Page images



AY, ye apostate and profane,


Allegiance to your God,
Did e'er your idly-wasted love
Of virtue for her sake remove,

And lift you from the crowd ?
Would you the race of glory run,
Know, the devout, and they alone,

Are equal to the task:
The labours of the illustrious course
Far other than the unaided force

Of human vigour ask,
To arm against repeated ill
The patient heart, too brave to feel

The tortures of despair ;
Nor safer yet high-crested Pride,
When wealth flows in with every tide

To gain admittance there.
To rescue from the tyrant's sword
The oppressed ;-unseen and unimplored,

To cheer the face of woe ;
From lawless insult to defend
An orphan's right, a fallen friend,

And a forgiven foe;
These, these distinguish from the crowd,
And these alone, the great and good

The guardians of mankind;

Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,
Oh, with what matchless speed they leave

The multitude behind !

Then ask ye, from what cause on earth
Virtues like these derive their birth!

Derived from Heaven alone,
Full on that favoured breast they shine,
Where faith and resignation join

To call the blessing down.

Such is that heart;—but while the Muse
Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues,

Her feebler spirits faint ;
She cannot reach, and would not wrong,
That subject for an angel's song,

The hero, and the saint !



ND dwells there in a female heart,


The choicest raptures to impart,

To feel the most refined

Dwells there a wish in such a breast

Its nature to forego,
To smother in ignoble rest

At once both bliss and woe !

Far be the thonght, and far the strain,

Which breathes the low desire, How sweet soe'er the verse complain,

Tho' Phæbus string the lyre.

Come then, fair maid (in nature wise)

Who, knowing them, can tell
From gen'rous sympathy what joys

The glowing bosom swell.
In justice to the various pow'rs

Of pleasing, which you share,
Join me, amid your silent hours,

To form the better pray’r.

“Oh ! if my Soy'reign Author please,

Far be it from my fate,
To live, unblest, in torpid ease,

And slumber on in state.

" What tho' in scaly armour drest,

Indifference may repel
The shafts of woe-in such a breast

No joy can ever dwell.

“'Tis woven in the world's great plan,

And fix'd by Heav'n's decree, That all the true delights of man

Should spring from Sympathy.

“Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves.

Who, if from labour eased, Extend no care beyond themselves,

Unpleasing and unpleased.

“Let no low thought suggest the pray'r ;

Oh! grant, kind Heaven, to me, Long as I draw ethereal air

Sweet Sensibility.
“Still may my melting bosom cleave

To suff' rings not my own,
And still the sigh responsive heave,

Where'er is heard a groan.
“So pity shall take Virtue's part,

Her natural ally,
And fashioning my soften'd heart,

Prepare it for the sky.”
This artless vow may Heav'n receive

And you, fond maid, approve ;
So may your guiding angel give

Whate'er you wish or love.
So may the rosy-finger'd hours

Lead on the various year,
And ev'ry joy, which now is yours,

Extend a larger sphere.
And suns to come, as round they wheel,

Your golden moments bless, With all a tender heart can feel,

Or lively fancy guess.



A. OU told me, I remember, glory built

On selfish principles, is shame and guilt. The deeds that men admire as half divine, Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears The laurel that the very lightning spares, Brings down the warrior's trophy to the dust, And eats into his bloody sword like rust.

B. I grant, that men continuing what they are,
Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war,
And never meant the rule should be applied
To him that fights with justice on his side.
And when recording history displays
Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days,
Tells of a few stout hearts that fought and died
Where duty placed them, at their country's side,
The man that is not moved with what he reads,
That takes not fire at their heroic deeds,
Unworthy of the blessings of the brave,
Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.

But let eternal infamy pursue
The wretch to nought but his ambition true,
Who for the sake of filling with one blast
The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste.

A. 'Tis your belief the world was made for man, Kings do but reason on the selfsame plan, Maintaining yours, you cannot their's condemn, Who think, or seem to think, man made for them.

B. Seldom, alas ! the power of logic reigns
With much sufficiency in royal brains.
Such reasoning falls like an inverted cone,
Wanting its proper base to stand upon.

« PreviousContinue »