As the pure joy Benevolence inspires,
Her conscious energies, her sacred fires:
When o'er this favour'd spot her banners wave,
And mark the band, whose triumph is—to save.
Lo! when by Fancy wak'd to new delight,
The child of genius wings his daring flight,
Now soars sublime, and spurns the earth below,
Now sinks depress'd, o'erwhelm'd by want and woe;
What generous sympathy can soothe his care?
What hand shall raise him, plung'd in deep despair?
What friend his wounds can heal, his sorrows cheer,
Revive his drooping hope?-That friend is here:
Hence flow the plenteous streams that comfort give,
Restore his long-lost peace, and bid him live.
But see (more wretched still), the Bard or Sage, Whose fortune fails, whose genius droops, in age! His wit, his science, or his lofty lays,
Once gain'd the meed of universal praise.
Alas! when want pursues, when life declines,
Unheard he suffers, unlamented pines.
Too proud on private bounty to depend,
He shuns the patron; nay, he fears the friend.
How then shall worth like his assert its claim?
Who shall redress his wrongs, yet spare his shame?
'Tis yours to search in Misery's deep recess,
Unsought to cherish, and unusk'd to bless;
Chase pining Want, bid Shame's keen anguish cease,
And Life's eventful drama end in peace.
But why this needless lay?--With fond acclaim, Britain now owns, and consecrates your fame;
Where'er true Taste, true Science, greet their friends,
Her heavenly sway Benevolence extends.
Here then the Muse her anxious toils may close,
And her fond votaries seek their lov'd repose.
Propp'd by her zeal, and foster'd by her praise,
Your bounty struggled thro' its infant days-
Henceforth each fear dispell'd, each danger past,
Firm, independent, it shall reign, and last.
So the fond parent bird, with watchful eyes,
Views her young brood on fluttering pinions rise,
Directs their efforts with experienc'd skill,
While yet too weak to soar, or roam at will:
But when, mature in strength, aloft they spring,
With juster confidence, with firmer wing,
She bids them on their native powers rely,
And pleas'd beholds them range the boundless sky,
2. WRITTEN BY I. D'ISRAELI, ESQ.
AND RECITED BY EDWARD GRUBB, ESQ.
SERAPH of earth! lov'd Charity appears,
And drops on human griefs celestial tears;
O come! thine eyes of dewy light unfold,
And wave thy tresses of ethereal gold!
Mark the warm blush upon her forehead sent,
Her hand outstretch'd, her listening head just bent!
Hung round her knees a graceful group is seen;
She comes, and Famine's blasted heath looks green!
Her blest abodes each little village grace,
And restless vagrants find a resting-place;
See where Philanthropy her labour aids,
And opes to felon youths her schools and trades!
Lucina there, a splendid palace rears,
To calm the future mother's modest fears.
Sweet Charity! like Venus 'mid the waves,
Thou walk'st in beauty o'er the watery graves,
And, teaching man a Promethéan art,
Bring'st fire from heaven-or wak'st it in his heart!
Within his grate, sits meagre Worth oppress'd,
Nor feels the sunshine playing on his breast;
Gently thy hand the little debt shall lend,
And give the social hearth a Father, Husband, Friend
All, all, have felt the public's anxious care,
And every Briton had a brother's share;
All but the letter'd few-the Bard, the Sage,
Those great contemporaries of every age!
Who can forgive the present, while they trust
To the late justice of some gem, or bust;
Obscurely beaming, like their midnight oil,
They sink, with slow decay, in silent toil.
Yes! while the' immortal page their genius spread, Even then they fainted for a little bread;
Yes! in our country (Freedom's antient choice!)
Want strangled oft the Patriot's feeble voice;
And loud Renown has told of many a name,
The child, at once, of Famine and of Fame!
Ah! on the press we muse with dread delight,
If they must perish who were born to write!
Bards, in whose breasts, with inspiration gay,
The Muses warble, and the Graces play,
Those gifted spirits of Aonian birth,
Crouch to the hand of Trade, and bend to Earth!
Or, blushless, dare the venal censer hold,
And barter glory (wretched men!) for gold!
Or bid their Muse still flaunt about the town,
The dirty prostitute of half a crown!
Shall British genius mourn so long, and hide The Sage's dignity, the Poet's pride? Ah, better breathe the unregarded sigh, With Butler languish, and with Otway die; With Chatterton, in sullen vengeance brood; With Collins, rage in Phrenzy's ireful mood.
From ills like these, to save the virtuous man, Patrons of Genius! is your rising plan! Ah! sure the Artists of each finer grace; The lov'd Preceptors of the human race; All that dear train, whose studious hours impart The' illumin'd spirit, and the moral heart, Claim from the public hand their moderate share; Yes, 'tis their due!-they made us what we are! And in a British audience still we see
Their hands are liberal, as their hearts are free; Long, long endure, by generous spirits grac'd, This festival of CHARITY and TASTE.
ON THE MORNING OF HIS EXECUTION.
[Respectfully inscribed to the Philanthropic Society.]
POOR Babe, that through this darksome grate
Survey'st yon crowd with curious eye,
If thou wouldst learn why thus they wait-
Know, 'tis to see thy father die;
To see how I that death shall bear
They deem for crimes like mine most fit; Crimes urg'd by want, which many there Were never tempted to commit.
A death, sweet innocent, for which
Thou❜lt be, alas, one day revil'd;
For with my guilt the rude of speech
Too often will reproach my chlid!
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