Nor genial warmth, nor genial juice retains
Their roots to feed, and fill their verdant veins :
And as in climes, where winter holds his reign,
The soil, though fertile, will not teem in vain,
Forbids her germs to swell, her shades to rise,
Nor trusts her blossoms to the churlish skies;
To draw mankind in vain the vital airs,
Unform'd, unfriended, by those kindly cares,
That health and vigour to the soul impart,
Spread the young thought, and warm the opening

heart:

So fond instruction on the growing powers

Of nature idly lavishes her stores,

If equal justice, with unclouded face,
Smile not indulgent on the rising race,
And scatter with a free, though frugal hand,
Light golden showers of plenty o'er the land:
But tyranny has fix'd her empire there,
To check their tender hopes with chilling fear,
And blast the blooming promise of the year.

This spacious animated scene survey,
From where the rolling orb, that gives the day,
His sable sons with nearer course surrounds,
To either pole, and life's remotest bounds.
How rude soe'er th' exterior form we find,
Howe'er opinion tinge the varied mind,
Alike to all the kind, impartial heav'n
The sparks of truth and happiness has giv'n :
With sense to feel, with memory to retain,
They follow pleasure, and they fly from pain;
Their judgment mends the plan their fancy draws,
Th' event presages, and explores the cause;
The soft returns of gratitude they know,
By fraud elude, by force repel the foe;
While mutual wishes, mutual woes endear
The social smile and sympathetic tear.

Say, then, through ages by what fate confin'd To different climes seem different souls assign'd? Here measured laws and philosophic ease Fix, and improve the polish'd arts of peace. There industry and gain their vigils keep, Command the winds, and tame th' unwilling deep. Here force and hardy deeds of blood prevail; There languid pleasure sighs in every gale. Oft o'er the trembling nations from afar Has Scythia breath'd the living cloud of war; And, where the deluge burst, with sweepy sway, Their arms, their kings, their gods were roll'd

away.

As oft have issued, host impelling host,
The blue-eyed myriads from the Baltic coast.
The prostrate south to the destroyer yields
Her boasted titles, and her golden fields;
With grim delight the brood of winter view
A brighter day, and heavens of azure hue,
Scent the new fragrance of the breathing rose,
And quaff the pendent vintage as it grows.
Proud of the yoke, and pliant to the rod,
Why yet does Asia dread a monarch's nod,
While European freedom still withstands
Th' encroaching tide, that drowns her lessening
And sees far off with an indignant groan [lands,
Her native plains, and empires once her own?
Can opener skies and sons of fiercer flame
O'erpower the fire that animates our frame;

As lamps, that shed at eve a cheerful ray,
Fade and expire beneath the eye of day?
Need we the influence of the northern star
To string our nerves and steel our hearts to war?
And, where the face of nature laughs around,
Must sick'ning virtue fly the tainted ground?
Unmanly thought! what seasons can control,
What fancied zone can circumscribe the soul,
Who, conscious of the source from whence she
springs,

By reason's light, on resolution's wings,
Spite of her frail companion, dauntless goes
O'er Libya's deserts and through Zembla's snows?
She bids each slumb'ring energy awake,
Another touch, another temper take,

Suspends th' inferior laws, that rule our clay:
The stubborn elements confess her sway;
Their little wants, their low desires, refine,
And raise the mortal to a height divine.

Not but the human fabric from the birth
Imbibes a flavour of its parent earth.
As various tracts enforce a various toil,
The manners speak the idiom of their soil.
An iron-race the mountain-cliffs maintain,
Foes to the gentler genius of the plain :
For where unwearied sinews must be found
With side-long plough to quell the flinty ground,
To turn the torrent's swift-descending flood,
To brave the savage rushing from the wood,
What wonder, if to patient valour train'd,
They guard with spirit, what by strength they
gain'd?

And while their rocky ramparts round they see,
The rough abode of want and liberty,
(As lawless force from confidence will grow)
Insult the plenty of the vales below?
What wonder, in the sultry climes, that spread,
Where Nile redundant o'er his summer bed
From his broad bosom life and verdure flings,
And broods o'er Egypt with his wat'ry wings,
If with advent'rous oar and ready sail,
The dusky people drive before the gale;
Or on frail floats to neigh'bring cities ride
That rise and glitter o'er the ambient tide.

Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Mute was the music of the air, The herd stood drooping by: Their raptures now that wildly flow, No yesterday, nor morrow know; "Tis man alone that joy descries With forward and reverted eyes.

Smiles on past misfortune's brow, Soft reflection's hand can trace; And o'er the cheek of sorrow throw A melancholy grace:

While hope prolongs our happier hour; Or deepest shades, that dimly lower And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy pleasure leads,
See a kindred grief pursue;
Behind the steps that misery treads
Approaching comfort view:

The hues of bliss more brightly glow,
Chastised by sabler tints of woe;
And blended form, with artful strife,
The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch, that long has tost
On the thorny bed of pain,
At length repair his vigour lost,
And breathe, and walk again :
The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening Paradise.

THE TRAGEDY OF "AGRIPPINA," A FRAGMENT.
ACT I. SCENE I.

Persons-AGRIPPINA the EMPRESS-MOTHER, and ACERONIA
her Confidante.

Agrip. "Tis well, begone! your errand is perform'd: [Speaks as to ANICETUS entering. The message needs no comment. Tell your master, His mother shall obey him. Say you saw her Yielding due reverence to his high command: Alone, unguarded, and without a lictor, As fits the daughter of Germanicus. Say, she retired to Antium; there to tend Her household cares, a woman's best employment. What if you add, how she turn'd pale, and trembled;

You think you spied a tear stand in her eye, And would have dropp'd, but that her pride restrain'd it?

(Go! you can paint it well) 'twill profit you, And please the stripling. Yet 'twould dash his joy To hear the spirit of Britannicus

Yet walks on earth; at least there are who know

Without a spell to raise, and bid it fire

A thousand haughty hearts, unused to shake
When a boy frowns, nor to be lured with smiles
To taste of hollow kindness, or partake
His hospitable board: They ate aware
Of th' unpledged bowl, they love not aconite.
Acer. He's gone; and much I hope these walls

alone,

And the mute air are privy to your passion.
Forgive your servant's fears, who sees the danger
Which fierce resentment cannot fail to raise
In haughty youth, and irritated power.

Agrip. And dost thou talk to me, to me of
danger,

Of haughty youth, and irritated power,
To her that gave it being, her that arm'd
This painted Jove, and taught his novice hand
To aim the forked bolt; whilst he stood trembling,
Scared at the sound, and dazzled with its bright-
ness?

"Tis like thou hast forgot, when yet a stranger
To adoration, to the grateful steam
Of flattery's incense, and obsequious vows
From voluntary realms, a puny boy,
Deck'd with no other lustre than the blood
Of Agrippina's race, he lived unknown
To fame or fortune; haply eyed at distance
Some edileship, ambitious of the power
To judge of weights and measures; scarcely dared
On expectation's strongest wing to soar
High as the consulate, that empty shade
Of long forgotten liberty: When I

Oped his young eye to bear the blaze of greatness;
Show'd him where empire tower'd, and bade him

strike

The noble quarry. Gods! then was the time To shrink from danger; fear might then have

worn

The mask of prudence: but a heart like mine,
A heart that glows with the pure Julian fire,
If bright ambition from her craggy seat
Display the radiant prize, will mount undaunted,
Gain the rough heights, and grasp the dangerous
honour.

Acer. Through various life I have pursued your

steps,

Rankle to gall; and benefits too great To be repaid, sit heavy on the soul,

As unrequited wrongs. The willing homage
Of prostrate Rome, the senate's joint applause,
The riches of the earth, the train of pleasures,
That wait on youth, and arbitrary sway;
These were your gift, and with them you bestow'd
The very power he has to be ungrateful.

Agrip. Thus ever grave, and undisturb'd re-
flection

Pours its cool dictates in the madding ear
Of rage, and thinks to quench the fire it feels not.
Say'st thou I must be cautious, must be silent
And tremble at the phantom I have raised?
Carry to him thy timid counsels. He
Perchance may heed 'em: Tell him too, that one,
Who had such liberal power to give, may still
With equal power resume that gift, and raise
A tempest that shall shake her own creation
To its original atoms-tell me! say,
This mighty emperor, this dreaded hero,
Has he beheld the glittering front of war?
Knows his soft ear the trumpet's thrilling voice,
And outcry of the battle? Have his limbs
Sweat under iron harness? Is he not
The silken son of dalliance, nursed in ease
And pleasure's flowery lap?-Rubellius lives,
And Sylla has his friends, though school'd by fear
To bow the supple knee, and court the times
With shows of fair obeisance: and a call,
Like mine, might serve belike to wake pretensions
Drowsier than theirs, who boast the genuine blood
Of our imperial house.

Acer. Did I not wish to check this dangerous passion,

I might remind my mistress that her nod
Can rouse eight hardy legions, wont to stem
With stubborn nerves the tide, and face the rigour
Of bleak Germania's snows. Four, not less brave,
That in Armenia quell the Parthian force
Under the warlike Corbulo, by you
Mark'd for their leader: These, by ties confirm'd,
Of old respect and gratitude, are yours.
Surely the Masians too, and those of Egypt,
Have not forgot your sire: The eye of Rome
And the prætorian camp have long revered,
With custom'd awe, the daughter, sister, wife,
And mother of their Cæsars.

Agrip. Ha! by Juno,

It bears a noble semblance. On this base
My great revenge shall rise; or say we sound
The trump of liberty; there will not want,
Even in the servile senate, ears to own
Her spirit-stirring voice; Soranus there,
And Cassius: Vetus too, and Thrasea,
Minds of the antique cast, rough stubborn souls,
That struggle with the yoke. How shall the spark
Unquenchable, that glows within their breasts,
Blaze into freedom, when the idle herd
(Slaves from the womb, created but to stare,
And bellow in the Circus) yet will start,
And shake em' at the name of liberty,
Stung by a senseless word, a vain tradition,
As there were magic in it? wrinkled beldams
Teach it their grandchildren, as somewhat rare

That anciently appear'd, but when, extends
Beyond their chronicle-oh! 'tis a cause
To arm the hand of childhood, and rebrace
The slacken'd sinews of time-wearied age.
Yes, we may meet, ingrateful boy, we may !
Again the buried genius of old Rome
Shall from the dust uprear his reverend head,
Roused by the shout of millions: There before
His high tribunal thou and I appear.

Let majesty sit on thy awful brow,

And lighten from thy eye: Around thee call
The gilded swarm that wantons in the sunshine
Of thy full favour: Seneca be there
In gorgeous phrase of labour'd eloquence
To dress thy plea, and Burrhus strengthen it
With his plain soldier's oath, and honest seeming.
Against thee, liberty and Agrippina:

The world, the prize; and fair befall the victors.
But soft! why do I waste the fruitless hours
In threats unexecuted? Haste thee, fly
These hated walls, that seem to mock my shame,
And cast me forth in duty to their lord.

Acer. 'Tis time we go, the sun is high advanced,
And, ere mid-day, Nero will come to Baia.
Agrip. My thought aches at him; not the basilisk
More deadly to the sight, than is to me
The cool injurious eye of frozen kindness.
I will not meet its poison. Let him feel
Before he sees me.

Acer. Why then stays my sovereign, Where he so soon may

Agrip.

Yes, I will be gone,

But not to Antium-all shall be confess'd,
Whate'er the frivolous tongue of giddy fame
Has spread among the crowd; things that but

whisper'd,

Have arch'd the hearer's brow, and riveted
His eyes in fearful ecstasy: No matter
What; so't be strange, and dreadful.-Sorceries,
Assassinations, poisonings the deeper
My guilt, the blacker his ingratitude.
And you, ye manes of ambition's victims,
Enshrined Claudius, with the pitied ghosts
Of the Syllani, doom'd to early death,
(Ye unavailing horrors, fruitless crimes!)
If from the realms of night my voice ye hear,
In lieu of penitence, and vain remorse,
Accept my vengeance. Though by me ye bled,
He was the cause. My love, my fears for him,
Dried the soft springs of pity in my heart,
And froze them up with deadly cruelty.
Yet if your injured shades demand my fate,
If murder cries for murder, blood for blood,
Let me not fall alone; but crush his pride,
And sink the traitor in his mother's ruin.

SCENE II. Отно. РОРРЕА.

[Exeunt.

Otho. Thus far we're safe. Thanks to the

rosy queen

Of amorous thefts: And had her wanton son Lent us his wings, we could not have beguiled

CUTHBERT SHAW was the son of a shoemaker, and was born at Ravensworth, near Richmond, in Yorkshire. He was for some time usher to the grammar-school at Darlington, where he published, in 1756, his first poem, entitled "Liberty." He afterward appeared in London and other places as a player; but having no recommendations for the stage, except a handsome figure, he betook himself to writing for subsistence. In 1762 he attacked Colman, Churchill, Lloyd, and Shirley, in a satire, called "The Four Farthing Candles ;"* and next selected the author of the Rosciad as the exclusive subject of a mock-heroic poem, entitled, "The Race, by Mercurius Spur, with Notes by Faustinus Scriblerus." He had, for some time, the care of instructing an infant son of the Earl of Chesterfield in the first rudiments of learning. He married a wo

man of superior connections, who, for his sake, forfeited the countenance of her family; but who did not live long to share his affections and misfortunes. Her death, in 1768, and that of their infant, occasioned those well-known verses which give an interest to his memory. Lord Lyttleton, struck by their feeling expression of a grief similar to his own, solicited his acquaintance, and distinguished him by his praise; but rendered him no substantial assistance. The short remainder of his days was spent in literary drudgery. He wrote a satire on political corruption, with many other articles, which appeared in the Freeholder's Magazine. Disease and dissipation carried him off in the prime of life, after the former had left irretrievable marks of its ravages upon his countenance.

FROM "A MONODY TO THE MEMORY OF HIS WIFE."

* * * WHERE'ER I turn my eyes,
Some sad memento of my loss appears;

I fly the fated house-suppress my sighs,
Resolved to dry my unavailing tears:

Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air,

Now lost; and nought remains but anguish and despair.

Where were the delegates of Heaven, oh where!
Appointed virtue's children safe to keep!
Had innocence or virtue been their care,
She had not died, nor had I lived to weep:
Moved by my tears, and by her patience moved,
To see her force the endearing smile,
My sorrows to beguile,

When torture's keenest rage she proved;
Sure they had warded that untimely dart,
Which broke her thread of life, and rent a hus-
band's heart.

How shall I e'er forget that dreadful hour,
When, feeling death's resistless power,
My hand she press'd, wet with her falling tears,
And thus, in faltering accents, spoke her fears!
66 Ah, my loved lord, the transient scene is o'er,
And we must part (alas!) to meet no more!

[* A poem of which no copy is known to exist.]

If I have doated with that fond excess,
Nor love could add, nor fortune make it less;
If this I've done, and more-oh then be kind
To the dear lovely babe I leave behind.
When time my once-loved memory shall efface,
Some happier maid may take thy Emma's place,
With envious eyes thy partial fondness see,
And hate it for the love thou bore to me:
My dearest Shaw, forgive a woman's fears,
But one word more, (I cannot bear thy tears,)
Promise and I will trust thy faithful vow,
(Oft have I tried, and ever found thee true,)
That to some distant spot thou wilt remove
This fatal pledge of hapless Emma's love,
Where safe thy blandishments it may partake,
And, oh! be tender for its mother's sake.
Wilt thou-

I know thou wilt-sad silence speaks assent,
And in that pleasing hope thy Emma dies content.”

I, who with more than manly strength have bore
The various ills imposed by cruel fate,
Sustain the firmness of my soul no more-
But sink beneath the weight:

Perhaps kind Heaven in mercy dealt the blow, Some saving truth thy roving soul to teach; To wean thy heart from grovelling views below, And point out bliss beyond misfortune's reach; To show that all the flattering schemes of joy, Which towering hope so fondly builds in air, One fatal moment can destroy,

And plunge th' exulting maniac in despair. Then oh! with pious fortitude sustain Thy present loss-haply, thy future gain; Nor let thy Emma die in vain ; Time shall administer its wonted balm, And hush this storm of grief to no unpleasing calm.

Thus the poor bird, by some disastrous fate

Caught and imprison'd in a lonely cage, Torn from its native fields, and dearer mate, Flutters a while and spends its little rage: But, finding all its efforts weak and vain,

No more it pants and rages for the plain; Moping a while, in sullen mood

Droops the sweet mourner-but, ere long, Prunes its light wings, and pecks its food,

And meditates the song:

Serenely sorrowing, breathes its piteous case, And with its plaintive warblings saddens all the place.

Forgive me, Heaven-yet-yet the tears will flow, To think how soon my scene of bliss is past! My budding joys just promising to blow,

All nipt and wither'd by one envious blast! My hours, that laughing wont to fleet away, Move heavily along;

Where's now the sprightly jest, the jocund Time creeps unconscious of delight : [song, How shall I cheat the tedious day?

And O- -the joyless night! Where shall I rest my weary head? How shall I find repose on a sad widow'd bed?

*

*

*

*

And thou, my little cherub, left behind,

To hear a father's plaints, to share his woes, When reason's dawn informs thy infant mind, And thy sweet-lisping tongue shall ask the cause, How oft with sorrow shall mine eyes run o'er,

When twining round my knees I trace Thy mother's smile upon thy face? How oft to my full heart shalt thou restore Sad memory of my joys-ah now no more! By blessings once enjoy'd now more distress'd, More beggar by the riches once possess'd. My little darling!- -dearer to me grown

By all the tears thou'st caused-(O strange to
hear!)

Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own,
Thy cradle purchased with thy mother's bier!
Who now shall seek, with fond delight,
Thy infant steps to guide aright?
She who with doating eyes would gaze
On all thy little artless ways,

By all thy soft endearments blest,

And clasp thee oft with transport to her breast,
Alas! is gone-yet shalt thou prove
A father's dearest, tenderest love;
And oh sweet senseless smiler (envied state!)
As yet unconscious of thy hapless fate,

When years thy judgment shall mature,
And reason shows those ills it cannot cure,

Wilt thou, a father's grief to assuage, For virtue prove the phoenix of the earth? (Like her, thy mother died to give thee birth) And be the comfort of my age!

When sick and languishing I lie,
Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care supply?
And oft as to thy listening ear
Thy mother's virtues and her fate I tell,

Say, wilt thou drop the tender tear,
Whilst on the mournful theme I dwell?
Then, fondly stealing to thy father's side,

Whene'er thou see'st the soft distress, Which I would vainly seek to hide,

Say, wilt thou strive to make it less? To soothe my sorrows all thy cares employ, And in my cup of grief infuse one drop of joy?

2 W