACRED WORLD! ye heard it spoke;—

Her Book is clos'd—her Lyre is broke!

ANNA MATILDA.
May 17th, 1788.

A TALE FOR JEALOUSY.
A Recent Event in CATALONIA.

LOUD shriek'd the wind; hoarse struck the hour,

When from his couch, Alphonso rose;

Bedeck'd with gold his splendid bower—

Gold, had his couch, but not repose!

The Night sat brooding on the hill:

Beneath, the sable rivers roll'd,

Not glist'ring, now, the tinkling rill;

Its stream opaque, its spirit cold.

His chamber long, with restless feet,

The Lord Alphonso travers'd o'er;

Here once he tasted slumbers sweet,

But slumber sweet he knows no more!

His rous'd domestics strait obey

The signal of their Lord, unlov'd;

Their torches flash a second day,

As thro' the costly rooms they mov'd.

His favourite, from th' obsequious train

Was to his inmost closet led;

There heard confess'd the am'rous pain

Which tore him from his midnight bed.

Oh, thou wert near, Alphonso cries,

When in the progress late we made,

Gonsalve's daughter in our eyes

Bade every other virgin fade.

Her noble mien, her blushes mild,

The burnish of her traces bright;

Her age—but just no longer Child,

Her rosy mouth, her graceful height;

All these have in my time-worn heart,

Lighted a youthful, am'rous fire—

I sink beneath the poignant smart,

I faint with eager, strong desire.

Oft did I try her soul to melt,

But ign'rant she of Cupid's pow'r—

His ecstacies she never felt—

But now is come her fated hour.

With flames illicit I essay'd

To touch her iced, unwaken'd heart;

Let Hymen sooth the bashful maid,

She'll waken'd, play a softer part.

Strait to her father's, speed thy way,

The fleetest mules with haste prepare;

And ere to-morrow scans his day,

Thou'lt reach the village of my fair.

These pearls, these di'monds speak my truth,

Woo her with treasures to my arms;

When love no longer boasts of youth,

Riches may plead their meaner charms.

Oh how unlike the rapturous hour,

When love is bought by love alone;

When a soft look, a touch, a flower,

Is prized beyond IND's brightest stone.

But go, and to her parents bear

Thy Lord's designs—his hopes unfold;

Plead with due force his meaning fair,

And in thy promises be bold.

Much more the Lord Alphonso spoke;

His servant's mind the whole retains,

Whose lashes soon the mules provoke;

The mules skim o'er the distant plains.

Th' awaken'd night with streaks of gold

Her jetty robes begun to lace;

Her drowsy car far off she roll'd—

The blithe Sun urging to the race;

And ere his wheels had run behind

The Western mountain's giddy slope;

Julia, with meekness all resign'd,

Had listen'd to Alphonso's hope.

Not so resign'd but that her thought

Recoil'd at such unequal love,

Till by parental wisdom taught,

She learn'd to bear, and then approve,

The Sire attends his darling child,

For so Alphonso's pride allows;

And with the transport almost wild,

Saw her receive a Grandee's vows.

He saw that form where speaking grace

Gave soul to beauty most refin'd,

The robe of dignity embrace,

By taste magnificent design'd.

Her hair, which floated o'er her dress,

A dress, which to be seen demands

Its rich luxuriance to repress,

They tie in folds with diamond bands.

But the soft curls which hap'ly fell

Upon her bosom's heaving snow,

Were suffer'd there, unbound, to dwell,

And spread their wavy golden glow.

Thus the fond parent saw her rove,

Thro' gaudy halls and rooms of state;

Whilst humble trains at distance move,

And from her nod receive their fate.

Succinct the time in which such joy

Around his aged heart might play;

Bitter, oh! bitter the alloy!

And set full soon his Pleasure's day:

For Lord Alphonso names the hour,

When he the sumptuous dome must quit,

And seek again the humble bower—

For birth like his a mansion fit:

Tells him to take a last farewel,

Of her more dear than sense or light;

Bids him ne'er hope again to dwell

Where filial Julia bless'd his sight.

His daughter, overwhelm'd with woe,

The haughty cruel order hears;

She sees her mournful parent go,

And bathes his last steps with her tears.

Now slow and sadden'd rolls the time

Which late flew rapid with delight;

Heedless is she of Morning's prime,

Nor hails the soft approach of Night.

Her only solace was to roam

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

Where distant from her gaudy home

Meek solitude bestow'd its balm.

There, on a river's fringy side,

Which snatch'd her breath as stealing by,

She'd watch its curl'd, unequal glide.

And swell with her's the zephyr's sigh:

Mark with what truth it objects drew,

When ruffling zephyr ceas'd to breathe,

Its surface polish'd to the view—

A phantom forest underneath.

Two drooping willows there display'd

Their foliage to the painting wave;

Which in their pensive green array'd

Would still their jutting bare roots lave.

These, by her hands, in garlands dress'd,

She'd sometimes chide the low-bent branch,

Which would its blooming fragrant vest

Upon th' escaping river launch.

Thus was she one bright eve employ'd,

Whilst carols sad her sweet voice sung;

Evening's own bird her note enjoy'd—

When from its shades a soldier sprung.

His form, like that Apollo wears,

When from his bow the swift dart sings;

Or when the discus thro' the air

With equal force and grace he flings.

Martial his step; his beamy eye

Bright as fair Julia's own appears;

Strait to each other's arms they fly—

They mingle joy—they mingle tears.

'Twas Julia's brother whom she saw,

'Twas Julia whom her brother press'd;

Both dear by Nature's dearest law,

For twins they were, who thus caress'd.

From Calpe's glorious rock he came—

Immortal monument decreed

Of English ELIOTT's laurel'd name;

Where English heroes oft shall bleed.

And there his blood did Gusman shed

Amongst the boldest ever found,

By sacred thirst of honour led—

Nor shunn'd the deaths that flew around.

But when bright Peace her silver flute

Had sounded thro' wide Europe's skies,

And when the voice of war was mute,

Sped by fond duty, home he flies.

There he first learn'd his sister's fate,

How elevated—and how curst!

Heard, that amidst her brilliant state

Her heart consuming sorrow nurst.

Her husband's tyrant law reveal'd,

No dear relation to behold;

Oblig'd him thus in shades conceal'd,

His sister to his heart to fold.

And oft he mourn'd her cruel lot,

And oft he dried her tears away,

When from the interesting spot

They each were warn'd by closing day.

Adieu, my Gusman, Julia cries!

Yet let me see thee once again;

To-morrow bless thy sister's eyes,

Then seek our dear paternal plain:

From forth my little treasur'd hoard,

Fond tokens to my mother bear;

No miser is my cruel Lord,

And gifts, like these, I well can spare.

Gusman, with pure, fraternal love,

Kiss'd either beauteous, fading cheek,

Vowing, when Morn shou'd light the grove

In its mild haunts her steps held seek.

Now Evening hung its silv'ry dews,

On every shrub that deck'd the glades;

And fainter scents the flowers effuse—

As loth to greet with sweets, her shades.

Oft had fair Julia linger'd there

In hours like these—and traced the beam,

Which sent from Luna's brilliant sphere.

Shot thro' the wood a shiver'd gleam.

Mark'd how each sound stole soft away,

As gliding off to shores more bright;

Bribed by the gaudy tumid day,

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

By Julia these are all forgot,

For pleasure hath her soul suffused;

Blind to the beauties of the spot,

She deigns not now to be amused.

Braced with young joy, the sportive fawn

Pursues her dam, with motion fleet,

Regardless of the sprinkled lawn

That weaves its flowers around her feet.

So speeds the fair one to her home,

Whose towers return the moon's broad glare;

Whilst to point out the distant dome,

They flash their gold vanes thro' the air.

On her soft pillow soon reclin'd,

Round her, the slumbers spun their veil;

And o'er her placid gentle mind,

The softest dreams their phantoms steal,

At morning's dawn, her Lord commands,

Her placid slumbers must be broke;

He grasp'd in his her trembling hands,

He led her forth, but never spoke.

And oh! these horrid sounds, she cried—

Those piteous shrieks, which tear the ear!

With terror struck, she faintly sigh'd,

And sunk, at length, o'er power'd with fear.

He dragg'd her on; the screams of pain,

More piercing as they nearer grow

Left her scarce power to sustain

Her crimson life's unequal flow.

There, wretch, behold! Alphonso cried,

As wide he threw the grating gate:

There feast thy loose adulterous eyes,

See there, thy paramour's just fate!

There, stretch'd upon the racking wheel,

She saw her brother's tortur'd form;

From his torn flesh the jagged steel,

Bade rush the blood, with life yet warm.

She saw—but oh! she spoke no more!

The agony too fierce to bear;

Groaning, she sunk upon the floor,

And breath'd her spirit on the air.

Sister! the writhing Gusman said—

Oh, Sister! plead—then swoon'd with pain!

On his gash'd bosom sunk his head,

His limbs convuls'd, the cords still strain.

Alphonso, when he heard the sound,

Leapt sudden to the deathful wheel;

With eager haste the youth's unbound,

And stern Alphonso learns to feel.

He raves, he sinks, he strikes his breast,

But oh! the guilty deed is past,

The victims pure are now at rest—

Thy tortures shall for ever last!

Vain is all art, for life no more

Can lift their pulse, their cheeks can paint;

Thou'st freed their souls, they quit the shore—

Each seeks its God—a murder'd Saint!

There, tyrant, lie! and let the fangs

Of deep remorse thy bosom tear!

Each wak'ning morn awake new pangs—

Teach thee to pity, and despair!

ANNA MATILDA.

DELLA CRUSCA

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

BY DELLA CRUSCA.

CHARACTERS.

- CLOTILDA, Mother of Alberto.

- THERESA, Duchess of Milan.

- LUCINDA, an attendant Lady.

- ALBERTO, Bastard of the late Duke of Milan.

- PRINCE CARLO, Son of the King of Naples.

- ARNALDI, a distressed Nobleman.

- ANTONIO, Companion of Carlo.

- Neapolitan Lord.

SCENE in and near Milan.

AMBITIOUS VENGEANCE; A TRAGIC-DRAMA.[*]

ACT I. SCENE I.

A Hall in the Ducal Palace at Milan. THERESA, CLOTILDA, ALBERTO, and others, composing a Court.

THERESA.

NOW thriving peace scatters her lib'ral stores

O'er happy Lombardy; the Peasant now

May careless carol to the morning breeze,

As on he drives his ploughshare's patient toil,

Nor dread the rapine, nor the rage of war.

Returning Autumn shall not force the sigh

From his torn breast, nor leave him to deplore

His ruin'd olives, and his rifled vines.

No more, Alberto! we demand thy aid

To lead our valiant troops to victory;

But still Theresa claims her brother's care,

Yes, I require thy counsel, to direct

My maiden weakness; it is thou must curb

The womanish spirit in me, teach me how

To govern wisely, steadily, and justly:

Consult the people's good, and rule in mercy.

So shall we be in fact two sovereigns,

The real thou, and I th' ostensible.

Alb.

'Twere better, gen'rous sister! thou should'st choose

Some youthful prince of honour, and renown,

To share the splendid toil of government,

And be thy wedded friend than stoop to me,

A heedless soldier, hot, impolitic;

O rather think of Naples' royal heir,

Illustrious Carlo! let your charms reward

His well-prov'd valour, for in him unites

All that is noble, worthy and engaging;

Then is it just and proper he receive

All that is virtuous, lovely, and benign.

Perchance, his last year's residence at Milan

Gave thee occasion to remark him well,

And to esteem his matchless excellence.

What says Theresa?—why that rising blush?

Ther.

I thank thy kind attention, good Alberto

And feel the pointed merriment; but yet,

Methinks, I shall prefer my single state,

Which is perhaps, best suited to my mind,

And gives me greater pow'r to do thee service.

Alb.

O let no thought of me impede thy bliss,

For I am unambitious, and require

But ease, and freedom, with society;

And be assured my wishes were complete

In my dear sister's nuptial happiness.

Clot.

How! [Aside.

Ignoble youth! thou should'st aspire to all.

Ther.

Thou too, my father's well-belov'd Clotilda!

Shalt not regret, or splendor, or respect,

Due to thy merit, and my father's mem'ry.

Unslaken'd honour shall attend thy steps,

And thy heart's ev'ry wish be gratified.

Clot.

Gracious Theresa!

Alas! my tongue wants pow'r to speak my thanks.

Say'st thou, my wishes gratified! but that [Aside.

Can never be, while humbled by thy bounty.

Ther.

And you, the lords and ladies of my court!

Show me how best I may express my love,

And gain your hearts, and that way I'll pursue.

Yet, yet I feel it is most arduous

To rule and satisfy, for all have views

To aggrandize themselves, while those who fail

In rising to the summit of their aim,

Turn bitt'rest enemies; nay, I fear that most

Hate whom they flatter, and the giddy crowd

Wish for eternal change. Naught can suffice

To gratify ambition's endless rage,

To fill the coffers of pale avarice,

Or deal out favours with so rich a hand

To equal each man's wishes; for alas!

The sovereign pow'r is bounded, whereas hope

Is without bounds, and each succeeding day

Bestows fresh force, and hightens its impatience.

Alb.

Thou reason'st wisely, and with truth, Theresa!

But how didst thou acquire such sage reslection?

Ther.

Oft would our father pour into my ear

This sage instruction, which I still received

With due attention tho' with heavy heart.

Nor can I choose but tremble when I think

That all the pow'r of evil, and of good,

Centres in me; each error I commit,

Loads me with secret curses, and vile hate,

Yet will I labour for the gen'ral good,

And my intention shall at least be pure,

So those, alas! I may not chance to please,

Shall but unjustly murmur.

Clot.

Long may'st thou reign in glory, royal maid!

And acting from such gen'rous sentiment,

Revive the sad, and suff'ring multitude,

Like Heaven's fresh dew that cheers the languid plain.

O that the dew of Heav'n might sall to night

Upon thy sepulchre. [Aside.

Ther.

But yet, Clotilda! I could wish to be

Placed in a station not so eminent,

Where all my weakness, and perhaps my faults,

Would neither injure, trouble, nor offend.

Born in some humble cottage, I had known

No wild commotion of exalted care,

But cheerful hied me forth at early morn,

Tho' the bleak north-wind swept the mountain's side;

Or when warm summer sooth'd the vocal grove,

At ruddy eve, my occupation done,

Have jocund danc'd upon the verdant lawn.

Alb.

Thou would'st have been a charming shepherdess,

Driving with flow'ry crook thy whiten'd flock

To crop the wild thyme on the fragrant down,

And list the humming bell, that seems to shake

The distant dome, and with sad-ling'ring note

Pants on the dying gale. Young Carlo, too,

Sould have been there, a gentle, rural swain,

To take his plaintive pipe, and fondly pour

The song of suff'rance, to subdue thy heart;

Or have been seen at infant dawn's first gleam,

Carving thy name upon the polish'd beach,

The boast, the wonder of the rustic race,

For comeliness, and manly strength, and song.

Ther.

Nor would it have displeas'd me, for truly

I think there does not live a nobler youth.

His actions vaunt, and not his tongue, of glory.

Gen'rous as love, and stranger to offence,

He wins each heart, nor proudly e'er pretends

To gain by mimic affability:

The common error of our princely tribe!

Unmatch'd in virtue, sense, and dignity,

And ev'ry charm of youthful manliness.

If aught that's mortal can approach perfection,

'Tis Carlo—and I do not blush to own it.

Alb.

This honest frankness well becomes thee, sister!

And gives a sweeter lustre to thine eye,

Than all the tricks of timid bashfulness.

I much rejoice that he will soon be here,

For well I know, his promise is an oath

He would not break for worlds; then let me hope

His meed may be thy hand, and more thy heart.

Ther.

Thanks for thy mirthful wishes, but at present

I shall retire; and recollect, Clotilda!

Thou mayst command my utmost pow'r to serve thee,

Now fare ye well awhile.

[Exit.

The Court retires. Manent CLOTILDA and ALBERTO.

Clot.

[Aside.] It is thy death I would command, and that

I will procure without thy kind consent—

Besides, methinks, when royal Carlo here

Shall sway the sceptre as thy wedded lord,

The pow'r of serving me will be transferr'd

To him, who, should caprice incline, may veil

In clouds and darkness all my starry hopes,

And, scorning the condition of my baseness,

Breed a dire tempest o'er my hated head.

I must a speedy vengeance execute.

Alb.

Thou seem'st absorb'd in anxious thought, Clotilda.

Clot.

I have at times a wand'ring mind, and oft

Imagination, with her fairy train,

Leads me to fountains, or enamell'd meads,

To cull an humble garland of fresh flow'rs.

Or, on the promontory's h eight, I seem

To wander, at the midnight hour, and catch

The thrilling sounds of the far distant wreck.

The voice of coming war, with sudden burst,

Perhaps then strikes my ear: Anon, I view

The ransack'd town, the agonizing band

Of hapless females with dishevell'd locks,

Piercing the air with cries; and then, methinks,

I am a queen, and hush their clam'rous fears,

Change desp'rate terror into rapt'rous joy,

And govern with a prosp'rous moderation.

When thus my mind's bewilder'd, I remain

Lively, or sad, or fix'd in solemn thought,

As the wild-woven visions interest.

Alb.

Much, much I fear that something troubles thee,

For I have oftentimes observed of late,

Thou'rt absent e'en amidst society;

As tho' the busy lab'ring of thy breast,

Taught thee to scorn attentive ceremony.

O, pr'ythee dissipate the low'ring gloom

That hangs oppressive on thy pensive spirits,

And deck thy face in smiles and gentleness:

For all should smile beneath Theresa's reign.

[Exit.

CLOTILDA sola.

I doubt Alberto's unaspiring nature

May not be roused to deeds of dreadful greatness:

True he is brave, and no mean personal fear

E'er touch'd his heart, yet will he surely shrink

From treach'rous daring, and intrepid crime.

Then let me not unbosom me to him,

But mask th' intention from his piercing eyes,

And be myself the bloody executor,

So he in tranquil innocence shall enjoy

The dazzling 'vantage of Supreme command.

Enter ARNALDI.

Arn.

Not always thus in humble garb array'd,

I trod with timid step these spacious halls.

But time, that fleets along on restless wing,

Bears human happiness for e'er away,

So has it mine.—Yet will I seek Clotilda,

For once she did not scorn me; hah! 'tis she,

Alone in deep reflection; the hour suits well.—

Madam! if wretchedness may plead excuse

For this abrupt intrusion, I surely

May be forgiven, for alas! my woes,

Are seldom parallel'd. Hither I come

To throw me at your feet, implore your aid

To lift me from a state of grov'ling sorrow,

And bid returning fortune smile upon me.

Clot.

I know thee not, intruder! quit my sight.

Arn.

I am Arnaldi, fallen, lost Arnaldi!

Who once enjoy'd your tenderness and friendship.

Clot.

I do remember, and now greet thee kindly;

Then give thy woes an utterance.

Arn.

It is thou

Canst turn the youthful mind of fair Theresa

To justice and compassion, tell her, that

There was a time, when splendidly I flourish'd

In the bright ray of our late sov'reign's favour;

His confidant, and friend; until at length

By treachery undermin'd, by malice ruin'd,

Each post of profit, and of high import,

Forc'd I resign'd, and uncondemn'd I bear

The stigma of suspicion. Then I found

My youthful patrimony, near consum'd,

Was all that I retain'd, which scarcely serves

To conquer hunger, and subdue my thirst,

Or throw a rustic cov'ring o'er my limbs.

O Madam! think how cruel 'tis to bear

Such sad reverse of fortune; fallen thus

From wealth and pow'r, to lowest poverty.

Clot.

[Aside.] This man may suit my purpose;—true Arnaldi!

I have full oft deplored thy fate, and pray'd

A pardon for thee, tho' I pray'd in vain.

And when thy house was humbled, and thyself

Thrown unregarded on the scornful world,

I wept the suff'rance I could not prevent:

For thou hadst always interest in my thoughts.

But say, Arnaldi! hast thy silent scorn,

Or open satire, e'er provok'd Theresa?

Arn.

With all humility, and loyal heart,

I look'd for justice from her hand, but ne'er

Disclos'd the bitter anguish of my soul

By mark'd disdain, or public murmuring.

Clot.

O then it is most marvellous, to see

How she abhors thy name; within her breast,

Th' apparent seat of mercy and of love,

Dwell rancour and destructive cruelty.

Thou might'st as easy check the ebbing force

Of foaming Neptune with thy naked breast,

As try to bid her settled hate subside.

I fear, my friend! that greater grief awaits thee,

And not forgiveness.

Arn.

O Heavens!

Clot.

Yet, yet methinks, there is a road may lead

Thy footsteps to prosperity; but perhaps

Thou with a coward's patience dost prefer

To bear thy wrongs, than manfully avenge them.

O canst thou, nurs'd in wealth, and train'd to glory,

Accustom'd to behold a cringing crowd

Court thy protecting smile, and bend before thee,

Now wander up and down in threadbare sorrow,

This alter'd town, to meet the cold neglect

Of unobserving greatness, and encounter

The wretch's humour of equality?

Were thy lot mine far other thoughts would rouse

My burning breast, and settled deep revenge

Should be the polar star to guide my course

Thro' the rough waves of mis'ry and despair.

Arn.

Nor is my mind dead to a glorious vengeance,

Did any luring prospect of success,

Or hopes of happier days encourage it.

Clot.

That's nobly said, pursue th' heroic thought;

And if thou find but any means to crush

The glitt'ring asp that lurks on Milan's throne,

That midst the fragrant flow'rs of courtesy

Prepares to wound us all with venom'd sting,

I here pronounce thy fortunes shall be raised

To their accustom'd splendor, for the deed

Will place the sceptre in Alberto's hand,

And I can bend his pliant disposition

To my desires. If I but give the word,

My enemies shall vanish from my sight,

Like earthly mists before the morning blast;

And where I point my favour, shall descend,

A copious show'r of all-refreshing bounty.

Arn.

Thy words, thus pouring in my heart, are oil,

That makes the latent fire rush forth in blaze:

Give thy commands, and I with promptitude,

And steady resolution, will perform them,

Whate'er they may be. Acquainted long

With narrow suff'iance, pains contemptible,

And all the rending littleness of want,

I gaze upon a greatly impious deed,

And thinkit glory: fear alike is fled

With moulder'd wealth, and faded reputation.

Then bid me seek the solitary cave,

Where sleeps the brinded wolf in grim repose,

To drag him forth, and I'll not hesitate;

Or plant a dagger in the lily breast

Of timid innocence, and I'll obey thee.

Clot.

We must be speedy in all desp'rate acts—

Consider wisely, firmly execute.—

Receive this key, it opes a secret door

In the lone wall near St. Antonio's dome;

Thence comes a secret passage to my chamber;

Which thou wilt traverse, at the silent hour,

When solemn Midnight spreads her dark'ning wings;

And naught his heard, save the fierce felon's tread

Pacing to meet his comrades; O Arnaldi!

Haste to me then, and let thy bosom burn

With dire revenge, and unrelenting rage,

For I shall have an action to propose,

That will require a heart of adamant.

Arn.

Doubt me not,

I am not to be shaken; but explain.—

Clot.

Are we unnoticed, hangs no list'ning ear

Attentive on the purport of my words?

Know then, I will prepare a cordial drink

Shall calm for e'er Theresa's restless spirit:

The which thy hand shall minister.—How's this?

Thy abject eye seems bursting with dismay;

And pallid terror trembles on thy cheek;

Hast thou forgot her hatred, and thy wrongs,

Or certain recompense I promis'd?

Arn.

No,

I am wound up to execute; my soul

Recoil'd a moment from the dire attempt,

And now returns again with double firmness.

But how shall I gain entrance to her bed?

Clot.

She occupies the chamber of her father,

From mine to which there is a hidden way,

The duke's contrivance, only known to me,

Made for convenience of our sportful hours.

So shalt thou gain admittance to thy prey,

And from behind the arras steal upon her;

Then either force her drain th' oblivious cup,

Or fix a mortal poignard in her heart.

I would myself have done it; but I fear

A momentary weakness of my sex

Might shake my purpose, at the very time

When hesitation would be my destruction:

This faithfully perform'd, thou shalt be rais'd

To Milan's proudest honours, and thy house

Shall back retort the scorn it has receiv'd,

Upon the heads of all thy enemies.

Arn.

This night it shall be done; and why should I

Let weak compassion turn me from the deed?

For none can pity me! then let me wade

With daring step thro' crimes, until I reach

The wish-for port, when, like the fortunate,

I'll damn the humble villain, turn to scorn

The baleful vices of necessity,

And grant no virtue in the man that errs,

Whate'er the fatal cause or circumstance.

Clot.

Thou hast much injury t'inflame thy rage,

And I to urge it, as thou soon shalt know;

But leave me now Arnaldi! lest my son

Chance to return, and to behold thee here,

Might raise suspicion to disturb hereafter.

Has no one mark'd thy entrance?

Arn.

O no; disguised in poverty, I passed

With others thro' the gate, while the stern guard

Disdain'd to challenge such a wretch as I.

All unobserv'd I hither bent my course.

Clot.

Then hasten to you chamber for a while,

There lie conceal'd, and I will meet thee soon;

When we will sagely meditate, and prepare,

The necessary prelude to our greatness.

Thence thou may'st hie thee home the way I mention'd,

And so return at midnight.

Arn.

It shall be done.

[Exit.

Clot.

So pliant is the virtue of the poor.

The fallen poor, who once have known the sweets

Of better time; not those, whose industry,

Tho' hardly exercised in humblest toil,

Gives daily bread, and careless independence

'Tis well I profit by this wretch's want,

And save myself the horror of the deed.

No longer Milan's sceptre shall elude

Alberto's grasp, for on Theresa's death

He is th' appointed heir, and must be duke.

O •…ble Night! bring quick th' important hour

To ratify th' intent; for thou, dread queen!

Altho' to frequency of crimes inured

Shall view an act of gloomiest dignity.

So when thy rival, fresh Aurora, opes

Her laughing eyes beneath the front of Heaven,

She shall behold Clotilda's pow'r complete.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT II. SCENE I.

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

CLOTILDA.

IS it, alas!

The penalty and sad concomitant of guilt,

That time for ever now must labour on,

With secret workings of unbosom'd pain?

Ah, no! the tyrant conscience soon throws by

His blunted shafts, and reason laughs to scorn

Each servile fear.—He said it should be done

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

Nor have the busy race of toil begun

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

Seem like some lonely cloister's pensive aisles.

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

And shame must fall upon me; and my son

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

Because her birth was fanction'd by the priest,

And his unlicens'd. O forbid it pride!

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

Enter ALBERTO.

Alb.

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

What means that star, the look of wild dismay,

This early watchfulness? 'tis very strange!

Clot.

Be not surprised,

For often when the night-flies break my rest,

Or shrill winds whistle, or the cricket cries,

I quit an irksome bed, and to and fro

Traverse my room till day-light, fancy then

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

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

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

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

Would he were gone before Arnaldi comes. [Aside.

Alb.

After you left the table, for awhile

Theresa staid, being in a merry mood;

And by her gay discourse, and artless wit,

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

Pointing her mirthful satire at the vain,

The foplings of her court; while they themselves,

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

To find their foibles drolly singular;

For in her ridicule was no disgrace.

The spacious hall, with echo of her praise

Resounded; when I, with voice prophetic,

Cried, to retort her humour, gentle sister!

Would princely Carlo, were but here to tame thee!

Clot.

And canst thou thus lavish thy praises forth

On her, who mars thy fortune?

Alb.

Attend the sequel,—scarce had she retired,

When thro' the palace arch, with rattling hoof,

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

For 'twas with news of Carlo that he came.

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

He has pursued his journey, like a lover

Warm and sincere, and worthy of Theresa.

These tidings pleased me so, I would not sleep,

But rather chose with watchful readiness,

To wait the coming of my friend, my brother.

Clot.

Thy friend! thy brother!

Alb.

My friend he is, for we have fought together!

And will be soon my brother! but, Clotilda!

Excuse my rash intrusion, since you know

The rapt'rous cause that urged it.

Clot.

O! call it not intrusion, for the tidings

Have struck me deeply—with delight—but now

I must require thee—leave me to repose—

That sinking nature claims.

Alb.

You do well.

Compose yourself a little, for you're pale,

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

Go to Theresa, 'tis a pleasing task,

And wake the heavenly maid to love and transport.

Meanwhile I'll hasten to prepare a welcome

For noble minded Carlo—so adieu.

[Exit.

Clot.

Thanks to indulgent fortune thou art gone;—

How did thy presence, at this pregnant time

Of busy mischief, shake each secret nerve.

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

This is thy cruel sport, young Carlo comes

Flush'd with the mingled, pleasing expectation,

To wed Theresa, and to reign in Milan.

But he shall find her in the arms of Death;

And the proud dukedom fallen to my son

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

In case the maiden died. Yet 'tis unlucky,

For the too prying prince, burning with love,

And stung to fury by his baffled hopes,

May happen to suspect; well let him then,

For I will 'scape suspicion, my hot tears

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

Shall labour with a tempest of affliction,

'Till half the pity to Theresa due,

Be turn'd on me her melancholy mourner.

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

If so, ambition be his curse, for then

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

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

Enter ARNALDI, by a private door.

Arn.

Theresa sleeps for ever!

Clot.

'Tis well, but tell me all.

Arn.

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

When with a creeping sacrilegious step

The private stairs I mounted to her chamber.

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

Methought her father's spectre threat'ned me,

And as I cautious turn'd thy traitor key,

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

Then my limbs trembled, and my hair uprose.

Clot.

Didst thou recoil?

Arn.

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

But O! what forceful language can describe

The innocent beauty of the sleeping fair!

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

And melted thee to mercy.

Clot.

Is she not dead then?

Arn.

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

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

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

Clot.

Didst thou refuse?

Arn.

No, I determin'd stood,

Like some relentless tyger of the desert,

To gaze awhile upon my destin'd prey.

Clot.

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

Arn.

Her cheek grew whiter than her throbbing breast,

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

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

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

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

Then with uplifted dagger I pursued;

Shriek not, Theresa—or within thy heart

This steel shall rankle; since thou needs must die,

Drain the calm cup, and die without a pain.

Clot.

And so she drank it?

Arn.

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

To change my stubborn heart,

Finding all hope was vain, she drank it up:

Implored forgiveness on thy head and mine,

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

Clot.

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

Arn.

A giddy horror seiz'd my brain, and then

Cold fearful stupor sunk me to the floor:

Where long I lay, if so my absence seem.

When sense renew'd the consciousness of crime,

I with a coward's agitated step,

Quitted the murder'd lovliness of virtue,

And hither came to tear my villain's hair,

Beat my mean breast, and curse my poverty.

Clot.

Thanks to thy manly firmness, bold Arnaldi!

Which let no idle agony disgrace;—

Hast thou not heard of Carlo's near arrival?

Arn.

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

That may promote enquiry, and breed danger.

Clot.

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

And Justice waits our nod; but yet beware,

Nor ever in discourse appear mysterious;

But mask thy secret thoughts with open brow.

And when at table, or in public talk,

Cold observation whispers forth his doubts,

And Malice prattles of Theresa's death;

Bestow a casual heed, but no remarks;

Like one to whom such great events import not.

Soon as the gen'ral wonder shall subside,

And new ideas turn to common thoughts;

When brave Alberto shall be firmly fix'd

Upon the throne, thy recompense shall come.

Arn.

I trust me to thy bounty and protection,

Clot.

Expect thy just reward.

Arn.

So fare thee well.

[Exit.

Clot.

And thou shalt have thy just reward, Arnald•…

For to thy guard I will not trust my honour,

Hard-hearted murderer! thou canst nothing urge

In poor extenuation of thy deed

But avarice, and base servility;

While I can plead, in the dark acts excuse,

Maternal love, ambition, pride, and hate.

Then shall thy death appease Theresa's shade,

And thus my justice wipe away my crime.

Now will I seek my couch, that when the news

Of young Theresa's death shall shake the palace,

I may be found in seeming calm repose.

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

SCENE II.

In the Palace.

Enter ALBERTO, and a Neapolitan Lord.

Alb.

Left you his highness far behind, my lord?

Lord.

Another hour will bring him to your gates,

And willingly he speeds, for he admires

The hospitable manners of your town,

Your beauteous ladies, and your valiant youths.

Yet most his spirit languishes to view

Your royal sister,—her he loves sincere,

And her alone: but eight short months are gone

Since last he left her; yet he oft will talk

Of ages past in absence. The gay court

Of Naples found him, on return, no more

The laughter-loving prince, who sported wild

Midst social mirth, and liveliest dissipation,

But sad, and pensive; fond of solitude,

He only chose to seek the cypress grove,

What time unruffled evening's dewy hand

Bedecks in blushing robe her fav'rite star.

Alb.

'Tis true he loves,

Oft have I seen him dwell with raptur'd eye

On every varying charm of fair Theresa—

Nor does he need our pity.—It were well

She knew of his approach, lest joy, perchance,

To meet him unexpected, should appear

Like sorrow, and dissolve in tears.

Who waits there?

Enter Attendant.

Alb.

Go tell the ladies of her highness' chamber

To give her information, when she wake,

That royal Carlo hastens to her court.

Attend.

It shall be so, my Lord.

Alb.

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

Open of heart, benevolent, and valiant.

Lord.

Next to Theresa, most he loves Alberto,

And boasts thy friendship with a manly pride,

Protesting in the circle of this world,

For virtue, honour, spirit, feeling, truth,

There lives not thy superior.

Alb.

His praise to merit, and to share his friendship,

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

The dear possession of Theresa's beauty:

For she is as the counterpart of him,

Lovely and perfect.

Enter LUCINDA.

Luc.

O direful fate, O miserable hour!

She's gone, she's gone, dead, dead! [Faints.

Alb.

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

Now she revives, down, down my breaking heart!

Luc.

Alas! Alberto, must I tell thee all,

And plant a dagger in thy soul, but O!

My royal mistress, thy beloved sister

Is lost, is gone for ever!

Alb.

Theresa dead! speak not the fatal word!

My tender sister, my fond heart's delight!

And must my Carlo thus be welcom'd here,

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

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

Lord.

Too much I prove the anguish of his heart,

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

[Exit.

Enter CLOTILDA.

Clot.

Ah me, Alberto! how shall I support

These dreadful tidings? poor Theresa's death,

So unexpected, loads my heart with grief,

And turns my eyes to sluices, whence flows out

A stream of useless pity; O my son!

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

Enter Attendant.

Attend.

My Lord, prince Carlo is arrived.

[Exit.

Alb.

I cannot, will not see him; let me fly

To some cold cavern, desolate, and drear,

Far from the haunts of men, where hated light

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

And social intercourse, and friendship's ties,

Where I may wander like the raging wolf,

Howling my midnight sorrows all alone.

Madam you seem to bear this matter coolly,

And reason down your feelings, you may therefore

Receive ill-fated Carlo, and unfold

The horrible despair, while I escape

The dreadful shock to see a suff'ring friend,

Without a pow'r to help him.

[Exit.

Clot.

Gentle Lucinda! suffer not your grief

To overpower you thus, be more composed;

My bosom struggles with a cruel load,

Heavy as thine, yet will I not despair;

Despair is impious, 'tis to call in doubt

Th' eternal justice of the Lord of all.

Luc.

'Twas sad to see how tranquilly she lay,

Her features settled, not her visage chang'd,

As tho' exulting innocence had chose

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

[Exit.

Clot.

Now for another blust'ring scene with Carlo,

Of rending hair and beating breast, and rage,

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

Theresa's body to be laid in peace,

Midst the cold relicts of her ancestors.

Exit.

SCENE III.

A Chamber in the Palace.

ALBERTO solus.

I must believe it so, for I have mark'd

Her gaze with envious eye on my poor sister,

Who never knew suspicion, or design.

Thou fain would'st make me Duke, base, base Clotilda!

Little thou knew'st my heart, if thou could'st think

That it was fashion'd so, first to approve,

And then to profit by the desp'rate act.

But from the secret longings of thy soul,

Thou didst conceive of me. Beetle-ey'd ambition,

With headlong fury, winds his eager flight

'Gainst each abhorred crime. O mother, mother!

And must I still confess myself thy son!

Had I not all the vainest could desire,

Wealth, pow'r, and honour, dignity, respect?

Plac'd in the palace, I did more than reign,

Thro' the bright medium of Theresa's virtue.

Nay, ev'n thou wert treated like a sovereign.

Yet, if thou'rt innocent, I suspect thee vilely!

Ah no! 'tis true beyond the hope of error,

Else why that haggard cheek, that downcast eye

With which I found thee at the very time

My hapless sister perish'd? O Clotilda!

Thou hadst much reason then to look confus'd;

Well might'st thou shake, for then the gentle maid

Perhaps was struggling with the damn'd design;

Or on her knees, in unavailing tears,

Striving to melt her butcher. Heavenly powers!

I'll see her lovely body as it lies,

The senseless prey of all-devouring death,

And should my tears permit me, will observe

If she have suffer'd aught of violence.

How did the thought escape me! Ho, who's there?

Enter Servant.

Alb.

Haste, lead me to the melancholy chamber

Where lie Theresa's sad remains.

Serv.

My lord! e'en now with decent privacy,

To the sepulchral vault of Milan's house,

The corse was borne by order of Clotilda,

Who said some future day should be appointed

For public rites, religious ceremony,

And the due requiem of her parted soul.

Alb.

'Tis enough! away.

[Exit Servant.

That shall not screen thee, madam! yet indeed

'Twas wond'rous expeditous—but I'll think on't.

Enter CLOTILDA.

Clot.

My son, Alberto!

Rouse from thy lethargy of grief, nor let

Thy private cares 'ercome all public spirit.

Know that the senate wait in rev'rence due

Thy royal presence to proclaim thee Duke.

Alb.

How fares prince Carlo, madam?

Clot.

Alas! unequal to the sudden shock,—

His reason left him, at the very time

He had most need of all his fortitude.

Strangely he rav'd with incoherent speech,

And frantic gesture; while the noble lords

Of his illustrious train, with soothing sorrow,

Convey'd him to his chamber; where they strive

To calm and comfort him—tho' much I fear,

They long may strive in vain.

Alb.

Ill-fated Carlo!

Thy suff'rance throws fresh mis'ry on my heart,

That was o'ercharg'd before. Clotilda! Madam!

Clot.

My son!

Alb.

Observe me well, meet with a steady look

My searching eye; nay, nay, thou dost not tremble,

Yet art thou pale;—do not turn pale, lest I

Should think thee guilty of some horrid crime.

Clot.

What dost thou mean, Alberto?

Alb.

Some crime so dark, so cruel, and so base,

That it must take from Heaven the right of mercy,

And doom the agent to eternal pain,

At thought of which, my op'ning pores distil

A deadly dew, and ev'ry sensible nerve

Thrills with a strange vibration.

Clot.

Surely thy reason wavers also!

Alb.

Mark my words,

Much do I pity those, who kill'd Theresa

But more abhor them—let not that alarm thee.

Thou art an innocent woman, and my mother,

And thou would'st wish to see thy son advanc'd,

Thyself in pow'r; but there perhaps thou'lt fail.

While all thy high-built, guilty expectations,

Shall quit thee ere the hour of consummation.

Clot.

Wilt thou not deign, proud youth, to rule in Milan?

Alb.

Since thou'rt so eager, madam! in this business,

Haste to the senate make my pleasure known,

If it befit thy sex, and thy condition!

That, being troubled with a froward mind,

And little able to direct the state,

I am beside less willing—I refuse,

Without the shadow of hypocrisy,

All proffer'd honours, titles, dignities—

Clot.

This grief effeminate, these grov'ling thoughts

But ill become—

Alb.

Now, by my soul, tho' Milan were the world,

I would not be seduced to mount the throne.

What, shall I view my sister torn away

By ruffian violence, and shall I profit

Of the black deed?—no, hear my last resolve,

Not all the charms of fortune, or of pow'r,

Th' entreating clamours of the populace,

Nor yet my boasted right, nor more, my duty,

Shall e'er induce me to be sov'reign here.

I am a bastard of but little worth,

Yet much I fear me, worthier than my mother,

And therefore will not bring my faults to light

Amid the dazzling splendor of a throne.

Nor shall thy gentle shade, Theresa! see

Alberto rise to greatness by thy murder!

Clot.

[kneeling.] O let me thus implore thee on my knees

To act more nobly; look on her who bore thee,

And change thy—

Alb.

Kneel not to me, but go and kneel to Heaven,

And do it with contrition; to obtain

Mercy, and pardon; but for me I'm fix'd—

Yet, ere we part;—Theresa's sepulture,

By thy command, so hasty and unhonour'd,

Occasions wonder;—think upon my words.

[Exit.

Clot.

Go, vent thy malice on th' embattled plain,

Or bid thy soldiers shake. I heed thee not.

Yet dost thou scorn the dukedom, base Alberto!

Have I then loaded thus my soul with sin

To lift thee into greatness, but in vain?

And torn the sceptre from Theresa's hand,

To cast it to the people? who, beside,

Will quickly work my downfall, for they hate me,

And hitherto have paid me cold respect,

Unwillingly, because I dwelt in favour.

But since my hopes are ruin'd by my son,

Thro' mere caprice of over-acted honour,

My bright day's star is set, and I must fall.

For ever then I tear him from my love,

And here devote him to severest vengeance;

Consoling vengeance! thee I invocate,

Wrapt in terrific mystery, and rage,

To sooth me with thy horror-breathing smile;

I am thy vot'ry now, be thou my guide!

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

ACT III. SCENE I.

Another Chamber in the Palace. CARLO, ANTONIO.

CARLO.

I WILL not wrong him, for I know my friend,

And that he would not act the traitor's part,

Tho' ev'ry kingdom should unite its crown

To diadem his head. Is he not brave?

And say did ever selfish meanness dwell

In the rich circle of a brave man's heart?

Then we will join in sorrows to discover

The loathed author of our mutual woe;

The wretch who tore Theresa from my arms,

And stole the loveliest jewel of the world

Ant.

'Tis wisely judg'd, ne'er could Alberto stoop

To work a deed so foul.

Enter CLOTILDA.

Clot.

O let me claim thy private ear awhile,

Illustrious prince! for I have that to say

Requires a solemn, and severe attention.

Far better suited to my fearful tale,

Were charnels dismal, and the noon of night,

Than this still-lingering cheerfulness of day.

For 'tis not crude suspicion bids me speak,

But clear and awful confirmation shakes

My agonizing breast; whereof the purport

I would disclose to thee alone.

Car.

My lord! be pleased to leave us.

[Exit ANTONIO.

Clot.

How strong the mother working at my heart,

Combats with justice! O, ye spirits impure!

Who hover o'er this earth, whose business is

To numb the feelings of th' assassin's soul,

Dry up each pity-flowing tear, and change

Meek nature's tenderness to cruelty.

O breathe a portion of your fury here,

That this parental weakness may not check

My duty to my country, and mankind!

Car.

what means Clotilda?

Clot.

I scarcely know myself, for in my mind

Confusion reigns, and unavailing grief.

Detested murder! to the common eye

That seem'st most shocking, how dost thou appear

View'd thro' the anguish of a mother's love!

Car.

Alas! thy words strike terror to my soul.

Clot.

Ah me! 'tis I who caus'd Theresa's death,

By hearing such a monster; so 'twere just,

I should receive the bursting punishment

Due to his crimes.

Car.

Quick, quick, Clotilda! free my lab'ring breast

Of this severe suspense.

Clot.

In yon blue vault, methinks Theresa sits,

Calmly resplendent, as the full orb'd moon,

When rising from the wat'ry waste, she throws

Her lustrous pearls upon the tossing waves.

Yet sadness hangs upon the maiden's brow,

To mark the torments of her brother's guilt,

And base ambition's triumph over virtue.

Perchance, she raises now some hallow'd hymn,

'Midst glowing seraphim, and cherub pure,

T' implore the mercy of all pitying Heaven

Upon her murderer.

Car.

O speak thy thoughts, lest cruel expectation

Break my sad heart before I know the worst.

Clot.

I must not, will not screen him, tho' he is

Dearer to me than life, or life's best joys.

Nor will I see his bloody hands defile

The crown of Milan—'tis Theresa's voice,

From the chill sepulchre, that eries for justice,

And I'll obey the call of her, and truth.

Know then, most royal Carlo yesternight,

When my lov'd sov'reign took her slight to Heaven,

As chance I lay a stranger to repose,

I heard a shrill shriek issue from the chamber

Where slept the royal maid. I started up,

And op'ning cautiously my door, beheld

Alberto quit her room, with silent tread;

And as he passed me by, he inly mutter'd,

"The deed is done, my hopes are ratified!"

Car.

Why didst thou not inform me so before

At our first interview; for had I known it

One hour ago, ere this he'd been in hell.

Clot.

Think on the struggles of a parent's weakness

That could not suddenly devote her child

To sure destruction, and dark infamy.

And now I do repent of what I've done,

For desp'rate anger frowns upon thy brow,

And evil will betide him. Do not, Carlo!

Snatch my poor son from penitence, and pray'r,

For he has need of utmost length of days.

To mourn his crimes, and make his peace above.

I must retire—but O be merciful!

[Exit.

Car.

And could ambition thus defile thy soul,

Once brave Alberto! could the tinsel train

Of servile courtiers, or the bauble crown,

Allure thy spirit to so damn'd a deed?

O man! how weak is all thy boasted virtue!

When strong temptation urges thee to wrong;

Nay, since my once-lov'd friend is sunk thus low,

I of myself am void of confidence.

Yet here I tear all friendship from my breast,

And pledge myself to vindicate the wrongs

Of lov'd Theresa—yes, my sword shall pierce

The unrelenting traitor's coward heart.

Enter ALBERTO.

Alb.

My noble friend! it is to thee I come

To ease my throbbing breast, and share thy woes?

So shall soft sympathy, perhaps, beguile

The grief that knows no cure; how, how is this?

Methinks with vengeful brow, and fierce disdain.

Thou look'st reproaches on me. Righteous Heaven!

I recollect me now, his brain's disturb'd. [Aside.

O call me to thy mind, illustrious Carlo!

I am Alberto, who has fought beside thee.

Car.

Do not, Alberto! calm thy guilty fears

With supposition that my reason errs;

It en'd alone' when I conceiv'd thee just,

Friendly and honourable; but it knows thee now.

A soul-contracted hypocrite, and a villain.

Alb.

Alas! poor youth, he thinks not what he says,

Lost in a labyrinth of mingled woe.

Subdue thy rage, my best-beloved Carlo!

Nor wound my ears with such afflictive sounds

Of vile upbraidings, and discordant frenzy.

Car.

Attend my words—when first my soul receiv'd.

The dreadful tidings of Theresa's death;

As right I deem'd, by treachery procur'd;

Convulsive nature own'd a sudden weakness;

And sunk beneath a momentary madness;

But now I know myself; thee too I know,

I know thee for a low ambitious coward,

False to thy friend, thy country, and thy sister,

A traitor every way, and more, a murderer.

Alb.

No further tempt my moderation, Carlo!

Nor cast such false indignities upon me:

Lest I forgetful of all tender ties,

Should scorn the social bonds of host and friend,

And punish thee for such unjust suspicion.

I am no traitor, and no coward I.

Car.

Say, was it noble, generous and brave,

To steal at midnight, with a ruffian's step,

And bathe thy hangman's hands in innocent blood?

Was it a brother's love, a soldier's pride,

That urg'd the deed? 'twas damnable ambition;

Which bade thy shameless spirit wish to reign.

Go, reign a slave, and be thy state thy curse.

But first I dare thee draw thy tarnish'd sword

In vile support of crime, while I will come

Arm'd with the fury of despairing love,

And rage of injur'd friendship to the combat.

Alb.

Then be it so, I shall not wish to fail thee.

Car.

Name thou some hour and place of solitude,

Sacred to gloomy death, and grim revenge,

Fit for the solemn conflict; there to prove

If infamy, or justice, shall prevail.

I once did love thee well, that time is o'er,

And now I call thee forth with deadly hate;

For be assured, or thou, or I must fall.

Then if to me the victory belong,

Theresa from her bless'd abode shall smile.

Alb.

'Tis like she may; and let me add, I praise

Thy val'rous bearing as a soldier should.

Nor will I shrink thro' consciousness of crime,

Or dread of all thy haughty menaces.—

Near to the ivy-crowned mausoleum

Of Milan's royal race, where wither now

The beauties of Theresa, is a spot

That suits our purpose well; I'll there confront thee,

'Tis just without the gates, and soon as e'er

The sickly moon shall raise her blunted horns

Above th' horizon, and around be heard

The far wolf's famish'd howlings, that awake

The flitting screach-owl's melancholy cry,

There shall thy wish'd-for triumph be complete.

Car.

Nor shall it wait me long, for even now,

O'er the still landscape beams the chrystal orb,

Whose fun'ral lamp, shall light thee to thy grave.

I go to meet thee, so till then, adieu.

[Exeunt

SCENE II.

Moonlight. The Mausoleum of the Dukes of Milan.

Enter CLOTILDA.

Clot.

O how congenial to my gloomy soul

Are these dumb horrors! hide thy lucid face,

Thou melancholy moon! for sure thou throw'st

With too much luxury, thy glitt'ring beams,

T' adorn this mould'ring mansion of the dead.—

O rather rise, ye rending hurricanes!

Loaded with lamentation, and despair,

And sooth my ear with desolating song.

Such is the musick I require to breathe

In solemn unison with my dark designs;

And ye unconscious relicts! that repose

In silent satire of magnificence,

That free from human cares, and wild desires,

Own the relentless tyrant's putrid sway,

All hail! I come to rouze your dull abode

With busy crime! And thou, Theresa's shade!

Let me appease thee now, for here I wait

To slay the base destroyer, and to place

Thy murder'd murderer beside thy corse,

Methinks the victim lingers! haste, Arnaldi!

Receive thy recompense, for lo! the end

[Puts her Hand upon a Dagger.

Of all thy expectations meets thee here.

Yonder he comes, I hear his eager step—

O let me steel my bosom to its purpose!

Enter ARNALDI.

Arn.

Obedient to thy wish, behold me here;

But tell me why thou didst appoint a time

When all the virtuous court the arms of sleep,

And mischief wanders forth? why this drear scene,

Where silence watches the remains of death?

It is most strange. Alas! my mind forebodes

Some over-hanging evil: Speak, Clotilda!

Clot.

Hear then, Theresa in this tomb reposes;

A few hours past interr'd; for so I order'd;

Lest by delay might be incurr'd some danger.—

Now, in the hurry of the time, with her

The richest diamond of the state was buried;

Which sparkled on her finger; that t' obtain,

I pray'd thy presence here; afraid to explore

Alone, the darksome vault of grisly Death.

Then guide my steps, Arnaldi! and protect me

From apprehension of creative terror;

So shall the jewel in reward be thine.

Here, take the key, and wrench the iron bolt.

That holds in bondage vile the race of Milan.

Arn.

'Tis well that I, the minister of death,

Should from the dead receive my just reward.

Thou dreary chamber! ope thy hungry jaw,

[He unlocks the 〈◊〉

And let the living enter;—Ha! see there,

Yon glimm'ring lamp a paly lustre sheds

On cold Theresa's cheek; outstretch'd she lies

In deep repose I gave;—within my breast,

Ten thousand horrors dwell, and sad remorse

Sits thron'd a tyrant—mark, in awful range,

The sov'reign house of far-renowned Milan.

Lie side by side in social nothingness.

And, lo! Theresa! still she seems to reign

O'er the dull kingdom of relentless death;

Herself the bridal partner of his sway.

I cannot enter, for my trembling knees

Forget their office, and unusual dread

Hangs on my spirits—forward brave Clotilda!

And tear the glowing jewel from her hand,

While I await thee here.

Clot.

Dost thou, inur'd to crimes of blackest dye,

School'd in villainy, and lost to shame,

Presume to shudder now, and hesitate,

Like a young maiden, o'er her lover's grave?

Come on then, boldly—when I lead the way,

Thou sure may'st follow. Hark! I hear the steps

Of some approaching, let us quick retire

From curious observation.

[They go into the Mausoleum and shut the 〈◊〉

Enter ALBERTO and CARLO.

Alb.

This is the sepulchre where sleeps Theresa,

And her illustrious ancestors; and here,

If chance thy arm should vindicate her wrongs,

I too shall rest.—

Car.

Draw, draw thy sword, nor work upon my friendship,

But be the noble youth my love once spoke thee,

Ere thou hadst lost thyself, and kill'd Theresa.

Alb.

I scorn to talk of innocence to thee,

Since that thou know'st me not; yet much I mourn

The deep regret, and anguish thou prepar'st thee.

Car.

War not with words, Alberto! I despise

Such mean, unmanly murm'rings; draw thy sword,—

Theresa's injuries rising to my thought,

Inflame my rage, and shall direct my blade

To the curst bosom of her base destroyer.

[They fight, ALBERTO throws himself upon the Sword of CARLO, and falls.

Alb.

Thanks to thy sword, my Carlo! it is done,

And I no longer shall offend thy fight,

Nor suffer thy upbraidings;—yet 'tis strange,

In youth's gay prime to close the languid eye

Upon the splendid picture of the world,

And break each fond attachment: but, farewel!

The various interests of active life,

The social intercourse of friendly men,

And glory's luring charms, all, all farewel!

I now must be a banquet for the worm.

Car.

Why didst thou throw thee on my sword

Without a contest? didst thou wish to die,

And spare thy once lov'd friend? But O! forgive

The vengeful stroke, that robs thee of thy life.

And leaves me to despair; so gracious Heaven

May pardon thee the murder of Theresa.

Yet while thou canst, confess the fatal deed

For which I pierc'd thy bosom, so shall I

Better compose my mind,—thou die the better.

Alb.

Suppose me guilty, Carlo! of the act

For which I die, lest grief and sad remorse,

Prey on thy youthful days: I love thee well,

And wish thee happy, and may Heaven bestow

Mercy on me, as freely I forgive thee.

Thou'st acted nobly, Carlo! as became thee!

And if thou e'er shouldst think that thou hast en'd

Remember, error is the lot of man.

I bleed apace, and visionary forms

Crowd o'er my senses,—I must pause awhile.

Car

Spare me, ye minist'ring pow'rs

Of Heaven's high vengeance! rather, rather crush me—

He's innocent! O mark his dying brow,

Free from all symptom of disturbing guilt;

Yes, he is innocent, and I myself

Am the dark-minded, monster, and the murderer.

[A shriek is heard in the Mausoleum, which opens, and CLOTILDA is seen •…ing from THERESA, who advances in her sepulchral robe. CARLO starts, and ALBERTO raises himself in amazement.

Colt.

O glare not on me thus, thine eye's reproach

Is worse than hell—I cannot bear thy sight.

Tho' torments wait me at the hour of death,

Yet, while I live, thou hast no pow'r to punish.

Ther.

Where am I! do I live! what means this scene

Of desolation, sepulchres, and death?

There's one does bleed near the cold couch I left,

And here's another.

Car.

It is herself! it is the beauteous maid

Who lives and speaks! O welcome from the tomb

To thy own Carlo's arms, who hither comes

To screen thee ever from a brother's rage.

Ther.

My thoughts return, tho' wav'ring reason hangs

In wild uncertainty on all I see,

And all I hear,—but, thus let me enfold

The youth I love—yet 'twas no brother's rage

That drove me to the tomb; it was Clotilda

Sent the dull cup Arnaldi's hand presented,

And which I drank in part, but pour'd aside

The remnant unobserv'd: since then I've slept.

Car.

Now malice thou'rt content—my sum of ill

Cannot be greater, nor my punishment

Exceed my just deserving—O Alberto!

Clot.

A curse attend thy parted soul, Arnaldi!

For inattention; all had been secure

If she had drank the calming bev'rage up.

But I have had my premature revenge;

Yonder Arnaldi lies; 'twas I that kill'd him.

Why did I come to ope thy prison gates,

Abhorr'd Theresa? else thou'dst surely perish'd

Ye furies fierce, who bathe your snaky locks

In liquid flame! Clotilda is your own.

Ther.

O! do not rave thus bitterly!

I will forgive thee all; nor shall revenge

Tempt aught against thy life or thy repose.

Clot.

Curse on thy mimic moderation,

Thy shallow virtues and offensive goodness.

I hate thy clemency, thy pardon scorn,

And fly from such humanity to hell.

[Stabs herself and 〈◊〉

What have we here? Alberto slain! 'tis he!

[•…eing Alberto.

This must be Carlo's deed—I triumph now.

Gentle Theresa! view this bleeding youth,

Who lov'd thee tenderly; I die reveng'd. Oh!

[Dies

Ther.

What sayst thou, does my dear Alberto die?

Car.

Inhuman fiend! 'twas thou didst point my sword

[Carlo to Clotilda.

Against his life; yet stay, O stay my friend!

[To Alberto.

And I will wash thy wound with my heart's blood.

Wretch that I was to give implicit faith

To such apparent, shallow artifice.

Is there no fiery bolt of righteous Heaven

To end my woes, and save me from distraction?

Ther.

Did Carlo wound thy gen'rous breast, Alberto!

[Kneeling.

Then must each hope of future happiness

Fade in the blossom. Therefore will I seek

Some holy monastery's lone retreat,

And pour at early dawn the fervent hymn

For thy dear soul's repose—and all night long

Will I solicit mercy for my Carlo!

Yet, yet thine eye has lustre, thou hast breath,

Could'st thou but live, this were a world of joy!

Alb.

The hand of death weighs pond'rous at my heart,

And life's vain dream is o'er; yet, ere I go,

O hear me and assent. Theresa, Carlo!

I pray you check your tears, and promise me,

That you will wed—'Tis true, indeed, my friend!

Thou gav'st the stroke, but it was I that sought it.

Thou, like an honourable prince, desy'dst me,

T' avenge th' imagin'd murder; I too proud

To pause, explain, or lead thee from thy error,

Treated accommodation with disdain,

But rush'd upon thy sword to prove my truth.

O! then, Theresa! here accept thy husband,

If that thou would'st my spirit should have peace.

Car.

It is too much!

Ther.

I will accept him at thy hand, Alberto!

And cherish love amidst eternal sorrow.

Alb.

And wilt thou! Carlo! wilt thou take this maid?

Car.

Yes; I receive this offer'd excellence

With gratitude and mingled admiration

Of more than human greatness. O! Theresa!

Here let me hold thee, till my life shall end,

With sad contrition for my past offence.—

Tumultuous grief returns, I scarce can utter.

Once more thy pardon, noble-minded friend.

Alb.

Name it not, Carlo! for no dark resentment

Glooms my calm breast; it was a deed of chance,

And mutual hastiness. My blessing on you—

Long may you reign in peace, and each new day

Greet you with happiness! But, for Clotilda, O

Pity! nay more, forgive her, Royal Pair!

Implore Heaven's mercy on her guilty soul,

And strive by frequent pray'r to melt its justice,—

'Tis all I ask—nor is it pain to die.

[Dies.

STANZAS ON FRIENDSHIP.

O, FRIENDSHIP! source of every good!

How seldom art thou understood;

How oft for interest, or for fame,

We prostitute thy sacred name.

'Tis not Ambition's pageant hour,

The proud parade of empty pow'r;

'Tis not the Monarch's scepter'd hand,

Thy faithful service can command;

The heartfelt joy, the social sigh,

No power can force, no wealth can buy,

Nor pride, nor avarice e'er can know,

Exalted Frindship's fervent glow.

When haughty great-ones condescend,

To patronize the humble friend,

Who every feeling must resign—

The servile contract is not thine.

When venal age, in hopes of gain,

Would bind the mercenary chain;

Each generous purpose there unknown

The sordid motive thou'lt disown.

Nor pleas'd with Youth's unaw'd career,

Amid the gust of transient cheer;

Where Folly forms the short-liv'd tye,

Wilt thou the slender cord supply.

Averse to Guile, tho' gilded o'er,

Thou shun'st the midnight loud uproar;

And seeking Virtue's peaceful cell,

With calm content delight'st to dwell.

Yet, should asslicted worth entreat,

Thou'lt fearless quit thy tranquil seat,

To pierce the dungeon's dreary gloom,

Or mourn at midnight round the tomb.

In life's unwelcome, cheerless hour,

When all around misfortunes lour;

Thou'lt seek the Wanderer in distress,

And sharing sorrows, make them less.

When affluence crowns successful toil,

And Fate propitious wears a smile;

Thy influence aids the sweet employ,

And gives a zest to every joy:

For what are all delights below,

Which fortune, Honours, Fame bestow;

Unless with these we strive to blend

The social solace of a friend?

The flow of youth, the charms of Love,

But momentary transports prove;

Friendship alone secures Content,

More placid, but more permanent.

ARLEY.

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

IN earlier years, when Anna's face,

Could only boast an infant grace;

When artless tresses deck'd her brow,

In many a wild untutor'd row;

Ere yet upon her baby cheek,

The conscious blush had learn'd to speak;

In that calm, unsuspicious day,

The Muse attun'd her willing lay;

And sung of Anna's rip'ning charms,

When Anna could feel no alarms;

That tranquil hour, unknown to Fear,

When I might say, and she might hear.—

The Hint transpir'd—and swift as thought,

The favour'd Pocket-Book was brought,

While kind advice, and caution sage,

Stood pencil'd o'er the virgin page;

Her little hands receiv'd the toy,

And her young heart proclaim'd her joy.

Will Anna now, maturer grown,

The sweets of infant years disown?

And will she now unkind despise

The song that once she deign'd to prize?

No—Anna's heart shall still approve

The song that once she deign'd to love:

Still shall the Muse her steps attend—

Still will she prize her early friend.

And now, in Beauty's lovliest bloom,

Though circled in the splendid room—

While rival fops around her wait,

With false applause, and senseless prate;

And while the vaunts of self they hold—

And while th' unmeaning tale is told;

Anna shall wish the folly o'er,

Shall fly to Memory's valu'd store;

There foundly trace her childish age,

And call to mind the virgin page.

ARLEY.

THE COMPLAINT.
TO LORD *****.

AND does my friend with kindly ray,

My humble verse regard?

And does he prize the artless lay,

And does he prize the Bard?

The Bard, who oft in Pleasure's bow'r,

Hath turn'd his early song;

When Love led on the sportive hour,

And fir'd the youthful throng?

And shall he now, in Reason's reign,

The well-known theme forego?

And shall he not resume the strain;

And must it cease to flow?

Ah me! the scenes of fond delight,

That wont to charm, are o'er;

And now no more the Muse invite,

And wake the lyre no more:

For hard Suspicion's anger'd eye,

Deems all it sees unjust;

And jaundic'd Envy, low'ring by,

Supports the foul mistrust.

E'en She, whose breast with kindness glows,

That kindness doth suspend;

She too the shaft of censure throws,

And points it at her friend;

That shaft, which hurl'd in open air,

When proud defiance calls,

With manly fortitude we bear,

Regardless where it falls;

That shaft, which veil'd in friendship's band,

Inflicts severer smart,

Flies doubly fierce from friendship's hand,

And deeper stabs the heart.

And yet forbid, my plaintive song,

Should seem too prompt to blame;

For slander's sting hath found me long,

And long hath pierc'd my fame:

And many an idle tale hath run,

And much hath been believ'd,

Of broken vows, and maids undone,

Abandon'd, and deceiv'd.

Peace to all such—yet here I swear,

And thou'lt the warmth excuse,

The garb which knaves and villains wear,

Thro' life I've scorn'd to use:

Tho' Love, with all its soft pursuits,

Hath claim'd my yielding hours;

Tho' oft I've cull'd its fairest fruits,

And pluckt its choicest flow'rs—

Those flow'rs, those fruits, were nobly won,

Not fraudulently stole,

Love taught me how the race to run,

But Truth secur'd the goal.

Then deem not hard, that now the Muse

Laments her fav'rite strain:

That thus she ventures to accuse;

Accusing, to complain:

For much she joy'd, the nymphs among,

To waste the frolic day;

To form for them the grateful song,

And carol time away.

But now no more the heaving sigh,

Shall force the tear to start;

But now no more the glist'ning eye,

Shall speak the soften'd heart:

The tender scenes of earlier years,

To harsher views shall yield;

And Pride, her pageant sceptre rears,

And Av'rice takes the field:—

These shall the sterner mind possess,

To no past maxims true;

Cold to them all, my Lord, unless

To Friendship, and to you.

ARLEY.

ODE To ****.

PRAISE to the men who boldly dare,

Their undissembled thoughts declare;

Who speak the sentiments they feel,

And loud proclaim the crimes they might conceal.

Who nobly zealous daily try,

To pluck the mask from villany;

By neither threat nor promise sway'd,

By pow'r unaw'd, by danger undismay'd—

Who Justice's sacred sword unsheath,

To guard fair Freedom's valued wreath;

Yet careful shun the deed which draws,

Th' unwelcome shout of popular applause.

Who, blest with talents to persuade,

Exert them for their Country's aid;

By virtue, not ambition fir'd,

For worth belov'd, not pageantry admir'd—

'Tis theirs with kind and bounteous hand,

To scatter plenty o'er the land;

To bid distress and sorrow smile,

And crown with due reward the Artist's toil:

'Tis theirs to ease the Widow's fears,

To wipe the friendless Orphan's tears;

Redress the wrongs the weak endure,

Punish the guilty, and protect the poor.

Theirs is the noblest boon below,

The purest bliss the mind can know!

That tranquil undisturb'd serene,

Resulting from the conscious peace within.

For them each grateful voice shall ring,

For them each Muse her tribute bring;

And in the hour which levels all,

Death with complacence shall await their call.

ARLEY.

PRAYER TO VENUS.

KIND Venus, hear thy suppliant's pray'r,

Hear, and indulgent grant;

For love I ask—you well may spare

The little I shall want.

No storms of passion I desire,

No boundless transports claim,

Give me that gentle doubtful fire,

Which feeds a sportive flame.

For oh! I've known the soft delights,

That warm the breast sincere;

The anxious days and sleepless nights

That nurse the tender fear.

Have shar'd the fond endearing kiss,

Which mutual ardour fires,

And tasted oft that genuine bliss,

Which mutual truth inspires.

I've felt the fierce extreme of love,

Which utterance would destroy;

When speechless raptures silent prove,

The soul's sublimest joy.

But then its bitterest pangs I've borne,

Deprest with tenfold care;

And many an hour with anguish torn,

Sat brooding o'er Despair.

Whelm'd with such violence of woe,

Would melt a heart of steel,

Which only those who love can know,

Who lose can only feel.

Hence, let me calmly view the sex,

Contented to enjoy

That bliss, which absence cannot vex,

Or Perfidy destroy:

O Venus! let me favour win,

Secure from Cupid's dart,

Still let it gently pierce my skin,

But never probe my heart!

ARLEY.

COMPLIMENTARY VERSES.

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

GIVE me to see that spark of heavenly fire,

At which all tremble—but which all admire:

That gentle gleam, which in Contentment's hour,

Cheers every vale and brightens every bower.

That ray terrific—which when anger glooms,

Darts dreadful flame, and as it darts, consumes;

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

Exalts, dejects, revivifies, appals;

Shew me that power which thus with Fate can vie,

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

ARLEY.

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

NYMPHS and Shepherds hither haste,

Here the purest joys we taste;

Reason guides our rustic play,

Tunes the pipe and forms the lay.

Lovely MIRA is our queen,

Guardian of the silvan scene;

Nature's charming handmaid, she

Thus proclaims her soft decree:

Come ye little smiling train,

Cheer with sports my happy plain;

Come, while yet the infant year,

Proves both smile and sport sincere.

Blooming in the morn of life,

Strangers yet to care and strife;

Free from art, and free from blame,

You can paint me as I am.

What tho' on your baby brows,

Mark'd expression faintly glows;

Artless look, and native strain,

All my feelings best explain.

Soon shall Time, with iron sway,

Harden youths' maturer day;

Then no longer taught by me,

You'll scorn my sweet simplicity.

ARLEY.

THE RETROSPECT.

AMID the scenes of noise and strife,

That sadly sorrow human life

And cause continual woes;

What soft sensation sooths my breast,

Bids every jarring passion rest,

And transient bliss bestows.

'Tis faithful Memory's friendly hand,

That waves her all-enlivening wand,

And brings to fancy's view;

What time when wing'd with gay delight,

Each thoughtless day and easy night,

On pleasure's pinions flew.

Wafts me to S—'s fertile plains,

Where, first I sung my infant strains,

A rude, unpolish'd boy;

Where, fraught with innocence and Truth,

The lively sports of early youth,

Produc'd a guiltless joy.

There, pleas'd I trace the flow'ry mead,

And round the well-known elm-trees tread,

Where oft I've careless play'd;

And sure my choicest days were spent,

Cheer'd with the smiles of glad Content,

Beneath their peaceful shade.

The distant view of N—'s hills,

My breast with exultation fills,

Long time the bounded walk;

There oft I've shar'd the sweet regale,

Partook th' allotted cakes and ale,

And held the sprightly talk.

The church, the yard, the neighb'ring yew,

All join to warm my heart a-new,

And pastimes past recall;

'Twas here I lash'd the murm'ring top,

Here drove the tile with eager hop,

There struck the bounding ball.

Nor shall fair Learning's sacred spot,

Be by the grateful Muse forgot,

Or heedless left unsung;

Where dawning Reason first began

The deeds of ancient dead to scan,

And urge th'enquiring tongue.

Where, studious still maturing age,

Explor'd the long instructive page,

And emulous of fame,

Consuming oft th' evening oil,

Enjoy'd a pleasing-painful toil

To raise a future name.

Hail, happy state of infant years!

There lovely Peace her temple rears,

And smiling stands confest:

There Virtue holds her cheerful court,

And youthful, gay desires resort

To charm the tranquil breast.

No lawless passions Wound the mind,

There pleasures leave no sting behind,

Sad source of other's care;

Nor fell Remorse, nor envious ire,

Nor black Revenge, with purpose dire,

Occasion dark despair.

Their's is the rosy bloom of health,

The boundless transport snatch'd by stealth,

The heart devoid of guile;

What riper manhood seldom knows,

The peaceful undisturb'd repose,

And undissembled smile.

Regardless of to-morrow's doom,

They feel no dread of ills to come,

Nor Pleasure's feast forego;

The playful day their great relief,

The task unlearn'd their only grief.

The rod their only foe.

Ah, ever to be envied hours!

When no sad thought of future fours—

No distant fears annoy;

No past reflections intervene

To pain the bosom's calm serene,

Or damp the present joy.

Affliction's load they seldom bear,

'Tis theirs to shed the short-liv'd tear

For sorrows soon forgot;

The sweets that from Contentment flow,

That health and peace of mind bestow,

Complete their happy lot.

ARLEY.

STANZAS TO ILL-NATURE.

FIEND abhorr'd! Mankind's worst foe!—

Hence, thy darksome crew among—

Haste,—and with thy jaundic'd brow,

Fly the Muse's vengeful song!

Oft the hapless Muse hath borne

Deep within the wounded heart,

Fell Detraction's venom'd thorn,

Pointed by thy treach'rous art.

Born of Envy, nurs'd by Spleen,

Rear'd in Passion's blighting storm:

Sorrow, anguish, care, chagrin,

Mark thy hideous hateful form.

Fraud and falsehood swell thy train,

Discord is thy sole employ,

Baffl'd malice, all thy pain,

Sated rancour, all thy joy.

Does the Muse with sportive power,

Strive the gloom of life to cheer,

Thou'lt arraign the harmless hour,

Stifle peace, and nurture fear.

Does the flow of joy, or ease,

Some endearing scenes supply;

Every little wish to please

Rouses thy malignity!

Humble genius, slender grace,

Small desert may wait the Muse,

Yet, if any spark we trace,

Thy severest hate ensues.

Blacken'd by thy foul report,

Mirth is mischief, laughter guile;

Snares are seen in ev'ry sport;

Perfidy in every smile.

Still thy arts, malicious fiend—

Still thy hell-born schemes would fail,

Did not oft the valued friend,

Listen to thy specious tale.

Vain were each insidious charge,

Effort feeble as unjust,

Did alas! the world at large,

Only hear, and only trust.

Did not oft the secret lie

Break the bond of private peace,

Bid domestic comfort fly,

Love subside, and friendship cease?

Did not oft thy breath destroy,

Fair Contentment's blooming flow'r,

Wither ev'ry social joy,

And corrode life's dearest hour?

Did not oft thy poison'd shaft,

Pierce the breast that most we prize,

And on fading faith engraft

Doubt, constraint, and sad surmise?—

Luckless is that child of care,

Who beneath thy scourge must live,

Doom'd from early youth to bear

All the torments thou canst give.

Once thy fatal influence spread,

Candour takes no further part;

Ignorance suspects the head,

Prejudice belies the heart.

Hard and cruel is his lot,

Every merit is denied;

All his virtues are forgot,

All his errors magnified.

Fiend relentless—Tyrant grim—

Yet awhile, and all is o'er;

When the lamp of life is dim,

Thou wilt be observ'd no more.

When the sad, the funeral knell,

Shall his parted breath proclaim,

Faithful Mem'ry then shall tell,

Whether he deserv'd such blame.

Love, perhaps, may o'er his tomb,

Drop a tender silent tear;

Friendship too lament a doom,

Enmity may think severe,

ARLEY.

THE CONFESSION.
TO MISS ****.

IN vain I strive my heart to shield,

Spite of myself that heart will yield;

In vain would hide a thousand ways

What every conscious look betrays:—

The jest assum'd, th' averted eye,

Poorly conceal the stifled sigh;

Each stolen touch, which love impels,

The heart's emotion trembling tells.

Yet not Eliza's charms alone,

Could ruling reason thus dethrone;

Her blooming graces, tho' with pain,

My cautious bosom might sustain.

But arm'd with that enchanting mien,

Which speaks the feeling mind within;

How can my soften'd breast be free,

Thus caught by Sensibility?

Yet not for me the tear will start,

Which proves Eliza's tender heart;

Yet not for me the smile will speak,

Which brightens in Eliza's cheek;

Lost in the whirl of fashion'd life,

Where Nature is with Joy at strife;

Her unembarrass'd looks declare,

That Love is not triumphant there:—

Lur'd by the hope of gaudier days,

The pompous banners Wealth displays:

Each fond emotion distant keeps,

And all her native softness sleeps.

ARLEY.

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

ERE yet the Comic Muse, with sprightly pow'r,

Provokes the laugh, and leads the mirthful hour,

Permit the Bard, in serious mood awhile

To wake remembrance, and suspend the smile:

Our scenes to-night no novel merit claim,

Long-tried desert hath fix'd their lasting fame;

The Characters that mark our chosen page

Have long engross'd the veterans of the Stage.

Who was not charm'd, when BARRY held to view

The matchless portraiture which CIBBER drew?

Each eye bestow'd, while he sustain'd the part,

The melting tribute of the feeling heart:

Pitied alike the Husband and the Peer,

Felt his distress, and shar'd his manly tear:

But when Compassion taught his breast to glow—

When fond Forgiveness beam'd upon his brow—

When with discordant pangs no more at strife,

He caught with transport his repentant Wife:

Chas'd with a kiss the sorrows from her cheek,

And told in looks, what language could not speak;

Reliev'd from silent agony the mind,

Like heaving Aetna, when no more confin'd,—

True to itself, and fir'd in Nature's cause,

Burst in the torrent of extreme applause.

Not so our hope—altho' no frown we fear,

Your gentle plaudits will content us here.

For here we meet, tho' envious Factions low'r,

To pass with pleasantry life's leisure hour—

To snatch relief from ombre and quadrille;

Employ the moments—not the time to kill—

To vent our feelings, give fair Friendship birth,

And bind it with the rosy wreath of mirth:

Pleas'd, if our simple store, and artless toil,

Can light in Beauty's cheek one grateful smile—

More pleas'd, if when our softer scenes appear,

We draw from Beauty's eye one tender tear.

ARLEY.

THE INVITATION.
TO DELIA.

THY youthful charms, bright Maid, inspire,

And grace my fav'rite theme,

Whose person kindles soft desire;

Whose mind secures esteem.

O! hear me then, my flame avow,

And fill my breast with joy,

A flame, which taught by time to grow,

No time can e'er destroy:

My tender suit with smiles approve,

And share the sweets of mutual love.

No false delusive arts I use,

As do the courtly throng,

'Tis Nature kindly aids my muse,

And dictates to my song;

Would'st thou, she cries, true bliss ensure,

Make haste the town to leave,

Where Pleasure's gilded baits allure,

And charm but to deceive:

With me, thro' flow'ry medows rove,

And share the sweets of mutual love.

Forsake, where all upright appear,

Yet most perfidious prove,

Where knaves the mask of friendship wear,

Or feign the voice of love.

So shall thy inexperienc'd years,

No source of sorrow know;

Nor shed Affliction's homefelt tears,

Nor weep for others woe:

Haste then, from faithless crowds remove,

And share the sweets of mutual love.

Ah! would my Fair this plan pursue,

How happy should I be,

Since all that brings content to you,

Is ecstacy to me.

Yet e'er the public scenes you quit,

Increase my fond delight,

And deign your humble swain t' admit

The partner of your flight;

And while the varying seasons move,

To share the sweets of mutual love,

When Autumn yields her ripen'd corn,

Or Winter dark'ning low'rs,

With tend'rest care, I'll sooth thy morn,

And cheer thy ev'ning hours:

Again, when smiling Spring returns,

We'll breath the vernal air,

And still, when Summer sultry burns,

To woodland walks repair:

There seek Retirement's shelter'd grove,

And share the sweets of mutual love.

What tho' no costly arts display,

The splendour of a court,

Yet rich in Nature's neat array,

We'll join the rural sport;

Where, seated on the verdant grass,

From daily labour freed,

Each shepherd wooes his favourite lass,

And tunes his oaten reed,

Remarks the tender turtle dove,

And sings the sweets of mutual love.

No revels there the night consume,

Which oft the Fair undo,

Make beauty lose its lovely bloom,

And often virtue too;

There, free from discontent and strife,

Each undesigning youth

Strives to relieve the cares of life,

With constancy and truth;

Haste then, the fleeting hours improve,

And share the sweets of mutual love.

For can that destiny be just,

That innocence and health

Be yielded up a prey to lust,

Or sacrifice to wealth?

Or shall the mind, where honour dwelt,

Deplore that honour gone,

Which still for others pitying felt,

Itself unpitied mourn?

Forbid it, all ye pow'rs above,

And grant her ever mutual love!

ARLEY.

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

SINCE all to Beauty's rip'ning bloom

Their cheerful homage pay,

Be not displeas'd, that I presume

To hail thy natal day.

Tho' careless joke, and empty mirth,

My thoughtless hours employ,

I'll greet the day which gave thee birth,

With undissembl'd joy.

And while the Muse's softest strains

In artless numbers flow;

That smiles may recompense her pains

The fervent wish shall glow.

Henceforward now shall disappear

Dull Winter's cheerless gloom;

November's month shall charm the year,

And wear an annual bloom;

Fresh flow'rets shall unfading blow,

Fresh verdure deck the green;

The meads their choicest beauties shew,

To honour Beauty's Queen.

But should the season now refuse

To act the change I sing;

Sould Winter scorn to aid the Muse,

Declar'd the foe to Spring;

The roses that thy cheeks adorn,

Shall hast'ning youth prolong;

Shall yearly grace thy birth-day morn,

And witness to my song:

Or if by Time's all conqu'ring-hand,

Their bloom must wear away;

The roses of thy mind shall stand,

And never know decay.

ARLEY.

LINES SENT TO A FRIEND WITH A WATCH.

ACCEPT, my friend, and kindly deem

This offering of the Bard;

His token of sincere esteem,

And tribute of regard.

What tho' no trappings I allow;

The Watch thus unadorn'd;

Believe me, when I dare avow,

Its worth should not be scorn'd.

Companion of my earliest youth,

I've oft its value known!

Unsway'd its probity and truth,

By Fortune's smile, or frown.

In infant state, when learning's lore,

For Pastime was forgot,

It whisper'd oft the hast'ning hour,

And task remember'd not.

Obedient still to riper age,

When Pleasure leads astray;

'Twill Reason's cool reproof engage,

And chide the ill-spent day.

Remind us, Time unceasing wears,

Howe'er its loss we mourn;

And bid us nurse the passing years,

Which never can return.

ARLEY.

SONG.
Addressed to A YOUNG LADY.

SHOULD you ask me, what female desert I require

To relish the conjugal life;

Nor beauty, nor titles, nor wealth I desire,

To bias my choice in a wife:

The charms of a face may occasion a sigh;

The costly allurements of Art

May yield a short moment of joy to the eye,

But give no delight to the heart.

Would equipage, splendor, or noble descent

Bring comfort wherever they fall,

Could these add a drop to the cup of Content,

I'd gladly partake of them all;

But vain the assistance proud riches bestow,

The raptures that beauty impart,

To soften the painful reflections of woe,

Or banish distress from the heart.

Then give me the temper unclouded and gay,

The countenance ever serene,

To cheer with sweet converse as youth wears away,

And dissipate anger and spleen;

Whose smiles may endear and enliven the hours

Retirement shall oft set apart;

Whose virtues may sooth when disquietude sours,

And tenderness cherish the heart.

For Fortune, be Honour her portion assign'd,

For Beauty, bright Health's rosy bloom,

Let Justice and Candor ennoble her mind,

And Cheerfulness Sorrow consume:

Thus form'd would she share with me life's little store,

It's mixture of pleasure and smart.

She'd ever continue, 'till both were no more,

The constant delight of my heart.

ARLEY.

BALLAD, FOUNDED ON FACT.

ELIZA was beyond compare,

The pride of all the plain,

Fair, yet belov'd by every fair,

Ador'd by every swain.

Tho' Nature had each charm combin'd

The beauteous Maid to grace;

And bade the sweetness of her mind

Stand pictur'd in her face;

Yet Fortune, from her earliest years,

A fate disastrous wove;

And doom'd her to an age of tears,

For one short hour of love.

In childhood's helpless state, bereft

Of parents' watchful care;

Her inexperienc'd youth was left

A prey to every snare.

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One only fault the Maid proffess'd—

—If that a fault we deem—

A tender, unsuspecting breast,

Too lavish of esteem.

Unvers'd in woes that others find,

In wiles that others fear;

Artless herself, she thought mankind

Were, like herself, sincere.

But ah! ere yet the luckless Maid

Had fifteen summers run,

Her faith and honour were betray'd—

Her virtue was undone.

Young HENRY, with successful art,

To win her favour strove;

Long practis'd on her youthful heart,

And early gain'd her love.

Fraught with each soft resistless charm,

With each persuasive pow'r,

He still'd Discretion's kind alarm,

And cropp'd the virgin flow'r.

Her orphan state, her tender years,

Her pure, unspotted fame,

Serv'd but to hush his guilty fears,

And fan his lawless flame.

By Honour's dictates unrestrain'd,

By Faith, nor Justice sway'd;

That confidence his vows obtain'd

His perfidy betray'd.—

So poor ELIZA's hapless fate

Fill'd HENRY's breast with care;

Nor could the vain parade of state

Protect him from despair.

He saw the beauties once he priz'd

All wither in their bloom,

By lawless passion sacrific'd

Untimely to the tomb.

For how could injur'd honour look

Its Author in the face?

Or how could suff'ring virtue brook

Invective and disgrace?

No sorrows could afford relief,

No penitence atone;

The sigh she gave to others' grief,

She wanted for her own.

The partners of her youthful years,

Unpitying her distress,

Nor kindly help'd to dry her tears,

Nor strove to make them less.

Her lov'd companions turn'd away

To former friendship cold;

And left her in Affliction's day,

Uncherish'd, unconsol'd.

So ever thro' the World we find

Each breast at woe recoils,

And all the favours of mankind

But last while fortune smiles.

Too just, life's guilty joys t' endure,

Too weak its thorns to brave;

No friend but Death she could procure,

No comfort but the Grave.

Awhile she Heaven's forgiveness pray'd,

For errors long confest;

Then sought the solitary shade,

And silent sunk to rest.

Hard-fortun'd sex! in every state,

From custom's rigid pow'r,

Years of remorse can't expiate

One inadvertent hour.

Unskill'd in Life's precarious way,

Should Love their bosoms burn,

And yielding Nature chance to stray,

They never can return.

In vain they with repentant sighs,

Their sad experience mourn;

E'en those, who ought to sympathize,

Abandon them with scorn.

Say why, ye Virgins, who bestow

On most, Compassion's tear;

The pangs alone yourselves may know,

You thus refuse to cheer?

O rather kindly condescend

To aid the drooping fair;

Your mercy with your justice blend,

And snatch them from despair.

ELIZA's death, when HENRY heard,

He gave a piteous groan;

The censure of the World he fear'd,

But more he fear'd his own.

In vain he flew to crowds and courts,

Guilt every bliss destroys;

Intruded on his morning sports,

And damp'd his evening joys.

At length, with constant grief o'ercome,

With anguish, and dismay;

He hied him to the lonely tomb

Which held ELIZA's clay:

There weeping o'er the turf-clad ground,

Of all existence tir'd:

He cast his streaming eyes around,

And mournfully expir'd.

Thus warn'd, ye Fair, with caution arm

'Gainst Man's perfidious arts:

Since Youth and Beauty vainly charm

When Honour once departs.

Let Hymen's sacred bands unite,

Where Passion is declar'd;

Give sanction to approv'd delight,

And authorize regard.

So shall no rankling cares annoy,

No tears unceasing flow;

So shall you feel a Mother's joy,

Without a Mother's woe.

ARLEY.

TO LAURA.

The following Lines were the earliest offering to a Young Lady, whose Theatric talents once formed the ornament of the Stage on which 〈◊〉 •…∣peared and whose Memory will be honoured by the Drama which she adorned.

GO, faithful Muse! to LAURA fly,

And with thee bear this tender sigh;

Tell her 'tis honest—free from art,

And acts in concert with my heart:

If soft she looks, nor frowns the while,

'Twill take the semblance of a smile;

But if unkind she scorns it—swear

Twill melt that moment to a tear:—

Fly, Muse, and let the Fair one know,

'Tis her's to fix my weal or woe;

Array'd in Beauty's lovliest bloom,

She stamps my bliss, or seals my doom.

Bid her recal that happy hour,

When to the box the wand she bore;

And having play'd her public part,

Came privately to steal my heart.

Go, Muse, and ask the charming Maid,

If pond'ring since on what I said,

She ever wish'd nor would disdain,

To pass the halcyon hour again?

While all were on the scene intent,

My thoughts alone on her were bent,

Her smiles to kingdoms I'd prefer,

And I could only gaze on her.

Haste, haste, my Muse, once more intrude

And ask if LAURA thought me rude?

Ask, if that sweet engaging brow

To every Swain is always so?

Ask, if those looks were only meant,

As cold respect and compliment?

Ask, if her heart was wholly free,

Or felt one partial glow for me?

Perhaps that youthful bosom yet,

Hath no endearing object met;

Ah me! what transports he must prove,

Who raptur'd wins her Virgin Love!

For me, unskill'd, unus'd to plead,

My humble Verse may ill succeed;

Yet LAURA, to that Verse attend,

And in the Lover mark the Friend.

While life's transcendant morn is yours,

While Beauty blooms, and Youth endures;

A thousand Swains will hourly kneel,

And what they fancy, swear they feel.

Lascivious age will round thee press,

And shock thy early tenderness;

Will dare to bribe the free-born Mind,

And give you gold to have you kind.

Ah, LAURA! shun the treach'rous foe,

Who'd sink thy feeling heart so low;

Such wretches scorn, and him approve,

Who only offers Love for Love.

ARLEY.

ELEGY.
To the LADY who will best remember it.

WHEN strong Affliction deeply wounds the breast,

When Sorrow sits within the moisten'd eye;

When the heart sinks, with pond'rous grief opprest,

And the sad bosom heaves with many a sigh;

Lost to all life, averse from ev'ry joy,

Disdaining comfort, scorning all repose,

The pensive Soul can brook but one employ—

Brooding in gloomy Silence o'er its woes.

Come then, thou Partner of my cheerless hour,

Come, faithful Muse, and seek the lonely grove,

Retire with me to yon sequester'd bow'r,

And mark the story of my luckless love.

For thou, the truest, tenderest, best of friends,

The fond companion of my earliest youth,

Wilt share each anguish that my bosom rends,

Untir'd wilt listen, and unseen wilt sooth.

Oft hast thou tried, and oft with kind success,

To smooth the sorrows of my aching brow;

But ah! I never felt severe distress,

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

Full well thou know'st in life's unripen'd morn,

With thoughtless ease I pass'd the frolick day;

Pluckt every rose, and where I found a thorn,

Threw, careless threw, th' unheeded flow'r away.

Resolv'd the roving restless mind to cure,

And guide the future different from the past,

I sought for sweets that might thro' life endure,

And fondly fancied they were found at last.

I saw the lovliest Rose, that grac'd the land,

With blooming fragrance gladd'ning all around,

Too bold, perhaps, I thrust the forward hand,

Miss'd the fair flow'r, and only felt the wound.

Felt! did I say! deep rankling in my heart

No time can mitigate my suffering there;

Hope lends no friendly balsam for the smart,

And all my black'ning prospects frown despair,

And yet lov'd Maid, if partial to my Muse,

Her artless numbers thou wilt deign to hear;

If, softly-sighing, thou wilt not refuse,

To shed with her one sympathizing tear;

That single tear that dews ELIZA's cheek,

Shall for a moment wash my griefs away;

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

And gild the evening of each mournful day.

Then shall I think 'twas not ELIZA's heart,

'Twas not her gentle breast refus'd to glow;

'Twas not ELIZA's self who made us part,

The World, th' unfeeling World pronounc'd it so.

The unfeeling World that thinks where riches roll,

Where titles blazon, joys can never cease;

That waves each soft emotion of the soul,

And builds on public clamour private peace.

And yet, ELIZA, thou may'st live to prove,

And thy fond heart may own it with a sigh,

That the endearing sweets of mutual Love,

No Wealth, no State, no Splendour can supply.

Form'd as thou art, with every outward grace,

With ev'ry inward virtue richly fraught,

Think, if thy tenderness thou should'st misplace,

Pride, Pomp, and Grandeur may be dearly bought.

Though Honour's nobles circle thou'lt adorn,

And dignify in every sphere the Wife,

ELIZA, or I much mistake, was born

To shine amidst the soften'd joys of life.

For me, whom poignant woes must still depress,

Each future hour to sorrow I resign;

Death only can alleviate my distress,

And the last parting moment shall be Thine!

ARLEY.

LOVE RENEW'D, A SONNET.

LIGHT fly the hours, attendant joy,

Gay mirth, and every sweet employ,

Chasing the short-liv'd moments, prove

The blissful state of glowing Love.

New to the heart, the youthful Fair,

First learns to feel a tenderer care;

A fond solicitude which says,

How poor the calm of former Days!

Then hope and fear, alternate reign,

Transition of delight and pain;

That dear distress, that charming strife,

Which interests every scene of life:

The cheek suffus'd the downcast brow,

The sigh escap'd we know not how;

The soft rebuke, th' unwilling blame,

Triumphant Nature all proclaim.

Sweet is the Passion thus pursu'd,

But sweeter far is Love Renew'd

That Love, which, when the bosom thrill'd,

Suspense the icy hand hath chill'd;

Hath doom'd to sit the mournful day,

And weep the ling ring time away;

The heart's best prospects, once so fair,

Chang'd in an instant to despair.—

How hard! to view the budding Rose

In Life's glad morn its sweets disclose;

Then in the fond expectant hour,

To lose the lovely yielding flow'r.

How sweet! when hope was scarce alive,

To see that hour again revive;

The long-lost Rose once more to view,

With ripen'd fragrance bloom anew;

Then Love, with soft-ey'd Pity blends.

Then, Mem'ry all her aid extends;

Past sorrow, heightens present joy,

And rapture lives without alloy.

ARLEY.

CHARACTERISTIC SONG.

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

YOUR MOLLY has never been false, she declares,

Since last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs;

When I swore that I still would continue the same,

And gave you the 'Bacco-Box, mark'd with my name.

When I pass'd a whole fortnight between decks with you,

Did I e'er give a Buss, TOM, to one of the crew?

To be useful and kind to my THOMAS I staid,

For his Trowsers I wash'd, and his Bumbo I made.

Though threaten'd last Sunday to walk in the Mall

With SUSAN, from Deptford, and Billing sgate SAL,

In silence I stood, your unkindness to hear,

And only upbraided my TOM with a tear.

Still faithful and fond from the first of my life,

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

For falsehood in Wedlock too often is priz'd,

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

ARLEY.

THE REPENTANCE OF PASSION.

The following POEM, in a distant part of the Wo•ld, 〈…〉 for its Foundation. The Lovers thus described, parted, with 〈◊〉 emotions the Story gives them. The Dialogue only is fanciful. It is the form which the Author adopted, as the best Method of conveying to the Public.

HE.

AND does my Harriet still adhere,

To wear Affliction's garb alone;

Still does she hold her Spoiler dear,

And prize his peace who broke her own?

Still will she strive his pangs to heal,

Who all her youthful honours tore,

And near his pillow constant kneel,

When every power to please is o'er?

SHE.

And does my Love, unkind, suppose

I e'er would leave his lonely bed;

Forsake the Youth my heart has chose,

And fly, because his health has fled?

And will he, sunk in sad despair,

Believe his Harriet loves no more;

Or think, while she can sooth one care,

That every power to please is o'er.

HE.

Ah! cease to sooth my woe-worn head!

Shun the sad wretch thou canst not save;

Nor hover round that guilty bed

Where martyr'd Virtue found its grave:

Here sunk the glories of thy youth,

Each blooming honour doom'd to fall,

Here, Treachery triumph'd over Truth,

And here, sterh Death, shall expiate all.

SHE.

Ah! cease to wound my heart anew!

Still if thou bend'st at Sorrow's shrine,

Again thy Harriet thou'lt undo,

For Harriet's life is wrapt in thine;—

Had I ten thousand wrongs endur'd,

And that lov'd cheek one tear let fall,

That single tear cach pang had cur'd;

—One tender sigh would expiate all.

HE.

O spurn me!—Case thy heart in steel—

Give just resentment all its force;

Not by such kindness, make me feel

The torture of severe remorse.

Why, in life's early happy day,

When health and joy gave means to bless;

Why did I heedless turn away,

From her who lov'd to such excess?

SHE.

Lament no more, my bosom's friend;—

Thy errors past, thy cares should cease;

Corroding thought awhile suspend,

And nurtur'd Hope shall teem with peace;

Thy kind, thy gentle Harriet sues,

Clings round thy arm with fond caress;

Nature will every fault excuse,

And sweetly pardon Love's excess.

HE.

Too tender, too relenting Fair!

My fault can never be forgot;

Unpitying Love would scorn my pray'r,

And injur'd Nature owns me not;

When, in the fond ingenuous hour,

Thy native tenderness was shewn,

How did I meanly sport with pow'r,

Betray thy love, and shame my own.

SHE.

Hear me, thou persevering man!

Hear, what thy Harriet firmly swears—

If courted death must be thy plan,

Remember, 'twill but prelude hers:

Here will she wait thy final doom—

Then drench'd in tears, and desp'rate grown,

Stretch'd o'er thy corse, in life's first bloom,

Forgot thy love, and end her own.

HE.

Lend me thy aid, to combat Fate;

For thy dear sake I'll strive to live;

Draw near me,—help, oh! 'tis too late—

Take the last kiss I now can give:

Wan is that cheek you oft have prest,

And dim those eyes you lov'd so well;

And the hard pang that rends my breast,

My falt'ring tongue can scarcely tell.

SHE.

Here—on this bosom, rest thy head—

Speak—look upon me—breathe once more—

His pulse is still—oh God! he's dead—

Fate, do thy worst,—the conflict's o'er:

Weep for their woes ye tender few—

You'll pity what you feel so well!

My humble pen but paints for you;

How just the trickling tear shall tell.

ARLEY.

DIVERSITY. A POEM.

'TWAS on a mountain's airy spire,

With eye that flash'd celestial fire,

That quench'd the dawn's expanding ray,

And pre-assumed the day,

Immortal GENIUS slood.

Anon, his saphire wings unfold

With ample spread, and starr'd with beamy gold;

His loose hair hover'd o'er the prostrate flood,

And on each bounding billow threw

A quiv'ring shade of deeper blue.

Sudden he darts a light'ning smile,

And "blest (he cries) be BRITAIN's isle,

Dear proud Asylum of my favour'd race!

Where Contemplation joys to trace

The classic feature, and the form of sense,

And hail the MUSE SUBLIME, and PATRIOI ELOQUENCE.

These are the plains that FANCY loves,

O'er these white cliffs she wanders free,

And scatters in the floating gale,

Her long array of fairy pageantry.

While MELODY, in some far vale,

Weaves on the air a length'ning line

Of cadence soft, and swell divine;

What time the maniac RAPTURE roves,

His jet locks dripping with the vap'ry show'r,

That EVENING weeps upon each solded flow'r,

As down the shad'wy hills her less'ning car

Tracks the slow progress of her idol star.

Then here, in sweet delirium will I stay,

And meet on every blast a variegated lay."

LUR'D by the voice, from solemn glade

The •…ying Maid,

Extatic POETRY, was seen

To pace the upland green—

With many a curl luxuriant flowing,

Cheeks with light purpureal glowing,

While her long-unsettled gaze

That VARYING PASSION's force displays,

Fix'd on him she most ador'd,

HER SACRED SOUL'S ETERNAL LORD.

Ha! as she swept with wild'ring hand

Her charmed harp, o'er sea and land

Fleet ZEPHYR bore each melting tone,

That MELANCHOLY thought her own,

That frolic PLEASURE smil'd to hear,

And MADNESS welcom'd with a tear:

While VALOUR, rushing at the sound,

Dash'd his burning eye-balls round,

And as far off his shield he hurl'd

WITH NAKED BREAST DEFIED THE WORLD!

Scarce was the mystic strain begun,

When from his eastern tent the SUN

Leapt forth in arms,

And rear'd his crest sublime,

THE PROTOTYPE OF TIME!

How lovely then were NATURE'S CHARMS!

Glitt'ring OCEAN never ending,

Ruby ROCKS, and FORESTS bending,

Bending to the lawns below,

Where countless flow'rets countless tints bestow;

Wide LAKES their lucid mirrors spread,

Upon whose banks the white flocks fed,

And seem'd their silv'ry fleeces to adorn

With the last lustre of the moon of morn.

Art, alike transported straying,

Was her rival pow'r displaying;

O'er the sleek wave she bade a NUM'ROUS SAIL

Stretch'd the fair canvas to the wafting gale;—

From shelving hills triumphant CITIES rise,

And tow'rs and column'd domes usurp the skies;—

Bade meadows smile with many a cultur'd bow'r,

And bursting fountains toss the spangled show'r;

Such was the scene when the rapt maiden sung,

Ah, who shall tell the music of her tongue!

The undulation of the stream

Low murm'ring on the pebbly shores,

The warble of her fav'rite theme,

That PHILOMEL incessant pours,

From solitary, lov'd retreat,

When STAR-LIGHT drops a tissued veil

O'er the clear brook, and moisten'd dale;—

Such sounds, were never half so sweet,

As when SHE told, of roseate blisses,

Tender smiles and vermil kisses,

Nor half so thrilling Battle's call

That sends defiance from th' assaulted wall,

As when she told of HONOR's merit,

Glories that the BRAVE inherit,

How, th' exulting breast, disdains

Selfish pleasures—selfish pains!

From couch where downy Peace had spread

A jasmine pillow for his head,

Borne upon translucent wings,

LOVE, the wanton Cherub springs;

And flutters round in mazy play,

Enthusiastic at the lay!

But soon he hies him to the cypress grove,

Where JEALOUSY retires to rove,

And chase soft slumbers from the virgin's brow.

And tell her timid heart of many a broken vow.

Then the BENIGN CONSOLER leads

Her fearful steps o'er fringed meads,

Where HOPE indulgent freely throws

Fresh ether from enchanted rose!

He brings her to the tear-bath'd stone,

Where, all repentant and alone,

In settled anguish of despair,

Her Lover lies—he brings her there!

And on quick pinion brushing by,

Breathes the languor of a sigh:

The Youth revives,—with eager bound,

Clasps his speechless Fair-one round,

While from her eye the swift drop rusnes,

In vain to quench her burning blushes!

O now the Goddess of the potent lyre,

Proves at her heart the sympathetic fire,

Invokes the DRYAD and the FAWN,

The fabled people of each wood and lawn,

And those that in the bright stream lave

Their glossy breasts, or skim the occean wave,

She wooes them to the scene, to show

How near allied are BLISS AND WOE,

How sweetly powerful to move,

The silent sentiment of LOVE!

But soon the measure chang'd, and slow she draws

Her elegiac trill, with doleful sweep,

And at each sadly-penetrating pause,

Teaches the meek morality to weep.

She sung of those, to happiest fortune born,

Whose downcast looks a dire reverse reveal,

Who long, too long neglected and forlorn,

Had known to suffer, and had learnt to feel;

By ling ring sorrow soften'd to excess,

Of many a genial consolation flown,

Who still regretted most, the pow'r to bless,

And others' pangs lamented as their own.

Of those, who oft, when Day's proud torch was sped,

Held wayward converse with the wintry wind,

Who found on some cold rock their craggy bed,

And met a season suited to their mind.

They, like the plant with vegetative sense,

That silent droops when touches rude annoy,

Shrunk from the pressure of a World's offence,

Yet gain'd from Pity what they lost of Joy.

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

Had cherish'd scorn amid the wilds of woe,

Or charm'd by SUICIDE's opprobrious spell,

Had bar'd their bosoms to his tempting blow.

"And where (she cried) does mild Compassion stray,

Must that fell tyrant grant alone relief,

Drive the wet crystal from their lids away,

[*]And close the bleeding artery of grief?"

Now more subdued, she sunk—a keener pain

Stole to her inmost feeling, for she thought

Of all the sacred melancholy train,

That ever here her inspiration caught,

From rugged CHAUCER, with uncouthest phrase,

To the chaste clasic race of later days.

And when on AVON'S BARD her Fancy dwelt,

Her bosom 'gan to heave, and glow, and melt,

For he was of her offspring dearest far,

In her own hemisphere the solar star.

Whether some strange horrific tale he wove,

Or shew'd the pangs, the exstacies of love,

Or pierc'd with daring wing the heavenly height,

And soar'd beyond the Theban eagle's flight,

Most EXCELLENT WAS HE—then, too, a tear

Dropp'd for her hallow'd DRYDEN's injur'd bier;

And OTWAY, luckless OTWAY! sad she view'd,

Wither'd by deep distress, in anguish go

To Death's dark cavern, through the gates of woe;

And POPE, his strong unrival'd sense renew'd,—

And SPENSER shook a magic banner bright,

And sainted COLLINS came in meekness due,

"With sky-worn robes of tenderest blue,

And eyes of dewy light."

Nor was not MILTON mourn'd, unmatch'd!—To pour

Magnificently wild, the seraph lay!—

GOLDSMITH, and GRAY she wept, and gentle GAY—

And THOMSON, potent in description's pride—

Light PRIOR—solemn YOUNG—inventive AKENSIDE:

And all who on the calm, autumnal heath,

Had ever listen'd to her tuneful breath,

And bade from silver lute responsive measures fly;

For these she gave a retrospective sigh;

Nor wert thou then forgotten, hapless MORE![*]

Her last-lost son, dead in thy very prime!

Yet sure among the friends who wish'd thee well,

Sure one remains to tell

That thou could'st sing, "and build the lofty rhyme."

And that, if fate had kindly spar'd thy days,

Few would kave match'd, and none excell'd thy lays.

Sure He may speak, who oft in TAPLOW's grove,

With thee was wont the Summer noon to rove,

Or aid thee with his feath'ring oar, to guide

Thy buoyant skiff on Thames' meand'ring tide;

Or at thy social board delighted sit,

And watch the animation of thy wit,

Pleas'd when he heard thee boast the valued name

Of ELLIS,[*] then prophetic of his fame.

He, who yet ling'ring on this weary scene,

Has never found thy equal; never known

A heart so pure, so gen'rous as thy own!

Who, when he saw thee borne across the green

To the cold grave, a helpless statue stood,

While the deep murmur of each neighb'ring wood,

In desolating language join'd

Sad unison with his distracted mind.

O! do not then, DEAR SHADE! the grief disdain,

That constant flows, altho' it flows in vain.

Now the strong meridian beam

Downward pours a fiercer stream,

And bounding o'er each russet hill,

MIRTH with LAUGHTER at his side,

In jovial freak, and careless pride,

Comes of sport to take his fill.

With eager step he seeks to measure

Ev'ry labyrinth of PLEASURE,—

Who, coy Nymph! abash'd appears,

And hides her in a veil of tears,

Such tears as oft at morning speed

To call to life the languid mead,

Or on the teeming harvest roll'd,

With pearls bedeck its wavy gold.

Yet alluring glances fly

From her soft enamour'd eye,

That soon discover, tho' she shun,—

She'd fain to his embraces run!

But again his course he changes,

And each varying landscape ranges,

Till amidst a wild of sweets,

The mighty QUEEN OF SONG he greets.

Then lowly bows the suppliant knee,

In well dissembled mockery,

While shaking LAUGHTER offers up,

Sweet liquor of Circean cup.

The Goddess taste—a sportive ray

Drives ev'ry mournful thought away,

And as the sad reflections go,—

Thus, her livelier numbers flow.

"No longer my vot'ries shall desolate rave,

In the depth of the forest, or gloom of the grave,

But far diff'rent cares shall they hasten to prove

And press the rich grapes of the vintage of love.

Then let us not languish, my friends! tho' tis true,

That when you want others, they never want you.

Though pleasures will pass, yet the short time they stay,

To shun them is error, 'tis sense to be gay.

Does the full-moon less sweetly enamel the plain,

Because she's inconstant, and destin'd to wane,

Or do flowers, when gather'd, less odour bestow,

Than those that are suffer'd to fade as they grow?

In the calm of enjoyment then think not of sorrow,

Nor brood on the storm that may threaten to-morrow."

She paus'd, for Genius wav'd his head,

And straight the wild illusion fled,

The fev'rish vapours from her brain depart,

And sober reason settles at her heart.

'Twas then obedient to her sov'reign's will,

She finds obtrusive rage her bosom fill,

On Folly's monster offspring darts her gaze,

Lifts a SATIRIC SCOURGE, and thus indignant says:—

"BRITAIN! behold a Sourc'ress is come forth,

Child of the Tropic heat, and frozen North,

In whose dull breast contrasted evils jar,

And wage with Common Sense perpetual war,

Out-smiling truth, and e'en out-blushing shame,

She reigns and AFFECTATION is her name!

Lo! now methinks on yonder porcelain throne,

Glaz'd o'er in France, but all the dirt your own,

With mimic mien of majesty she sits,

And smirks, and prattles, and looks grave by fits,

Then seems so destitute of hope and fear,

As life itself, were nothing but a sneer.

And mark what crowds advance to swell her state,

In pompons nonsense miserably great;

Grim Doctors, Men of study, Men of gold,

The Moralizing Young, and Vicious Old,

And stale Coquets, with ogles feebly sent,

And musing Members of the Parliament!

See, see, how quick, how numerous they glide,

All unsubstantial as the rainbow's pride!

Like Banquo's shades before the King that past,

And each fresh fool more solemn to the last;

In their dear Idol's honor they declaim,

Poets unknown, and idiots with a name.

Slow-lab'ring logick, and discussion bare,

And Mangled Metaphor, alas! is there.

Pert Pun, quaint Epigram, smart Repartee,

And weak Conundrum, and loose Ribaldry;

While Blockheads praise, what livelier Blockheads spoke,

And nodding Nabobs analyze each joke

O MODEST LIT'RATURE! must thou too feel

Th' assassin vengeance of this tyrant's steel,

Must thou no longer, liberal and free,

Lose all thy nature's genuine dignity?

Catch ev'ry gewgaw of the vulgar tribe,

Thy fame a mumm'ry! and thy bays, a bribe?

Must vain pretenders throng thy fair abode,—

And simp'ring Smatt'rers pen the patchwork ode?

Who tho' unschool'd, yet eager to prevail,

Snatch the glib Eel of Learning by the tail,

And as their filthy fingers smeer the rhyme,

Admire the gloss and glitter of the slime.

O scorn'd be those who each emotion hide

In lordly littleness, and pamper'd pride,

To Affectation raise alone their eyes,

Contrive their smiles and fabricate their sighs.

O scorn'd be such! but may the true combine

T' attack th' enchantress, and deface her shrine,

To dart their arrows at her tinsel brow,

And lay the Necromantic monster low.

Then shall SIMPLICITY, sweet Maid! appear

Fresh with the blushes of the vernal year,

Her gen'rous impulse to mankind impart,

And own no law but nature, and the heart,

Till ev'ry wish still verging to one end,

Each object, virtue, and each man, a friend,

TRIUMPHANT REASON, shed its potent ray,

To drive distorted Prejudice away,

Cheer the lone hamlet, the gay court illume,

And BLESSING LIFE, BEATIFY THE TOMB!

Peace, peace, (the GODHEAD cries) nor more

Dwell on failings of this HAPLESS SHORE,

Observe the VIRTUES! still they rise—

In meek expansion to the skies!

See CHASTITY, with purest mien,

That loves to bless the rural scene,

And in CONTENT's domestic bow'r,

To guard AFFECTION's modest flow'r!

Here soft-ey'd PITY duly sends

Her tenderest look to solace woe,

And as a balmy wreath she blends,

Her silent sacred sorrows slow.—

Nor think that thou, DEAR NYMPH! alone

Canst call my influence thy own,

Though full of me,—in madd'ning trance,

When early Twilight's streaks advance,

By the clear fount, or shelt'ring wood,

By the loud torrent's foamy flood,

Thou lov'st to stray—or when the night-blasts sweep,

With pilgrim footsteps, wind the dreary steep,

There near some bending beech reclin'd,

While moral musings fill thy mind,

The world's best joys like meteors seem,

And all its boast a fading dream.

Though at thy mandate Nature rears

A wizard wand of hopes and fears,

That as she waves amid the blaze of day,

Wakes into birth—the sad—the gay—

And ev'ry jocund Phantom fair,

And ev'ry Spectre of despair.

Tho' such my hallow'd boon to thee;

Unnumber'd, rival vot'ries •ee!

In SCULPTURE, PAINTING; ev'ry ART

That charms the senses, or the heart,

And those who form each passing age,

The impressive Children of the Stage.

Ah! let me not too proud! explain

The triumph of th' exalted train—

Long were the task, the flaming orb

Again his rising course might run,

Again the West his beams absorb,

Nor would the length'ning tale be done.

To naught confin'd I ever range

In wild propensity of change,

When first CREATION fill'd the void,

I, was the minister employ'd,

'Twas I, that fix'd yon central light,

And, bless'd with all its gems the night!

But WHAT ART THOU, who loit'ring near,

Where these mysterious forests low'r,

Giv'st to my tongue a list'ning ear,

And steal'st upon this sacred hour?

PRESUMPTUOUS BARD! think not, from me,

T' attract the glowing spark of energy,

Or with frail touch, and imitative tone,

To draw sweet numbers from thy tuneless lyre;

'Tis darkness all, unless I lend my fire!

And MUSICK wakes at my command alone.

FOND CHILD OF DUST! thy hopes forego,

And reconcile thy soul to woe!

But ne'er imagine that I bear a part,

In the deep anguish of thy struggling heart;

Nor idly look for FAME—her breath

IS FOUND BUT IN THE GALES OF DEATH!

She seeks the slumb'rous Raven's gloom,

To whisper o'er the lonely tomb!—

Deigning, at last, that praise to give,

Which none might e'er receive, and live!

HARD IS THE POET'S LOT!—in vain

He pours an inoffensive strain,

To cheer the Woodlark brooding on her nest,

Or sooth the secret sorrows of his breast;

Tho' but a Shepherd's song it flow,

In ev'ry vale he meets a foe,

While e'en amid the peasant throng,

Shall hiss pale Envy's viper tongue!

Or could his pen, with strength sublime,

To high perfection lift the rhyme;—

Or teach instructive truth to doubly please,

With [*]HESTER's brilliant wit, and learned ease;

Still would DULL MALICE shout around,

Still fix th' inevitable wound.—

Still would DETRACTION point the lance,

And bid her harpy sons advance.—

Rather, with weeds thy temples bind;

And mourn thy faults,—thy follies, past,—

Mourn thy rash youth,—that fled so fast,

And mourn the fever of thy mind:—

SUBMISSIVE YIELD TO STEDFAST FATE'S DECREE,

AND LEARN TO PITY BASE MALIGNITY!—

So, when I view thee at declining eve

Bathe thy hot bosom in the lunar tide,

Or near yon cataract hear thee grieve,—

Down my sad cheek, perchance, a tear shall glide."

HE SPOKE—AND DARTING UPWARDS FROM THE SIGHT,

SAIL'D THRO' TH' IMMENSE ABYSS AND VANISH'D INTO LIGHT!

SONNET. TO THE MUSE.

CAELESTIAL spirit! who dost deign to shed

Thy mystic visions o'er my raptur'd soul,

And with thy tuneful numbers dost control

The horrid cares which haunt my lonely bed;

Come!—fill my lab'ring breast with sacred fire;

Such fire as glow'd in PETRARCH's tender line,

When Love, and heav'nly LAURA's charms divine,

Claim'd the soft sorrows of his gentle Lyre.

—O grant my pray'r! and fair MELISSA's fame,

Shall rival LAURA's in the roll of Time;

Her virtues shall be known in ev'ry clime,

And Bards unborn shall quote her Poet's name!

Blest, who deserve the meed the MUSE can give,

For whom she favours will for ever live.

BENEDICT.
July 3, 1788.

SONNET. TO MELISSA's LIPS.

DEAR balmy lips of her who holds my heart

In the soft bondage of a love sincere!—

Dear balmy lips! your cherub smiles impart

To your adoring suppliant's earnest pray'r.

Not the fresh rose-bud, charg'd with vernal dew,

Nor the warm crimson of the blushing morn,

Nor the gay blossoms of the summer thorn,

Are half so glowing, or so sweet as you!

Dear lips!—permit my trembling lips to press

Your ripen'd softness in a tender kiss:

And, while my throbbing heart avows the bliss,

Will you—(dear lips!) the eager stranger bless?

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

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

BENEDICT.

SONNET. THE VALENTINE OF HOPELESS LOVE!

WAK'D by the breath of spring, in ev'ry vale

The latent primrose rears her sickly head;

The virgin snow-drop decks the verdant bed,

And vi'lets blue perfume the passing gale.

The tuneful linnet plumes her speckl'd wing,

The tender stock-dove cooes in every grove,

The soaring lark chaunts loud the song of love;—

All Nature owns thy influence, genial spring!

All, all but I!—condemn'd by wayward fate

To bear Love's keenest arrow in my breast;

'Tis vain to wish—to hope, alas! too late—

No change of season gives my bosom rest!

A tear from thee is all the boon I crave,

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

BENEDICT.

SONNET. MELISSA'S RETIREMENT.

All me! why heaves my breast with frequent sighs?

What chills my heart with such unusual fear?

Why steal the tears, unbidden, from my eyes?

Why sink my wearied spirits in despair?—

The fatal cause, alas! I know too well!

Far from my arms, you, cruel! mean to go:

Hence, hence my unavailing sorrows flow:

But,—can I live to hear you say "farewel!"

Yes, I shall live, to grief a wretched prey—

For, when your presence cheers the calm retreat,

My moans the widow'd dove will oft repeat,

And ev'ry gale will sighs of mine convey!

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

Here pines and sickens for your dear return!

BENEDICT

SONNET. TO MAY.

IN vain, soft May, thy fragrant flowers blow;

In vain, thy feather'd minstrels pour the strain

Of praise and love.—I wretched, still remain

The child of suff'rance, and the prey of woe!

The faint Narcissus, and the musky rose,

I've often woo'd to my delighted breast;

The primrose, and the vi'let too, I chose,

And in one nosegay all their sweets compress'd.

The lark's wild hymn, the linnet's artless lay,

Oft "tun'd to ecstacy" my youthful heart!—

But now!—thy blossoms, and thy birds, soft May,

To this sad breast no rapture can impart!

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

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

BENEDICT.

SONNET. TO MELISSA.

WHENE'ER thy angel-form salutes my eye,

What tender spasms convulse my beating heart!

My trembling limbs but small support impart;

My aching bosom heaves the deep-drawn sigh!

A wild confusion overwhelms my brain—

My falt'ring tongue cleaves to the parching roof,

My spirits fail!—ah, melancholy proof

How well thou'rt lov'd;—tho' lov'd, alas! in vain!

—Impell'd by sorrow, should my lovely Maid

Bend her slow footsteps to the silent spot,

Where this distracted head shall soon be laid

In Death's chill clasp, by all—but her—forgot!!—

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

And the green sod lie lightly on my Breast.

BENEDICT.

SONNET. TO MELISSA.

THROUGH all the woes which destiny severe,

Has doom'd this wretched bosom to sustain,

One tender thought still moderates its pain,

And saves my lab'ring mind from dire despair!

—When far from thee by hopeless sorrow led,

O'er stormy seas, and foreign lands thy love shall stray;

Tho' urg'd by want to ask precarious bread,

One tender thought shall cheer the toilsome way!

And when, at last, worn out by ceaseless care,

I seek lorn Melancholy's quiet cell,

For THEE I'll earnest breathe my latest pray'r,

On thee my latest thought shall fondly dwell!

'Till the last sigh shall from my lips depart,

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

BENEDICT.

SONNET. THE INVITATION.

COME, dear Melissa, come, where [*] Craïa pours

Her silver urn in murm'ring lapse serene,

Near Bexley's humble fane, where ev'ry green

Shall join their foliage to refresh thy bow'rs.

Oft by the winding stream thy love shall stray,

To lure with harmless guile the finny race;

Oft too at eve, the dewy meeds he'll trace,

And offer, at thy board, the speckl'd prey.

Pity, I know thy gentle breast will move,

For the dumb children of the teeming flood;

—But they are form'd for man's delight and good,

By Providence divine, and heav'nly love.

My angel come! while summer wakes the strain,

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

BENEDICT.

SONNET. MELISSA!

HER dark-brown tresses negligently slow

In curls luxuriant, to her bending waist;

Her darker brows, in perfect order plac'd,

Guard her bright eyes, that mildly beam below.

The Roman elegance her nose displays—

Her cheeks soft blushing, emulate the rose,

Her witching smiles, the orient pearls disclose:

And o'er her lips, the dew of Hybla strays.

Her lib'ral mind, the gentler virtues own;

Her chasten'd wit, instructive lore impart;

Her lovely breast is soft Compassion's throne,

And Honor's temple is her glowing heart.

But I, like Patriarch Moses, praise and bless

The Canaan which I never shall possess!

BENEDICT.

SONNET. TO THE RIVER USK, IN MONMOUTHSHIRE.

OH, stream belov'd! within whose gelid caves,

The Naïads sport the fervid noontide hour!

What bliss was mine, when in my native bow'r,

I sung my simple sonnet to thy waves!

Thy rocks romantic, and thy woods sublime,

Where erst the Druid watch'd the sacred oak,

And the rapt bard his lyre prophetic struck,

Fill'd the rough cadence of my artless rhyme.

When vernal suns dissolv'd the mountain snow,

And all the Nymphs were frighted from thy shore,

I lov'd to see thy flood, majestic flow,

And hear thy bold resistless current roar.

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

The slave of fair MELISSA and of Love!

BENEDICT.

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

THOUGH Gratitude no arch triumphal rears

To grace the laurel'd HERO's late return;

And tho' no blazing trophies vainly burn,

Or mob tumultuous at thy car appears,

Yet shall thy name, and martial deeds be read,

While CALPE's rock defies the sea and wind!

THY NAME!—the admiration of mankind,

The Briton's pride, and swarthy Spaniards dread!

Trust to the heav'nly Muse thy well earn'd fame:

Hark!—lovely SEWARD strikes th' Horatian lyre.

On Trenta's bank with more than Roman fire,

And gives to endless Time thy GLORIOUS NAME!

ELLIOTT! accept this verse—and it will be

Immortal too, because address'd to THEE.

BENEDICT.

PARTING ADDRESS TO DELLA CRUSCA.

Et vix sustinuit dicere lingua, vale!

Ovid.

AH, tuneful BARD! whose loss the world must grieve,

A last farewel, from one unknown, receive;

Could but my pen with magic force prevail,

Never should DELLA CRUSCA spread the sail;

Ne'er seek in foreign climes repose to find,

Nor leave the Fair MATILDA's form behind:

But should'st thou, driv'n by adverse fortune, go,

Be thine the pleasure, ours alone the woe:

May'st thou be favour'd with some faithful friend,

May roseate Health on all thy steps attend;

Safely conduct thee to thy couch at eve,

And in the morn thy first salute receive;

And if sweet peace of mind can ever dwell

Where Love, Almighty LOVE, has fix'd his spell,

Be peace of mind, and every joy thy guest,

While none buxt Love's soft transports warm thy breast.

And sure, if DELLA CRUSCA should once more,

By prosperous gales be borne to ALBION's shore,

His muse again will tune the vocal lay,

And gently steal the list'ning soul away:—

Again will sweetly charm th' attentive throng,

With all the elegance of Classic Song!

Cold were th' unfeeling breast which could refuse

A parting tribute to so sweet a muse;

Envious the hand that would attempt to tear

The laurel chaplet from thy flowing hair;

Not such his wish, who now attempts the lyre—

Warm'd by a Spark of thy celestial fire,

Inspir'd by thee, his Muse has dar'd the flight,

Pays homage to thy lays—then sinks in endless night.

THEODOSIUS.

THE AFRICAN BOY.

AH, tell me, little mournful MOOR,

Why still you llnger on the shore?

Haste to your play-mates, haste away,

Nor loiter here with fond delay:

When Morn unveil'd her radiant eye,

You hail'd me as I wander'd by,

Returning at th' approach of Eve,

Your meek salute I still receive.

Benign Enquirer, thou shalt know

Why here my lonesome moments flow;

'Tis said thy Countrymen (no more

Like rav'ning sharks that haunt the shore)

Return to bless, to raise, to cheer,

And pay Compassion's long arrear.

'Tis said the num'rous Captive Train,

Late bound by the degrading Chain,

Triumphant comes, with swelling sails,

'Mid smiling skies, and western gales;

They come with festive heart and glee.

Their hands unshackled—minds as free;

They come at Mercy's great command,

To repossess their native land.

The gales that o'er the Ocean stray,

And chase the waves in gentle play,

Methinks they whisper as they fly,

JUELLEN soon will meet thine eye!

'Tis this that soothes her little Son,

Blends all his wishes into one:

Ah! were I clasp'd in her embrace,

I would forgive her past disgrace;

Forgive the memorable hour

She fell a prey to tyrant pow'r;

Forgive her lost, distracted air,

Her sorrowing voice, her kneeling pray'r;

The suppliant tears that gall'd her cheek,

And last her agonizing shriek.

Lock'd in her hair, a ruthless hand

Trail'd her along the flinty strand;

A ru••ian train, with clamours rude,

The impious spectacle pursu'd:

Still as she mov'd in accents wild

She cried aloud, My child! my child!

The lofty bark she now ascends;

With screams of woe, the air she rends:

The vessel less'ning from the shore,

Her piteous wails I heard no more

Now as I stretch'd my last survey,

Her distant form dissolv'd away.

That day is past: I cease to mourn—

Succeeding joy shall have its turn,

Beside the hoarse-resounding deep,

A pleasing anxious watch I keep:

For when the morning clouds shall break,

And darts of day the darkness streak;

Perchance along the glitt'ring main,

(Oh may this hope not throb in vain)

To meet these long-desiring eyes,

JUELLEN and the Sun may rise.

[*]THE BARD.

TO MISS FARREN, ON HER BEING ABSENT FROM CHURCH.

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

Observ'd thine Absence with an holy sigh,

To them a bright exalted Seraph said,

"Blame not the conduct of the absent Maid!

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

RELIGION walks Companion of her way:

She goes with ev'ry virtuous thought imprest,

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

THE BARD.

THE VOICE WE LOVE.

SOFT is the Zephyr's breezy wing;

And balmy is the breath of SPRING,

When o'er the silent dewy Vale

Its variegated sweets exhale,

Stolen from the fresh'ned flower,

Glist'ning with an evening shower,

From the VI'LET's nectar'd dew—

From the ROSE of blushing hue;

And from sweet THYME, empurpling all the ground,

It gathers rich perfume, and sheds the odours round:

Yet say, what sweets can half so fragrant prove,

As the soft Breath of those we fondly love?

Go listen to the softest Lute—

The most persuasive, magic song,

And hear the sweet responsive slute

The wild melodious strains prolong;

Attend awhile, the soft impassion'd lyre,

That melts the frozen heart, and kindles fond desire.

SIMPLICITY, thy steps shall lead,

To the simple, verdant mead;

For to humble plains belong

The Oaten Pipe, and Past'ral Song:

Untutor'd in the School of Art,

They breathe the impulse of the heart!—

Hear the strain, and mark it well—

There true LOVE and HONOUR dwell.

Whispering from among the trees,

Sighing to the passing wind,

Echoing back the evening breeze,

The soft Eolian Harp you'll find.

Mark its wild, uncertain measure,

This is FANCY's sweetest treasure,

There she reigns, and while she sings,

Fairy fingers kiss the strings—

There the Blue-eyed PLEASURES meet—

There is LOVE's most fav'rite seat—

There of HOPE, the lov'd retreat,

And ev'ry thing that's soft, and every thing that's sweet.

Of all the rapt melodious tones,

That Heaven-descended MUSIC owns,

Recal the dear, the magic strain,

That seem'd to vib'rate on thine heart,

And could a transient joy impart,

As the wild numbers linger'd thro' the plain.

Then say, fond YOUTH, upon thy pensive breast,

Is not this truth indelibly imprest—

"No dulcet sounds can so harmonious prove,

As the soft accents of the Voice we love?"

CESARIO.

HENRY DECEIVED.

GOD OF THE BOW! how blind art thou!

Surely the fillet on thy brow

Is coarser wove, than was the case

When Mortals view'd thee face to face.

For well we know thine Eyes celestial,

When seen of old by Belles terrestrial,

Were deck'd with bandeau light and airy,

As might become a Summer Fairy.

Their soft blue orbs so slight were bound,

Thy piercing glance no hind'rance found;

The Gossamour's transparent skin

Reposing on the lucid air,

Appear'd no longer light or thin,

If with thy veil it should compare.

Then was thy sight like Eagles' keen!

Nor Gods nor Men escap'd thine eye,

Nor cavern dark, nor beamy sky—

Nay, Thoughts, scarce born, by thee were seen.

But now—oh dull of eye and heart!

Thou know'st not WHENCE Love's ardours start;

And when stiff * *'s lines appear,

Thou whisper'st in my HENRY's ear

That they are EMMA's!!

HENRY believes—HENRY admires;

He thinks he sees his EMMA's fires

Dart vig'rous through each labour'd page—

He knows, and feels her tender rage;

Then asks—"And can a Man like me,

Call forth such Poetry in thee?"

Believing that the pen is mine,

He faints with rapturous pause, on each delusive line.

Thou, HENRY, ne'er canst learn the wounds I felt,

Whilst you, unconscious, such barbed Satire dealt.

Midst your fond praise, my pierc'd heart inly bled,

And shame bow'd down your EMMA's sorrowing head.

What! to be lov'd for Wit I never own'd!

And by a STRANGER's Verse to be dethron'd!

How did I hate the graces of her song—

The cluster'd sweets that round her soft lute throng;

Which like the Bees of Hybla's yellow woods,

Appear'd to pour their wealth in golden floods.

My fancy pictur'd richer notes than fell

From him of old, who to the verge of hell

Led forth the wife he lov'd;—but ah! when read,

Mad jealousy, and childish envy fled;

The harmless lines I saw, without one sigh,

And SMILING WONDER flash'd across my eye.

Mistaking HENRY look once more;

Again read * *'s Verses o'er!

Should I complain of love betray'd?

I, write like some forsaken Maid—

Whilst the warm blood within thy veins

Flows but for ME? Whilst EMMA reigns

Supreme within thy inmost soul,

And distant, yet can still controul

Its inmost movements, and desires,

And knows HERSELF sole object of its fires

Should She in dismal ditties mourn,

Whilst Love and Truth so brightly burn?

Mistaking HENRY, look once more—

Again read * *'s Verses o'er!

Were I the Poet, Thou the theme,

Think'st thou like her's my Verse would gleam:

With sunny rays, and misty hills,

Any myrtle groves, and foamy rills?

Oh no, THYSELF—HENRY, Thyself alone

Should stand confest on Love's ETERNAL THRONE;

Round THEE the brightness of my Verse should shine,

Round THEE my living Lays for ever, ever twine!

If Verse descriptive warms thy heart,

If that, bids throbs of Passion start,

I could seize Fancy's various clue;

Untired, her shifting steps pursue.

I'd call Night's Lamp a Chrystal Bow—

Bid her, her silv'ry shafts bestow

Upon the tufted emerald plain,

Or shower them o'er the shining main:

Or when the full orb'd jolly Moon

Rode dull, and thoughtless to her noon,

I'd swear she dress'd her white-lock'd hours

In choicest hue;—and call'd forth flow'rs

Of softer tint, and mild perfume,

Wove in her own translucent loom,

To deck the world o'er which she hung—

An amorous, ray-crown'd, hov'ring Dove!

But when all this is said or sung,

It is not, foolish HENRY, LOVE.

I'd bear thee to the mountain's height,

Rear'd, midst the sparkling dome of night;

Observe the Court of Heaven hung round

With drops of flame on azure ground;

Shew where bright VENUS rolls her car,

And where chill SATURN—monstrous Star!

Through thirty years drives torpid on,

And all these Summers counts as ONE.

Bid Thee regard almost with scorn

Our trisling System;—where is borne

In fond Attraction's airy chain

THE MIGHTY PLANETARY TRAIN.

For oh, beyond that System's bounds—

Where that, in all its various rounds

Ne'er shed the faintest ray—

Where the vast Sun's unmeasur'd light

In rushing floods, in boundless flight,

Ne'er imitated Day;

Far, far beyond new orbits trace

In wider heavens, in grander space,

Their gorgeous way in flame!

And these, again, in turn shall shrink,

Abash'd, amidst CREATION sink,

And hardly own a name.

All these may ADORATION move—

With strong Devotion touch the soul,

Bid Piety her incense roll—

But still, my HENRY, 'tis not LOVE.

In future know, when vagrant Verse

Shall any other strain rehearse,

Though the rapt Pen may nicely blend

All TRUTH or FICTION e'er could lend

To elevate the Lay.

Though all APOLLO's fire should seem

T' illume the Page with sacred beam,

And bless the Bard with bayes—

Yet, if LOVE thrills not in each turn,

Nor seems along the line to burn,

Nor gives each verse the touch divine—

They are not wrote to THEE, nor are their glories MINE.

EMMA.

TO EMMA.

WAS it the SHUTTLE of the MORN

That wove upon the Cobweb'd Thorn

Thy airy Lay?—Or did it rise

In thousand rich enamell'd dies,

To greet the Noon-day Sun—and glow

With brighter beams, than he can throw?

Or, was it wafted by the AUSTRAL BREEZE,

That bathes him in the wild perfume

Of ev'ry Rose's liquid bloom—

That hangs upon the Lily's lip—

Her silken beverage to sip—

Tell me—O TELL ME, EMMA, which of these?

How burst the Music on my ear!

The only Music HENRY bears to hear!

I felt it!—each strong nerve inflame!

Like a new soul usurp my heart,

And rage and burn in ev'ry part!

Ah! sure, not even Death's cold spell

Could the fierce fury of my passion quell!

But springing from this earthly dross,

Far, to the winds, my cares I'd toss,

And swear, before the living Shrine

Where Seraphs worship Truth Divine,

That still I LOV'D BUT THEE—and THOU WERT STILL THE SAME.

Ah! wonder not, a STRANGER SONG

Should cheat me thus—I own it wrong.

Low, in the dust, my head I bow,

As if, I COULD, HAVE FALSIFY'D MY VOW!

Yes—banish from thy thoughts surprise—

For, THOU art ever present to my eyes,

At each successive, varying hour!

THOU, whisper'st in the soft'ning show'r—

The Linnet's trill—but tells of THEE!

THOU, smil'st upon the Summer's Sea!

And when "the Jolly Full Moon" laughs

In her clear Zenith to behold

The envious Stars, withdraw their gleams of gold,

'Tis to THY HEALTH, she stooping quaffs

The Sapphire Cup that FAIRY ZEPHYRS bring,

Which, gay, intoxicating BLISS

With dewy glances paus'd to kiss,

Where FROLIC LOVE has dipp'd his purple wing!

Then let the HARP thy mad touch prove,

And SING—and SING AGAIN—of LOVE

Sing—till FAINT EVENING drops to rest,

On WEEPING TWILIGHT'S DOWNY BREAST;

Till grey-hair'd MELANCHOLY DAWN,

Culls the loose vapours from the Shadowy Lawn!

And only check the rapture-breathing sound,

When faithful HENRY at thy feet is found!

YES, YES, I COME, wit lightning speed I fly,

To meet the Enchantment of thy melting eye!

To kneel before thee—to subdue thy blame,

For still I LOVE BUT THEE—and THOU ART STILL THE SAME!

HENRY.

MONOLOGUE.

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

O CHATTERTON! for thee the pensive song I raise,

Thou object of my wonder, pity, envy, praise!

Bright star of Genius!—torn from life and fame,

My tears, my verse, shall consecrate thy name!

Ye Muses, who around his natal bed

Triumphant sung, and all your influence shed;

APOLLO! thou who rapt his infant breast,

And, in his daedal numbers, shone confest,

Ah! why, in vain, such mighty gifts bestow

—Why give fresh tortures to the Child of Woe?

Why thus, with barb'rous care, illume his mind,

Adding new sense to all the ills behind?

Thou haggard! Poverty! whose cheerless eye

Transforms young rapture to the pond'rous sigh;

In whose dear cave no Muse e'er struck the lyre,

Nor Bard e'er madden'd with poetic fire;

Why all thy spells for CHATTERTON combine?

His thought creative, why must thou confine?

Subdu'd by thee, his pen no more obeys,

No longer gives the song of ancient days;

Nor paints in glowing tints from distant skies,

Nor bids wild scen'ry rush upon our eyes—

Ceck'd in her flight, his rapid genius cowers,

Drops her sad plumes, and yields to thee her powers

Behold him, Muses! see your fav'rite son

The prey of WANT, ere manhood is begun!

The bosom ye have fill'd with anguish torn—

The mind you cherish'd drooping and forlorn!

And now Despair her sable form extends,

Creeps to his couch, and o'er his pillow bends.

Ah, see! a deadly bowl the fiend conceal'd,

Which to his eye with caution is reveal'd,

Seize it, APOLLO!—seize the liquid snare!

Dash it to earth, or dissipate in air!

Stay, hapless Youth! refrain—abhor the draught,

With pangs, with racks, with deep repentance fraught!

Oh hold! the cup with woe ETERNAL flows,

More—more than Death the pois'nous juice bestows!

In vain!—he drinks—and now the searching sires

Rush thro' his veins, and writhing he expires!

No sorrowing friend, no sister, parent, nigh,

To sooth his pangs, or catch his parting sigh;

Alone, unknown, the Muses' darling dies,

And with the vulgar dead unnoted lies!

Bright star of Genius!—torn from life and fame,

My tears, my verse, shall consecrate thy name!

ANNA MATILDA.

A FRAGMENT.
ADDRESSED TO ***.

TOUCH'D by thy wit my soul's on fire,

My bosom throbs with young desire.

What! though thy form I never saw,

Is there to man devulg'd a law

That only what he sees must touch his heart?

The vulgar rule I disallow,

And in my passion feel e'en now,

That wit, like beauty, gives the tender smart.

Methinks thy form I would not know,

Nor to thy face the pleasure owe

Of these delicious melting pains,

Which when a mortal once attains,

He knows the greatest bliss for man design'd.

No, to my fancy I'll apply,

There find thy form, thy air, thy eye,

And feast my frenzy with a zest refin'd.

When in a pensive mood I sit,

And Melancholy takes her sit,

〈1 page duplicate〉

〈1 page duplicate〉

Mild, tender, soft, thou shalt appear,

Like the first blossoms of the year:

But when in brisker tides my spirits run,

L'Allegro shall the pencil take,

Describe thy look, thy step, thy make,

And shew the vivid as bright MAIA's son.

* * * * * * * * * *

* * * * * * * * * *

ANNA MATILDA.

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

PORTRAIT OF MISS FARREN.

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

BY LORD DERBY.

O THOU, whose pencil all the Graces guide,

Whom Beauty, conscious of her fading bloom,

So oft implores, alas! with harmless pride,

To snatch the transient treasure from the tomb.

Pleas'd, I behold the Fair, whose comic art

Th' unwearied eye of taste and judgment draws;

Who charms with Nature's elegance the heart,

And claims the loudest thunder of applause.

Such, such alone should prompt thy pencil's toil:

Of saving Folly give thy labour o'er;

Fools never will be wanting to our isle,

Perhaps a Farren may appear no more.

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

SINCE 'tis the will of all-disposing Heav'n,

To seize the boon its kinder hand had given:

Whether on earth thy friendly spirit rove,

Midst the once happy partners of thy love;

(Scenes where thy virtues reign'd, thy talents shone,

And fond affection made each heart thy own;)

Or, bounding swift, has wing'd its airy flight

To the pure regions of eternal light;

Look down, fair Saint, and O, with pity see,

Where sad Remembrance lifts each thought to thee.

Accept the heaving sigh, the trickling tear;

The last, best offerings of a heart sincere.

What tho' no costly hecatcombs should bleed,

Nor lengthen'd train in sable pomp succeed;

Yet shall the sweetest flow'rs thy grave adorn,

Wash'd by the kindliest tears of dewy morn.

There shall each friend, thy heav'nly virtues made,

With pious dirge invoke thy gentle shade;

Like fragrant incense the soft breath shall rise

And smooth thy passage to thy kindred skies.

Severely kind, O why did adverse fate

Grant such vast bounties with so scant a date?

Give such sweet fragrance to this short-liv'd flow'r,

The virtues of an age to last an hour!

It gave her wit might grace a Muse's tongue,

The charm of numbers, and the power of song;

Th' angelic touch to strike the trembling string,

And tune such notes as Heav'n's own seraphs sing.

But O! o'er-bounteous with that sacred art,

It gave each nicer movement to the heart;

And her soft breast with strong sensation fir'd,

Felt the keen impulse which those arts inspir'd.

Too great a portion of celestial flame

Strain'd the frail texture of her weaker frame;

The subtle fire too pow'rful forc'd its way

Through the soft yielding mould of mortal clay;

As the clear air in crystal prison pent,

Oft bursts its fair but brittle tenement;

While in the dust the glittering fragments lie,

The purer aether gains its native sky.

Ere the stern Sisters cut the vital thread,

I saw, and kiss'd her on the fatal bed,

Just as her gentle spirit took its slight,

And her faint eye-lids clos'd in endless night;

No strong convulsions shook her parting breath;

No tremors mark'd the cold approach of Death:

Her heart still heav'd with vital spirit warm,

And each soft feature wore its wonted charm.

Ah me! in this perplexing maze of fate;

This doubtful, erring, varying restless state;

Tho' guilt with swelling fail elate shall steer,

With pomp and pleasure crown'd, its full career;

Tho' worth like thine no pitying power shall save,

From sickness, pain, and an untimely grave:

Yet stay, rash mortal, nor presume to scan,

By thy imperfect rule th' Almighty's plan.

O censure not his Sovereign, high behest,

But prostrate own, whatever is, is best:

Judgment's the part of Heav'n; Submission, thine:

We may lament; but we must not repine.

Each has his lot (for so does Heaven ordain)

His stated share of happiness and pain;

And mortals, best its just commands fulfil,

When they enjoy the good, and patient bear the ill.

EPITAPH ON MISS CAROLINE CAMPBELL.

O pensive PASSENGER! do not deny

To pause awhile, and weep upon this tomb;

For here the cold remains of CAMPBELL lie—

This narrow spot the vernal Maiden's doom.

With her, alas! the fairest talents fell—

And now her Harp's melodious song is o'er;

Gone is that Pulse, which PITY lov'd to swell,

And all her Virtues are on Earth no more.

Yes, she was gentle as the twilight breath,

That on the fainting Violet's bosom blows,

Meekly she bow'd her to the Frost of Death,

In faded semblance of the Silver Rose.

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

Shall the pure Angel, INNOCENCE appear;

And FRIENDSHIP, like a Hermit, shall be found,

To bathe the circling Sod with many a Tear.

AMICUS.

MARQUIS TOWNSHEND's VERSES ON HIS NIECE MISS GARDINER.

AS late FLORINDA on her death-bed lay,

And felt compos'd, each vital pow'r decay;

No longer science could her bloom sustain,

And KINDRED TEARS[*] in showers fall in vain:

The sun meridian glimmer'd to her eye,

And panting breath announc'd her end was nigh:

She turn'd, and smiling ask'd, "When shall I die?

In realms above my long-mourn'd mother join?

See, see her arms stretch'd out to meet with mine!"

Adieu, pure SOUL! with rapture take thy slight,

Quit thy dark mansion for Eternal Light!—

For bliss eternal! whilst at Heaven's gate

Thy sister Angels thy arrival wait,

Swift to conduct thee to thy parent's breast;

For Heav'n has heard, and granted thy request.

Advertisement.

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

TO ANNA MATILDA.

IN VAIN I FLY THEE—'tis in vain,

The swift bark bears me o'er the boist'rous main;

For mid the giant shades that sweep

The heaving bosom of the deep,

When rushing clouds, lash'd by the gale,

Spread o'er the sun their transient veil,

THY FORM APPEARS!—I see thee haste

Lightly athwart the wild'ring waste!

And shake thy burnish'd locks, and smile,

I see thee—and adore the while.

Do I adore thee?—ah, my Fair!

Since first thy sweet song sooth'd my heart,

I've never known a bliss, a care,

But thou, MATILDA, gav'st a part!

When in HELVETIA's groves I lay,

For thee my hot sighs stole away,

And oft with thee, methought at "morning's hour,

Seated in chrystal roseate tow'r,

I saw the Goddess Health pursue

The skimming Breeze, thro' fields of Dew;"

While the high lark with quiv'ring poize,

Told the gay story of his vernal joys!

And oft as Twilight on the western edge,

Had twin'd his hoary hair with sabling sedge,

IMAGINATION fondly turn'd to thee,

And sought the solace of dear SYMPATHY.

Nor yet the yellow RHINE's impetuous wave,

A short oblivion of my passion gave;

Heedless I trod the sportive banks of RHONE,

For ANNA! O I live, I live for thee alone!

And when to LAURA's tomb I came,

Glowing with PETRARCH's purest flame,

As the first drop my pity shed,

I started as if thou wert dead!

But hark! what cruel sounds are these,

Which float upon the languid breeze,

Which fill my mind with jealous fear,

Ah! [*]REUBEN is the name I hear.

For him my faithless ANNA weaves

A wreath of Rose, and Myrtle leaves;

On which the winged, am'rous Boy

Has freely wept with tears of joy—

And binding soft her fav'rite's brows,

She mingles her too-tender vows.

Hence sounds severe!—no more intrude—

Leave me to Peace and Solitude,

Leave me to tread Life's varying slope—

Leave me awhile to cherish Hope!

For e'en cold Criticks have conceiv'd,

So much alike our measures run,

And e'en the gentle have believ'd,

That ANNA AND THAT I WERE ONE—

Would it were so!—we then might prove

The Sacred, settled unity of Love.

O supposition vain! alas!

I've seen seven fleeting lustres pass,

And now the flush of life is o'er,

And if I e'er could please, I please no more,

Yet tho' my hasty youth is flown,

ANNA! I worship thee unknown—

And check for thee my wand'ring course,

And yield to thy mysterious force—

And I again will take my flute

When slumb'ring Nature's self is mute,

Save where perchance the Aspin wood

That whispers o'er yon Midnight flood,

Shall drop its shatter'd honors round,

In seeming sorrow at the sound.

And as my faithful voice I raise,

With all the fervency of praise,

O may I lure thee from thy secret bow'r

To cheer once more my melancholy hour—

So shall I grateful bless strong Fate's decree,

That bids me still RETURN TO POETRY—and THEE.

DELLA CRUSCA.
October 28, 1788.

TO HIM WHO WILL UNDERSTAND IT.

THOU art no more my bosom's Friend;

Here must the sweet delusion end

That charm'd my Senses many a year,

Through smiling Summers—Winters drear.

O FRIENDSHIP! am I doom'd to find

Thou art a Phantom of the Mind—

A glitt'ring Shade, an empty Name,

An air-born Vision's vap'rish Flame?

And yet the dear Deceit so long

Has wak'd to joy my Matin Song,

Has bid my tears forget to flow,

Chas'd ev'ry Pain, sooth'd every Woe;

That TRUTH, unwelcome to my ear,

Swells the deep sigh, recals the tear,

Gives to the sense the keenest smart,

Checks the warm pulses of the heart,

Darkens my fate, and steals away

Each gleam of joy through life's sad day.

BRITAIN, farewel! I quit thy shore;

My Native Country charms no more;

No guide, to mark the toilsome road,

No destin'd clime, no fix'd abode,

Alone and sad, ordain'd to trace,

The vast expanse of endless space;

To view upon the mountain's height,

Thro' varied shade of glimm'ring light,

The distant landscape fade away

In the last gleam of parting day;

Or in the quiv'ring lucid stream,

To watch the pale Moon's silver beam;

Or, when in sad and plaintive strains

The Mournful PHILOMEL complains,

In dulcet notes bewails her fate,

Deserted by a FAITHLESS MATE;

Inspir'd by Sympathy divine,

I'll weep her Woes—FOR THEY ARE MINE.

Driven by my fate, where-e'er I go,

O'er burning sands, o'er hills of snow;

Or on the bosom of the wave,

The howling tempest doom'd to brave;

Where-e'er my lonely course I bend,

Thy image shall my steps attend;

Each object I am doom'd to see,

Shall bid remembrance PICTURE THEE.

Yes, I shall VIEW THEE in each flow'r

That changes with the transient hour;

Thy wand'ring fancy I shall find

Borne on the wings of every wind;

Thy wild impetuous passions trace,

O'er the white wave's tempestuous space;

In every changing season prove,

An emblem of thy wav'ring Love.

Torn from my Country, Friends, and YOU,

The world lies open to my view;

New objects shall my mind engage,

I will explore th' HISTORIC PAGE;

Sweet POETRY shall sooth my soul,

PHILOSOPHY each pang control;

The MUSE I'll seek—her lambent fire

My soul's quick senses shall inspire I

With finer nerves my heart shall beat,

Touch'd by Heav'n's own Promethean heat;

ITALIA's gales shall bear my song

In soft-link'd notes her woods among;

Upon the blue hill's misty side,

Thro' trackless deserts, waste and wide;

O'er craggy rocks, whose torrents flow;

Upon the silver sands below;

Sweet LAND of MELODY, 'tis thine

The softest passions to refine;

Thy myrtle groves thy melting strains,

Shall harmonize and sooth my pains.

Nor will I cast one thought behind,

On Foes relentless—Friends unkind;—

I feel, I feel their poison'd dart

Pierce the life nerve within my heart,

'Tis mingled with the vital heat

That bids my throbbing pulses beat;

Soon shall that vital heat be o'er,

Those throbbing pulses BEAT no more—

No!—I will breathe the spicy gale,

Plunge the clear stream, new health exhale;

O'er my pale cheek diffuse the rose,

And DRINK OBLIVION TO MY WOES!

[*]LAURA.
Nov. 29, 1788.

TO LAURA.

LAURA! I heard thy warbled woes,

At fading Twilight's solemn close:

They met me in yon dreary vale,

Just as the Ringdove ceas'd her tale.

A tale like thine, which seem'd to speak,

That soon her wounded heart would break!

Was it, perhaps, she sought the grove,

In lone solicitude of Love?

Was it, like thee, a faithless mate

She mourn'd too sadly, and too late?

Surely it was—for with the note

I found such melting anguish float,

That watry vapours dimm'd my eye,

And ALL MY SOUL WAS SYMPATHY.

Nor wonder that I so was mov'd.

For I have suffer'd I have lov'd,

Have felt the truest passion burn,

Have known th' ecstatic blest return,

Have watch'd the look of languor cast,

To shew the rig'rous hour was past:

Then have I press'd the blushing Fair,

With pangs—how diff'rent from despair!

Yet was the bliss so pure, so chaste,

That Seraphs might the rapture taste.

Alas! the joy was doom'd to fade,

Like Day's proud flush in Evening shade—

The EYE, so settled once, would range—

The long-fix'd HEART began to change!

Ah! then, I thought with thee—to try

The only refuge left—and fly.

On many a foreign shore to roam,

And leave my rending cares at home.

Yes, I have trod the ALPINE steep,

By rushing PO have stopp'd to weep;

On the loud DANUBE's banks have stood,

And Eastward cross'd the CASPIAN flood.

'Tis but ILLUSION;—yet remains

Unfaded memory of pains,

The circle wid'ning for relief,

Has still the central point of grief!

Then from th' alluring thought recoil—

'Tis desolating fruitless toil!

But most avoid ITALIA's coast,

Where ev'ry sentiment is lost,

Where TREACH'RY reigns, and base DISGUISE,

And MURDER—looking to the Skies,

While sordid SELFISHNESS appears

In low redundancy of scars.

O! what can MUSIC's voice bestow,

Or SCULPTUR'D GRACE, or TITIAN GLOW,

To recompense the feeling mind

For British virtues left behind?

Here rather here, thy ills confound,

To list the billows roar around,

To see the misty Phantoms glide,

On the choak'd river's willowy side,

When the YOUNG MOON aspires to stream

Her scanty Crescent's feeblest beam.

Then, wistful mark the drenching show'rs

That foil gav Summer's fairest flow'rs;

Scorn the fierce storm, the season dare,

And learn to TRIUMPH, or to BEAR!

But if thy sorrow soften'd heart

In vain resists the venom'd dart,

With mine thy deep afflictions blend,

And for a LOVER LOST, receive a FRIEND.

[*]LEONARDO.
Dec. 23, 1788.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

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

Creech.

WHILST I danced gaily in the round

Of Folly, on her fairy ground;

And play'd, and sung, and laugh'd away

The feath'ry hours of Life's short day,

Thy INVOCATION, like the flame

Which starts from the Electric frame,

Struck on my heart! I sigh'd, I turn'd,

And ANNA yet for DELLA CRUSCA mourn'd.

When wounded PRIDE sussus'd its blush,

And o'er my nerves its tremors rush.

Ne'er will I "leave my secret bow'r,

To cheer thy melancholy hour."

Secure within I will remain,

And smile at thy factitious pain;

And when thy Poetry so sweet

Shall next my wand'ring glances meet,

I'll spare a sigh to moments fled—

But ANNA shall to thee be dead.

See—to my couch I laughing turn—

Poetic Passions vainly burn!

The freshest Rose-leaves for my head

Shall form a blushing scented bed;

The elastic Camomile unprest,

Invite the sick'ning heart to rest.

FLORA shall ev'ry gift show'r round,

And bid her bright gems deck the ground,

The MYRTLE only there

Shall ne'er unfold its od'rous boughs,

Ne'er flaunt its blossoms fair,

Frail, and alluring as thy vows!

'Tis Love's devoted tree—

Oh! bid it seek some other home,

Nor spread its sweets for me,

Nor shed its poison round my Dome!

Hah! didst thou hope I should not trace

The mental features of thy face?

Didst thou believe the thickest veil

Could DELLA CRUSCA's brow conceal?

Oh! how impossible a task

To hide thy radiance in a mask!

Thy living fires destroy the skreen,

Thou stand'st contest!—thy form is seen.

Yes, write to LAURA! speed thy sighs,

Tell her, her DELLA CRUSCA dies;

In sweetest measures sing thy woes,

And speak thy hot LOVE's ardent throes;—

And when it next shall please thy heart

Towards some other Fair to start,

The gentle Maiden's vers'd in cures

For ev'ry ill, fond Love endures.

She "drinks Oblivion" to its pains—

And vows to stain her pallid cheek

With juices of red Grapes so sleek,

And sings adieus in Bacchanalian strains.

FALSE Lover! TRUEST Poet! now farewel!

Hark! in yon Curfews sound is toll'd the knell

Of our departed Loves. The pensive tale

The surging aother floats across the vale;

The Elegiac sound sooths my sad ear,

And the moist lid sustains a trembling tear.

The crimson veil which deck'd yon mountain's brow,

And glided into gentlest tints, but now,

Already blackens down its swelling side,

And soon the beauties of the plain will hide—

The outstretch'd beauties! where salubrious to•…

Calls food, and riches from the sterile soil.

O! wondrous magic! shall great Labour's name,

Remain unhallow'd by the voice of Fame?

CREATIVE LABOUR! whose all-bounteous hand

Drops slow'rs, and fruits, and forests o'er the land;

Who bids th' indented river curving sly,

Or fix, a silv'ry lake beneath the eye!

But these all sink before the falling Night,

Who tries to sezie the flitting beams of light,

But the proud light its am'rous touch eludes,

And a dim shadow o'er the landscape broods.

Soft drizzling rain, the patter'd trees confess,

And chilling breezes on my bosom press.

My hair, whose curls, late floated o'er my breast,

Weighty with moisture, clings around my vest—

Where—where's the hand to press those tresses dry,

The fond encircling arm, the cheering eye?

Why sigh the winds tumultuous thro' the woods,

Why weeps the Night in such impetuous floods?

It is the loss of DELLA CRUSCA's Muse,

Which thus with sorrow every plant imbues;

For never shall again his "Golden Quill,"

With magic passion ev'ry bosom thrill.

He yet may write, but ANNA 'twas alone

Lured down his guardian Goddess from her throne;

Who whilst she pour'd the richest of her store,

And charm'd his heart with bright poetic lore,

Phophetic, thus his future hist'ry read,

And wreath'd it in the laurels for his head:

"If false, thou e'er MATILDA's heart should'st wring,

And to another nymph presume to sing,

My inspiration thou no more shalt know,

My fire in thee, no more divinely flow."

The Goddess spoke, her words were mark'd by fate,

And DELLA CRUSCA mourns his ANNA's wrongs, too late!

ANNA MATILDA.
Feb. 26, 1789.

LAURA TO ANNA MATILDA.

O ANNA, since thy graceful song

Can wind the cadence soft among

The heart's fine nerves, and ravish thence

The wond'ring Poet's captive sense;

'Till warm'd by thy electric fire,

His yielding soul, with fond desire,

Glows but for thee—dispel thy fears,

Nor stain thy downy cheek with tears.

O quit thy "blushing scented bed,"

Pluck the pale roses from thy head,

Again with native lustre shine,

And round thy polish'd brow th' unfading MYRTLE twine.

Subdue the haggard WITCH, whose em'rald eye

Darts fell Revenge, and pois'ning Jealousy;

Mark, where amidst her ebon hair,

The scaly serpents mingling twine

While darting thro' th' infected air,

The murd'rous vapours shine!

O turn thee, ANNA, quickly turn,

Where DELLA CRUSCA's torch shall burn

For thee alone; his harp is strung,

To the soft music of thy tongue;

No Verse of mine his song inspir'd;—

Thy notes so lov'd, so long admir'd,

Still vibrate in his glowing heart,

Where ev'ry chord is tun'd to thy poetic Art.

Ah! let me, for repose, repair,

Where Sorrow steals to weep her care,

Deep in some cave, or craggy cell,

Where the lone Screech Owl loves to dwell.

And O! my cheerless couch I'll spread,

While spangled with the lunar dew,

The Nightshade, and the baneful Yew,

Shall wind about my head.

There will I breathe a strain forlorn,

And like a ling'ring wint'ry morn,

Pale and with chilling rays appear,

Cold glimm'ring thro' a chrystal tear,

Yet let me DELLA CRUSCA's lays admire,

Still gaze with hallow'd rapture on his fire;

List his soft tones of melting mood,

Sweeter than Ringdove ever coo'd,

Tuneful as METASTASIO's tongue,

Or plaintive PETRARCH's witching song.

I feel no wish, no selfish joy,

Another's transports to destroy;

Ambition is not worth the name,

That meanly shines with borrow'd fame.

No counterfeited bliss my heart shall own,

The conscious Mourner sighs for BAYARD's vows alone.

Since his lov'd voice first caught my ear,

Oft have I tried to calm my woe,

Oft have I brush'd away the tear—

The tear his numbers taught to flow.

I seize the Lyre, to sooth my grief,

Court mazy Science for relief;—

Vain is the effort, 'tis in vain—

The fierce vibration fills my brain,

Burns thro' each aching nerve with poignant smart,

And riots cureless in my bleeding heart.

'Tis not "the Bacchanalian bowl,"

Can free from pain the sick'ning soul;

The "brew'd enchantment's" poison fell!

The mellow grape's nectareous juice

Suits the base mind; its baleful use

Throws o'er the sense, a torpid spell.

But LETHE's pure and limpid stream,

Shall calm the thought, from passion's dream,

'Tis there my breast shall seek repose,

And drink "Oblivion to its woes."

LAURA.
March 1, 1789.

TO ANNA MATILDA.

—At her footstool stands

An altar burning with eternal fire,

Unsullied, unconsumed.

Akenside.

HEAVEN OF MY HEART! again I hear

Thy long-lost voice, but ah! the tear

Steals from my lids, and deadly pain

Creeps in cold langour thro' each gasping vein.

And can that mind I love so well,

Thy Soul's deep tone, thy Thought's high swell,

The proud poetic fervour, known

But in thy breast's prolific zone,

Can these combine to curse me? can that gaze,

In whose rich orb the FAIRY FANCY plays,

Thro' which, the charms that ART and NATURE show,

Spring to the judgment, and there brighter glow;

Can that be chang'd to anger? canst thou doom

My future wish to dwell upon the tomb?

Canst thou, SO KEEN OF FEELING! urge my fate

And bid me mourn thee, yes, and MOURN TOO LATE?

O rash severe decree! my madd'ning brain

Cannot the pond'rous agony sustain,

But forth I rush, as varying Frenzy leads,

To cavern'd lakes, or to the diamond meads,

O'er which the sultry noon-beams wide dissuse,

And slake their eager thirst with lingering dews;

Or to yon sullen slope that shuns the light,

Where the black forest weaves meridian night,

Disorder'd, lost, from hill to plain I run,

And with my Mind's thick gloom obscure the Sun!

For naught to me, alas! can now avail

The fresh'ning vapours of the perfum'd dale,

The distant sea-waves' variegated green

Or the soft anguish of Night's eye serene,

They cannot yield me comfort, tho' the Spring

Should shake spontaneous beauty from her wing,

Or guide my footsteps to th' enchanted lawn,

Where blushing pleasure hymns the birth of dawn,

Still would I pause to weep, still would I turn

From scenes like these, to th' neglected Urn

That mid some grove in solemn ruin lies,

And tells, how th' forsaken Lover dies!

There would I fondly clasp the broken stone,

And whisper ev'ry mental pang I've known,

Repeat the dread inexorable word,

That stern MATILDA spoke—MATILDA! most ador'd!

When at the last year's close of May,

From thy sweet chains I burst away,

And dash'd my woe-worn Harp upon the ground,

Still in my flight Love's rapt'rous hope was found.

But now all soothing Hope is past; in vain

I check'd my progress on the midland main,

In vain to EUROPE'S CONTINENT I came,

Lur'd by the light of thy poetic flame,

In vain I bade my wandring toil be o'er,

And on MATILDA call'd with trembling tongue ONCE MORE.

And think'st thou, ANNA! that my love,

Like thine, could ever faithless prove,

That in some female REUBEN's praise,

I the impassion'd verse could raise;

That I so quickly led astray,

Could wake the warm inconstant lay?

No—tho' conceal'd, I struck my lyre,

When by dull EVENING's fading fire

Pale ECHO sat; who as she caught the sound,

Gave the week murmur to the woods around;

Yet, 'twas thy Image fill'd my mind—

I heard a tuneful Phantom in the wind,

I saw it watch the rising Moon afar,

Wet with the weepings of the twilight Star,

Assiduous Zephyr told me it was thou,

And wond'ring, NOT DECEIV'D, I breath'd the friendly vow.

If I have wrong'd thee, my hot tears

Shall melt thy rage, or flow for years;

For oh! till then my days shall go

In deep regret, unalter'd woe,

In mute reflection, heavy care,

And SOLITUDE's supreme despair!

But still for thee my breast shall beat

With the most faithful honest heat;

Then save me, save me, let thy radiant smile

Again restore me, or again beguile;

With melting music calm my bosom's groan,

O deign to pity him, who loves but thee alone!

And whither shall I turn from thee?

For in thy absense all things fade;

FRIENDSHIP, I know, is but a glitt'ring shade,

A sweet deception—strange uncertainty!

Nor could AMBITION's busy rage

An anguish such as mine assuage,

Vain must the world's best glories prove,

To fill the vacuum in the heart of love.

How brightly spreads the op'ning flow'r!

What beauteous life informs the bow'r!

How fair the streams of curling silver glide!

How rich the harvest waves its golden pride!

'Tis LIGHT's creation all—when that retires,

The pictures perish, and the charm expires.

So the faint colours of my mimic lays,

Drew their false lustre from MATILDA's blaze;

But soon the tints shall vanish—'tis decreed,

And endless darkness come, if SHE recede.

THEN HEAR MY WORD, by that fierce Orb,

Whose flame scarce all the skies absorb,

By ev'ry winged blast that goes

To its full banquet on the Rose;

By truth, eternal, undefil'd,

By gentlest Sorrow's warblings wild;

By the gay tresses of the morn;

By Earth, and Sea, and Heaven, 'tis sworn,

That ne'er again this hand shall fling

Its feeble tremors to the string,

Till thou, MATILDA! bidst the measure pour,

Till then, THY DELLA CRUSCA WRITES no MORE.

DELLA CRUSCA.
March 16, 1789.

TO DELLA CRUSCA.

AMBIGUOUS NATURE form'd the female heart

So proud, capricious, cold and warm,

That much she fear'd her FIRST COMMAND

Inert would prove, throughout the land;

So gave the counteracting charm—

On favour'd Man bestow'd sagacious ART.

Thus whilst my keen resentment flow'd,

Thy Vow upon my bosom glow'd;

Sage anger instant took her flight,

And from thy muse a joy so bright

Dissus'd itself through all my veins,

That hanging o'er thy charming strains,

My lips spontaneously unclose,

And thus the proud petition rose:—

"O! MONARCH of the Heaven-given lyre!

Thou, who the Theban Peasant didst inspire

With radiant knowledge, and poetic taste,

To spread thy numbers o'er the flinty waste—

In my yet darker mind thy beam infuse,

And let me feel the high-inspiring muse:

Give me one spark of DELLA CRUSCA's light,

Teach me like him to think—to paint—to write!

Pour on my pen his rich abounding lay,

Which EARTH and HEAVEN sublimely can display.

Mark! how his varying touch makes ever new

Objects grown flat, on long accustom'd view;—

E'en TRUTH itself his pencil can command—

IMMUTABLE! she bends beneath his hand;

In diff'ring characters she starts from rust,

Deck'd in OPPOSING colours; yet opposing, JUST,"

Thus as I pray'd, unwelcome slumbers came,

But lively, wakeful thought remain'd the same—

And to APOLLO's Temple led my feet,

The same ambitious wishes to repeat.

With downcast eyes I near the Altar kneel,

And sacred fervours on my bosom steal;

My folded hair devoutly I unbound,

And dash'd my once-proud laurels on the ground.

My robes, more white than the soft down which flies

O'er thistled deserts, thro' autumnal skies,

Wide, o'er the tesselated pavement flow'd;

And round, the everlasting tapers glow'd:

Again I utter forth my fond desire,

But 'midst the incense my proud hopes expire.

The Paean'd GOD now shook his beamy throne,

And through the dome indignant radiance shone;

"Presumptuous ANNA!" was the stern reply

From HIM, who rolls day's orbit through the sky,

"The mighty boon thou'st ask'd shall ne'er be thine;

PARNASSUS hear! record the oath divine!

Yet more—to punish thy aspiriring hope

Which led thee with MY CHOSEN SON to cope,

The small—small portion of celestial flame

Thou stol'st from him of the immortal name,

Hence MOULDERS!—fades upon thy darken'd soul,

Nor leaves one spark, thro' the chill void to roll."

Shock'd at my fate, my ready lids unclose,

And the harsh vision from my pillow rose!

Oh, barb'rous vision! which I live to rue—

For tho' a dream thou wert—my doom is true;

APOLLO's just decree too sure I feel,

And on my spirit torpid languors steal.

Hah! what avails my DELLA CRUSCA's vow?

Poetic ardors fly me now!

What! tho' the ROSE's morning blush

Rivals the Western clouds, which rush

To mix their crimson with the gold

That round the SINKING SUN is roll'd;—

What! tho' MAY's Zephyrs in the groves,

Attentive to the harmonious loves

Of the bewitching feather'd race,

Forget to breathe on EARTH's moist face;—

What! tho' the blossoms in the mead,

Beneath the heifer's fragrant tread,

Exude soft balm upon the wind,

And all their mingled sweets unbind;

Yet shall sad ANNA never know

The boundless sweets which round her flow.

Whether the MOUNTAIN's breath I drink,

Or midst the Vale's embroid'ry sink,—

FANCY no more will aid the scene,

Nor flutter o'er me on the Green.

With liquid step when the pure stream

Dancing, shall thro' its borders gleam;

When FLORA from her rainbow wing

Shall shake the tints which from the spring,

When music wanders 'midst the shade,

When perfumes AIR's blue sea pervade,

A WINTER o'er my mind will spread,

Nor tints, nor scents, nor liquid streams be read.

HAPLESS MY FATE! unoccupy'd, unblest

Sick'ning with ease—hating the tasteless rest—

Whilst LAURA still may dress the lay

In all the lustre of the day;

With such sweet pensiveness complain,

That mortals are in love with pain;

For, ah! it falls like APRIL's snow

Upon the Crocus' purple glow;

Soft, as the flutt'rings of the fainting gale,

Oppress'd by LEO, flaming o'er the vale!

But shall not DELLA CRUSCA sue

For her who to HIS MUSE is true?

For ONE who round her heart hath wreath'd

All the rich strains he ever breath'd;—

Will HE not strive to break th' avenging rod?—

Oh fly, thou Poet blest, AND STRUGGLE WITH THE GOD!

ANNA MATILDA.
PARIS March 29, 1789.

THE INTERVIEW.

O WE HAVE MET, and now I call

On you dark clouds that as they fall,

Sweep their long show'rs across the plain,

Or mingle with the clam'rous main.

Alas! I call them here, to pour

Around my head that gather'd store,

While the loud gales which speed away

To the far edge of weeping day,

Mid the tumultuous gloom shall bear

On their wet wings my sigh'd despair.

OF LATE—where confluent torrens crash,

I paus'd to view the mazy dash

Of waters, shattering in the twilight beam;

While oft my wand'ring eye would trace

The distant forest's solemn grace.

As o'er its black robe hung the tawny gleam.

Nor then on joys gone by, my Mem'ry dwelt,

Nor all the pangs which wounded Friendship felt;

But ANNA, tho' unknown, usurp'd my mind,

Alone she claim'd the tributary tear,

For ev'ry solace, ev'ry charm combin'd

In the sweet madd'nings of her song sincere.

Sudden I turn—for from a young grove's shade,

Whose infant boughs but mock th' expecting glade,

Sweet sounds stole forth—upborne upon the gale,

Press'd thro' the air, and broke amidst the vale.

Then silent walk'd the breezes of the plain,

Or lightly wanton'd where the corn-flow'r blows,

Or 'mongst the od'rous wild-thyme sought repose,

Or soar'd aloft and seiz'd the hov'ring strain.

As the fond Lark, whose clear and piercing shake

Bids Morning on her crimson bed awake,

Hears from the greensward seat his fav'rite's cry,

Drops thro' the heav'ns, and scorns the glowing sky:

So I, soul-touch'd, th' impetuous Cat'ract leave,

And almost seem th' etherial waste to cleave,

Allur'd entranc'd, I rush amidst the wood,

AND THERE THE SOFT MUSICIAN CONSCIOUS STOOD:

Ah! 'twas no visionary Fair,

Imagination's bodied air

That now with strong illusion caught,

Mental creations fled my thought,

A living Angel bless'd my sight,

Strung ev'ry nerve to new delight,

With joy's full tide bedew'd my cheek,

'Twas ANNA's self I saw, NOR HAD I POW'R TO SPEAK.

O then I led her to the woven bow'r,

Where slept the Woodbine's shelter'd flow'r,

Where bending o'er the Violet's bed

The Rose its liquid blushes shed;

While near the feather'd Mourner flung

Such plaints from his enamour'd tongue,

That all subdued at my MATILDA's feet

I sunk, but with an agony more sweet,

Than favour'd mortal e'er before had proved,

Or ever yet conceiv'd unless like me he loved.

SHE SPOKE, but O! no sound was heard

Of the wanton, rapt'rous bird,

That climbs the morning's upmost sky,

When first the golden vapours fly;

But fainter was the moving measure,

Than the Linnet's noontide leisure

Lets the sultry breezes steal—

Dar'st thou, my tongue! the tale reveal?

"ILL-FATED BARD!" she cried, "whose length|'ning grief

Had won the pathos of my lyre's relief,

For whom, full oft, I've loiter'd to rehearse

In phrenzied mood the deep impassion'd verse,

Ill-fated Bard! from each frail hope remove,

And shun the certain Suicide of Love:

Lean not to me, th' impassion'd verse is o'er,

Which chain'd thy heart, and forc'd thee to adore:

For O! observe where haughty Duty stands,

Her form in radiance drest, her eye severe,

Eternal Scorpions writhing in her hands

To urge th' offender's unavailing tear!

Dread Goddess, I obey!

Ah! smooth thy awful terror-striking brow,

Hear and record MATILDA's sacred vow!

Ne'er will I quit th' undeviating LINE,

Whose SOURCE THOU art, and THOU the LAW DIVINE.

The Sun shall be subdued, his system fade,

Ere I forsake the path thy FIAT made;

Yet grant one soft regretful tear to flow,

Prompted by pity for a Lover's woe,

O grant, without REVENGE, one bursting sigh,

Ere from his desolating grief I fly.—

'Tis past,—Farewel! ANOTHER claims my heart,

Then wing thy sinking steps, for here we part,

WE PART! and listen, for the word is MINE,

ANNA MATILDA NEVER CAN BE THINE!"

She ceas'd, and sudden like an evening wind

Rushing, some prison'd tempest to unbind,

And all regardless of the scenes it leaves,

Skimming o'er bending blooms, and russet sheaves,

MATILDA fled! the closing Night pursu'd,

And the cold INGRATE scarce I longer view'd;

Her form grew indistinct—each step more dim,

And now a distant vapour seems to swim,

Her white robe glistens on my eye no more,

Its strainings are all in vain—THE FOND DELUSION'S O'ER.[*]

MY SONG SUBSIDES, yet ere I close

The ling'ring lay that feeds my woes,

Ere yet forgotten DELLA CRUSCA runs

To torrid gales, or petrifying suns,

Ere bow'd to earth my latest feeling flies,

And the big passion settles on my eyes;

O may this sacred sentiment be known,

That my adoring heart is ANNA'S OWN;

YES, ALL HER OWN, and tho' ANOTHER claim

Her mind's rich treasure, still I love the same;

And tho' ANOTHER, O how blest! has felt

Her soften'd soul in dear delirium melt,

While from her gaze the welcome meaning sprung,

As on her neck in frantic joy he hung,

Yet I will bear it, and tho' Hell deride,

My pangs shall sooth, my curse shall be my pride.

Nor can HE boast like me; O no, HE found

The tranquillizing balm that cures the wound;

HE never knew the loftier bliss, to rave,

Without a pow'r to aid, a chance to save;

HE never bath'd him in the Nightshade's dew,

Nor drank the pois'nous meteors as they flew,

Nor told his rending story to the Moon,

Link'd with the demons of her direct noon;

HE never smil'd Distraction's ills to share,

Nor gain'd th' exalted glory of despair.

Then be it HIS, for many a year t' enfold

Those charms, and wanton in her curls of gold,

Drain the sweet fountain of her eye's fond stream,

And fancy suff'rance but the wretch's dream;

While I will prove that I deserve my fate,

Was born for anguish, and was form'd for hate,

With such transcendent woe will breathe my sigh,

That envying fiends shall think it ECSTACY,

And with fierce taunts my cherish'd griefs invade,

Till on my pow'rless tongue the last "MATILDA" fade.

DELLA CRUSCA.
June 16, 1789.

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

—ibimus, ibimus,

Utcunque praecedes, supremum

Carpere iter comites parati.

YES, I would write; the sad command

Lives in each melancholy throb

Which lifts my heart. Thy ANNA's hand,

When death that melting eye shall rob

Of the blue flames which flashing there,

Thy burning soul so well declare—

Thy ANNA's hand that soul shall then disclose,

And by indulging, charm her weary woes.

Forth would I rush, whilst Night's dim orb

The blackest vapours of the sky absorb;

And should a lingering Star with glittering beam,

Send thro' the air its silvery stream,

I'd tell it that PHILANDER WAS NO MORE—

Strait would its glittering beam be sad;

And the wide heavens in darkness clad

Would join to mourn, WHOM I should then deplore.

Quick to the cypress forest I would hie,

Whose thick gloom never drank the healthful sky,

And from its deepest central spot,

Where misery had rais'd her flinty grot,

A bough I'd tear;

Whilst shrieking thro' the ebon air

The Night Bird's voice would dismal echo wake,

And with its lorn complaints the resting vallies shake.

Then would I find where yew-trees wave,

O'er some unhappy Lover's grave,

Their desolated shade;

And from their baleful branches brush

The pois'nous dews!—or madly crush

The juices from the riven rind

That ne'er again the naked trunk should bind.

My chosen cypress reed I'd then immerse,

And calling on the Muse of melancholy verse,

With the YEW'S TEARS I'd story all my woe,

Nor should a mingling TEAR of MINE presume to flow.

No! I would scorn to weep. The glorious grief

Should gorge upon my heart, and spurn relief.

How I would write of dear PHILANDER dead!

O! I would weave such verse, that round my hea!

The Demons of the Night,

Arrested in their wheeling slight,

Should learn to pity and to mourn,

And curse their bounded pow'r,

Which would not let them say RETURN! RETURN!

I'd paint his form, and every varying grace

Impress'd by FEELING on his manly face,

Then should forever live his SAPPHIRE EYE,

And tho' his sensate heart in earth dissolves,

As Time, obliterating, round revolves,

THAT BEAM at least should never, never die!

But O! how should I paint his mind,

A taste so true, and so refin'd!

How should I speak of his IMMORTAL MUSE

That now can such delight diffuse?

A Muse which forms a NATION'S TASTE!

And o'er the weedy waste

Of long-neglected Poetry had thrown

A vivid light, which so sublimely shone.

That to its source ten thousand poets flew,

And form'd their songs, and tun'd their harps anew.

But yes! e'en of HIS MUSE I'd speak;

And tho' I know the swelling theme

Would shake my soul, till in th' extreme

Of strong sensation every nerve would break;

Yet having then fulfil'd my task,

Done, what last night's soft shadows heard him ask,

What could I next but die?

Yes, I would court HIM vainly fam'd

THE KING OF TERRORS! Oh, how lightly nam'd!

Would he not be my bosom's friend?

Would not the sighs his agonies would rend

From my torn heart, be passports bright

To wing me to the fields of living light;

Where, from the rapt seraphic throng

My own PHILANDER's powerful song

Would be the first to seize my ear,

And make me feel that HEAVEN WAS NEAR?

Come then, pale King! feed on my feeble breath;

O! come, thou stay'st too long—too long ENCHANTING DEATH.

ANNA MATILDA.
June 19, 1789.

TO A—E B—N.

THINK not, TRANSCENDENT MAID! my woe

Shall ever trouble thy repose;

The mind no lasting pang can know,

Which lets the tongue that pang disclose.

Sorrow is sacred when 'tis true,

In deep concealment proudly dwells,

And seems its passion to subdue,

When most th' impulsive throb compels.

For HE who dares assert his grief,

Who boasts the anguish he may prove,

Obtains, perhaps, the wish'd relief,

BUT O! THE TRAITOR DOES NOT LOVE,

The LOVER is a Man afraid,

Has neither grace, nor ease, nor art,

Embarras'd, comfortless dimay'd,

He sinks the VICTIM OF HIS HEART.

He feels his own demerits most,

When he should most aspire to gain,

And is at length completely lost,

Because he cannot urge his pain.

But tho' he be so much subdu'd,

And ev'ry scene of spirit leave

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

As if he only liv'd to grieve.

Yet let his FAIR-ONE's wrongs be told,

Sudden he rushes forth to save,

The Forest's King is not so bold!

O! IF HE LOVES HE MUST BE BRAVE.

And if, alas! her hand should bless

Some more attractive youth than HE;

HE never would adore the less,

But glory in his agony.

He'd see her to the altar led,

And still command his struggling sigh,

Nor would he let one tear be shed,

He'd triumph then;—FOR THEN HE'D DIE.[*]

DELLA CRUSCA.
June 30, 1791.

THE END.

CONTENTS.

- THE Adieu and Recal to Love Page 1

- To Della Crusca 3

- To Anna Matilda 5

- To Della Crusca 8

- To Anna Matilda 10

- Elegy, written on the plain of Fontenoy 13

- Stanzas to Della Crusca 17

- To Anna Matilda 22

- To Della Crusca 26

- Ode to Prudence 29

- Ode to Death 32

- Elegy on the Thirty-first of December 35

- Invocation to Horror 39

- To Anna Matilda 43

- To Reuben 44

- Ode to Mrs. Siddons 49

- Ode to Simplicity 52

- Ode to Miss Farren 55

- The Slaves, an Elegy 58

- Monody 63

- Ode to Indifference 67

- Ode to Anna Matilda 71

- Ode to Della Crusca 76

- To Anna Matilda 79

- To Della Crusca 82

- To Anna Matilda 89

- To Della Crusca 94

- A Tale for Jealousy 99

- Ambitious Vengeance. A Tragic Drama. 113

- Stanzas on Friendship 163

- Verses to a young Lady at Bath 166

- The Complaint 168

- Ode. To ***** 172

- Prayer to Venus 174

- Complimentary Verses 176

- Stanzas on Lady Craven's Children 177

- The Retrospect 179

- Stanzas to Ill Nature 183

- The Confession 187

- Prologue to the Comedy of the Provok'd Husband 189

- The Invitation 191

- Stanzas on a young Lady's Birth Day 195

- Lines sent to a Friend with a Watch 197

- Song, addressed to a young Lady 199

- Ballad, founded on Fact 201

- To Laura 208

- Elegy 211

- Love renew'd. A Sonnet 215

- Characteristic Song 217

- The Repentance of Passion 219

- Diversity, a Poem 224

- Sonnet. To the Muse 241

- Sonnet. To Melissa's Lips 242

- Sonnet. The Valentine of Hopeless Love 243

- Sonnet. Melissa's Retirement 244

- Sonnet. To May 245

- Sonnet. To Melissa 246

- Sonnet. To Do. 247

- Sonnet. The Invitation 248

- Sonnet. Melissa 249

- Sonnet. To the River Usk 250

- Sonnet. To General Elliott 251

- Parting address to Della Crusca 252

- The African Boy 254

- To Miss Farren 257

- The Voice we love 258

- Henry deceived 261

- To Emma 267

- Monologue 270

- A Fragment 273

- On Miss Farren's Portrait 275

- General Conway's Elegy on Miss C. Campbell 276

- Epitaph on Do. 279

- Marquis Townshend's verses on Miss Gardiner 281

- To Anna Matilda 283

- To Him who will understand it 287

- To Laura 291

- To Della Crusca 294

- Laura to Anna Matilda 299

- To Anna Matilda 303

- To Della Crusca 308

- The Interview 313

- To Philander 319

- To A—e B—n 323

Notes

*
Addison.
↵

*
This alludes to the idea of the Nightingale being enamoured of the Rose, so frequently expressed in Persian Poetry.
↵

*
The overslowing of the Nile always happens when the Sun is in Leo and Virgo
•

↵

*
This Tragic-Drama was written prior to any of the other Poems.
↵

*
This very beautiful line is taken from Mr. JERNINGHAM.
↵

*
SIR JOHN HENRY MORE, Bart. who died in the year 1780, at about the age of twenty-five. His true poetical powers cannot be better proved than by the following lines, which he wrote to a Lady, a few months before his death, being in an evident decay.

If in that breast, so good, so pure,

Compassion ever lov'd to dwell,

Pity the sorrows I endure,

The cause I must not—dare not tell.

The grief that on my quiet preys,

That tends my heart, that checks my tongue,

I fear will last me all my days,

But feel—it will not last me long.

↵

*
GEORGE ELLIS, Esq.
↵

*
Mrs. HESTER LYNCH PIOZZI, a Lady well known for her Genies, and literary acquirements.
↵

*
A Brook in Kent.
↵

*
These elegant little Poems signed THE BARD we understand to be from the pen of Mr. JERNINGHAM.
↵

*
The kindred tears, in the 4th line, are those of the Marchioness of Townshend. This is the Incident painted by Mrs. Cosway.
↵

*
See
〈…〉
, and ANNA MATILDA's Answer, which are inserted

〈…〉

forty forth p
•
ges, but which DELLA CRUSCA had never read
〈…〉
before his writing the above.
↵

*
This Poem was written by Mrs. ROBINSON.
↵

*
This Poem, though signed LEONARDO, is from the Pen of DILLA CRUSCA.
↵

*
All the lines in this Poem printed in Italics, are from the pen of ANNA MATILDA.
↵

*
This Poem was, in the former Editions, addressed to DELLA CRUSCA.
↵

*
A FURIOUS modern SATIRIST, who cannot in any manner moderate his rage at the success which Mr. MERRY's poetry has met with, under the signature of DELLA CRUSCA, falls soul on him in DESPERATION, and ACTUALLY charges him with the HEINOUS OFFENCE of POETICAL INCONSTANCY, for having addressed LOVE-VERSES to a VARIETY of WOMEN. The justice of the accusation cannot seriously be denied!! All we can say is, that we hope Mr. MERRY's MUSE will behave with more fidelity in future!
↵

Information about this book

Title statement

The British album: A collection of poems. [Three lines of anonymous verse]

Publication

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/5510

ID [isbn10]

1106025091

ID [isbn13]

9781106025098

ID [TCP]

K135535.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3312941801

ID [ECLL]

0496300200

Availability

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Source

— The British album: A collection of poems. [Three lines of anonymous verse], Reed, Joseph, 1723-1787., Jerningham, Mr. (Edward), 1737?-1812., Andrews, Miles Peter, d. 1814., Cowley, Mrs. (Hannah), 1743-1809., Merry, Robert, 1755-1798.. Belknap and Hall's edition.. [8],324,[4]p., [2]leaves of plates : 2 ports. ; 12⁰. [Boston] :: Printed at the Apollo Press, in Boston, by Belknap and Hall. Sold at their office State Street, and at the several bookstores,. MDCCXCIII. [1793]. [Printer's monogram device on title page. Second title page reads: The British album. Containing the poems of Della Crusca, Anna Matilda, Arley, Benedict, the bard, &c. &c. &c. Revised and corrected by their respective authors. First American edition, from the fourth London edition. Boston: Printed by and for Belknap and Hall, State Street, 1793.] [Dedicated to Richard Brinsley Sheridan.] [Portraits of Della Crusca (i.e., Robert Merry) and Anna Matilda (i.e., Mrs. Cowley) engraved by Samuel Hill.] ["Ambitious vengeance; a tragic-drama ... by Della Crusca."--p. [113]-162.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Evans, 25807] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCW30060.] [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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