"To wash in Europe's blood my servile stains, "And rivet France and Genoa with my chains? "O, from thy throne, amid the starry skies, "Look down with juster and minuter eyes. "Scorn'd, as I was, and as I am, oppress'd, "Let me find favour in my Maker's breast: "And bid thy thunder teach the unthinking States, "Justice retributive on Kingdoms waits."
She spoke and Jove with eye reluctant saw
Her pray'r was good; and that it must be law.
Then for the book he called, in which are told
Things past, and things the future shall behold:
His firm hand traced a long career of Fame,
And o'er the page inscribed Napoleon's name.
To the Author of a scandulous Publication at Belfast.
SUCH was the pow'r of hidden worth
Within a stranger land,
A Serpent which the heat brought forth,
Dropt, harmless, from the hand.
Snch is the pow'r of secret spite,
That had there been apply'd
To Thee the same envenom'd bite
The Serpent must have died.
Inscribed to a sorrowing Friend.
THERE is a sacred use in Poesy
Beyond its other aims; it has its praise,
When to surpassing excellence it breathes
Incense well-merited, and speaks aloud
The name of Virtue to the general ear.
It has its praise too, when at festive hours
It wakes the soul to pleasure, with sweet airs
And gay united; or at silent eve,
Mid Nature's lovely scenes, remote from men,
It soothes some generous amiable heart
With pleasing fancies. But it cannot boast
More sacred or more dignified employ,
Than when in accents mild it whispers peace
To suff'ring Worth, and lures the wounded heart
Of Sorrow from the grasp of cold Despair.
O could I breathe a strain so soft, so sweet,
So gentle, and so full of tenderness,
That, like the healing voice of Angels kind,
It might pour comfort in the afflicted breast
Of yon beloved mourner! But O how
Can I find solace for distress so keen?
Where is the charm in verse, that can seduce
The rivetted affections from the thought
Of Friends for ever lost, and bid the sigh
Be still, that springs from disappointed hope
And loveliest prospects faded. O what balm
Is there so sovereign, that it can allay
Sharp Memory's pangs, and with Lethaan pow'r
Drive from the storehouse of the busy brain
Each fondly-cherish'd image of past joy?
O there is none; nor will I, lovely Maid,
In rude unhallow'd strains profane thine ear
With cold and rigid themes of stoic pride,
That teach us to forget what most we lov'd,
Vain task! and rudely from the bleeding heart
To pluck at once each tender fond record
Of those we doated on. Too well I know,
For I too have felt sorrow, such are vain.
Mine be it rather those mild images
To paint, which soften, not extirpate grief;
The wildness of distraction that convert
To tender recollection, and soft pain,
With pleasure not unmingled; patience calm;
And resignation, with meek eye upturn'd
To Heav'n, and blessing him that gave the blow.
Mine be it to speak of tender-hearted friends,
In fondest pity watching the pale looks
Of her, who sadly mourns; and, tho' remote,
Oft smit with pangs of deepfelt sympathy,
And breathing purest wishes for her peace.
To waft in gentle and soft-whisp'ring notes
That healing voice, "Blessed are they that mourn;
They shall be comforted ;" and tell, that He,
The hapless object of her sore distress,
Was number'd with the Good (heart-soothing thought)
And full of blooming graces, ripe for Heav'n.
It is the penalty of all that live,
To suffer grief; there's none that doth escape.
Our utmost bliss is but a transient sun,
That for a moment gleams; the black'ning clouds
Roll on, and hide it from our cheated view.
The world is full of mourners. Gracious God!
What but the thought of Thee could bear us up
Amid so many pains; or who sustain
The terrors of thy chast'ning rod severe,
Didst thou not open to our anxious view
The blessed kingdom, where the virtuous heart,
From grief at length secure, may find repose?
Where sever'd friends will meet, to part no more,
And all the just receive their full account
For what they suffer'd here, in this dark road
Of mortal life. There all, who pin'd forlorn
In misery; all, who felt the chilling gripe
Of sore distress; who meekly bow'd the head
Beneath the tyrant's axe, and felt the Scourge
Of taunting Villainy, shall rest in peace;
And tears shall there be wip'd from ev'ry eye.
There only love shall reign, love undisturb'd,
A long unceasing sabbath of delight,
In the bright kingdoms of unfading joy.
O my lamented friend, what waits thee here,
Ere yet escap'd the prison-doors of life?
Thou shalt have comfort, and thine heart, that
throbs
In silent anguish, shall be hush'd to peace.
Thou shalt have Friendship's balm to heal thy wounds;
For we thy friends will watch around thy head, And minister soft solace to thy pains,
Like guardian seraphs hymning songs of love. And, when stern Duty calls us from thy side, Our anxious hearts shall pour forth many a pray'r
In thy behalf, and call Heav'n's blessing down
On thee, our much-lov'd bleeding innocent.
O soothing balm of grief, howe'er severe !
That we are lov'd, that ev'ry pang, that rends
Our bosom, is not felt by us alone;
That sympathy with tender anxious look
In mute compassion watches ev'ry tear,
And sheds herself the drops she fain would dry.
This gives new courage to the fainting soul;
Our griefs are less, when shar'd; the wretch bereft
Of pity's comfort, is a wretch indeed.
Yes, thou meek sufferer! this pitying heart,
Whose doors were never barr'd to worth in tears,
Hath still one precious corner left for thee,
Where thy much-valued image shall be shrin'd,
And Friendship guard it there, till life be gone.
Thou wilt not ever mourn, beloved friend;
Thou yet wilt share the innocent delights
Of us, who cherish thee, and on thy lips
Still wear the smile of peace. We envy not
The temperate sorrow, that disturbs not life;
The precious tribute of a few warm tears
Pour'd from. the sacred fountain of the soul;
These are but soothing, these to happier thoughts
Not uncongenial. The sweet song of morn
Shall cheer thee still, and Nature's lovely smile
Call thee to wander 'mid her peaceful scenes,
And tranquil Evening breathe her wonted calm.
But chief, thy well-instructed mind shall bring
Rich stores of consolation, as thou turn'st
The improving page, of taste full apt to choose
The best and wisest, such as the mild heart
Of woman most adorns, and blends the grace
Of sweetest knowledge with a lovely form.
For what is fairest beauty without that?
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