gentleman at Dunchurch, and, being fellow-sufferers in cold and hunger,
joined interests, ordered four horses, and stuffed three in a chaise. It
is not to you I need apologize, for talking in raptures of an higler
whom we met on the road. His cart had passed us, and was at a
considerable distance, when, looking back, he perceived that our chaise
had stopped, and that the driver seemed mending something. He ran up to
him, and with a face full of honest anxiety, pity, good-nature, and
every sweet affection under Heaven, asked him if we wanted any thing;
that he had plenty of nails, ropes, &c. in his cart.--That wretch of a
postillion made no other reply than, “We want nothing, master.” From the
same impulse the good Irishman, Mr Till, and myself thrust our heads
instantly out of the chaise, and tried to recompense to the honest
creature this surly reply, by every kind and grateful acknowledgment,
and by forcing upon him a little pecuniary tribute. My benevolence will
be the warmer while I live, for the treasured remembrance of this
higler’s countenance.
I know you interest yourself in my destiny--I have now compleatly
subdued my aversion to the profes-p psion of a merchant, and hope in
time to acquire an inclination for it--Yet, God forbid I should ever
love what I am to make the object of my attention!--that vile trash,
which I care not for, but only as it may be the future means of
procuring the blessing of my soul--Thus all my mercantile calculations
go to the tune of dear Honora.--When an impertinent consciousness
whispers in my ear, that I am not of the right stuff for a merchant, I
draw my Honora’s picture from my bosom, and the sight of that dear
talisman so inspirits my industry, that no toil appears oppressive.
The poetic task you set me is a sad method--my head and heart are too
full of other matters to be engrossed by a draggle-tailed wench of the
Heliconian puddle. I am going to try my interest in Parliament--How you
stare!--it is to procure a frank.--Be so good to give the enclosed to
Honora;--it will speak to her--and do you say every thing that is kind
for me to every other distinguished friend of the dressing-room
circle--encourage them in their obliging desire of scribbling in your
letters, but do not let them take Honora’s corner of the sheet.
Adieu!--May you all possess that chearfulness denied to your Cher Jean.
I fear it hurts my mother to see my musing moods;--but I can neither
help nor overcome them.--The near hopes of another excursion to
Lichfield, could alone disperse every gloomy vapour of my
imagination.--Again, and yet again, Adieu!
RIGHT
J. ANDRE.
ODE
TO
POETIC FANCY.
Warm in May’s pellucid noon
See Love and Beauty wanton o’er the vale
Which the young spring has green’d;--and lo! they hail
Thee, FANCY, rival of the sun;
Thou, who with brighter red canst deck the rose
That by yon glassy fountain blows;
A more voluptuous odour breathe
On ardent Summer’s spicy wreath,
Or wake, with powers to higher aims consign’d,
The tender buds of joy in the enlighten’d mind.
With bounding step the Goddess comes,
Bending on high her gay, aerial bow;
The splendid Phœnix’ golden plumes
O’er her fair brow in loose effulgence flow!
Each various hue of colour’d light
Quick glances o’er the silver’d white
Resplendent in her vest,
And the bright beam of extacy
Flashes triumphant from her eye,
And swells her polish’d breast;
While Zeuxis’ pencil, Orpheus’ lyre,
Pygmalion’s heaven-descended fire,
The smiling pleasures bring, as round they throng,
And hymn, in sportive tone, her last enchanting song.[56]
That song, which to her HAYLEY’S ear
Whilom she breath’d in transport gay and loud.
See ARIOSTO’S spirit, from yon cloud,
Stoops, the congenial notes to hear.
His glad eye marks an Elfin Sprite descend,[57]
From many a mystic orb to rend
The veil, that dimly spread between,
Their secrets hid from mortal ken.
The curtain falls!--and to our wondering sight
Sophrosyne appears, amid new worlds of light.
O, FANCY! with fastidious smile
Though Dulness, and though Envy may proclaim
That thou, in thy distinguish’d isle,
Art of diminish’d power, and faded fame,
The Delphic treasure of this day,
The magic of thy HAYLEY’S lay,
Shall prove the slander vain;
Since seldom have more vivid shone
The lustre of thy rain-bow zone.
Or sweeter trill’d the strain,
Than when on HAYLEY’S open brow
Thou bad’st thy loveliest garland glow,
When all thy powers endow’d his favour’d rhyme,
Pleasure’s envermil’d light, and Horror’s shade sublime.
When pale Misfortune’s ruthless gale,
Ice-breath’d and fell, has those soft streams controul’d,
That from the silver fount of comfort roll’d
Quiet adown this mortal vale;
O, FANCY, but for thee, mild Hope had stood
Blighted beside the frozen flood;
E’en halcyon Love with ruffled plume
Had sunk amid the gathering gloom;
But thou again can’st melt th’ arrested waves,
Till in their clear, warm tide, the shivering spirit laves.
Each persecuting fiend of life
Thy wand controuls, at least with transient sway;
Smooth grows the furrow’d brow of Strife,
Smiles on the haggard cheek of Avarice play;
Terror drops the extended wing,
And Envy sheaths her venom’d sting,
Darting at others good;
E’en gaunt Ambition, from his car
Unyokes the fiery steeds of war,
Dark with the stains of blood;
Pale Grief, from veiled lids, no more
Sheds the lone, incessant shower;
Her dim eye brightens in thy soften’d rays,
As, raising slow her head, she listens to thy lays.
For her thou lay’st thy glories by,
A veil extending o’er each dazzling hue,
That Sorrow’s tear-swoln eye would ache to view,
As splendid insults on her frequent sigh.
Congenial drops suffuse thy radiant glance,
Suspension stays thy bounding dance;
The foliage wild, the dusky plume,
Succeeding to each gaudy bloom,
With gentle breath thou fill’st the pensive shell,
Attun’d to April gales, in Echo’s airy cell.
Where’er thou rov’st, enchanting Maid,
To soothe the hapless, or the gay to charm;
Return thou still to HAYLEY’S shade,
With every sacred inspiration warm!
From the coy dell, and lavish bower,
Bring every zest of every flower,
In graceful gift and free;
For gentle Love, and Virtue there,
With letter’d Taste, an altar rear
To Happiness and thee.
O! hither bring thy purest fire,
To sublimate each low desire!
So with augmenting lustre shall it shine,
The sweet abode of Peace, and thine own chosen shrine.
EPISTLE
TO
CORNELIA.
CORNELIA, yes, it would be hard to find
The leading impulse of BELINDA’S mind,
When, in the motley band, that forms her train,
The gay, the proud, the indolent, the vain,
Ardent she boasts a longing wish to view
Such ill-match’d spirits join her modish crew,
Those, who nor share her pleasures, nor supply,
Things so unlike herself, as Thou, and I!
Three sheets, this day, one bounteous packet brought
Full of strange trifling with exalted thought;
Our fair Arachne’s web, so fond to spread,
From films internal, every glittering thread;
Since from no stores the verbal textures spring,
That books, that anecdote, that science bring;
Through sentimental mazes finely spun
Wide in eternal circles smooth they run,
Attenuant rivals of the silvery lines
That float in air when Summer’s morning shines.
How warm she boasts the intercourse refin’d,
The kindred virtue, the congenial mind!
Such as illum’d (she vows) her glittering bowers,
When lov’d CORNELIA’S converse wing’d the hours;
When all the mental graces, led by thee,
Made, only not Elysium--wanting me!
Friend of my youth, what Cynic could upbraid
The laugh of scorn, when in thy tints array’d,
Those consecrated hours before us roll,
Their feasts of reason, and their flow of soul?
Thee, summon’d to adorn that festal board,
With all that Friendship, Science, Wit afford,
Thee when we view, consign’d, with air serene,
By the fair mistress of th’ Arcadian scene,
Consign’d in turn to ev’ry ancient beau,
Obsequious cringing in the splendid shew;
While she in mystic rites consumes the morn,
The fancied vestment studious to adorn;
Tried at the mirror,--tried,--and still retried.
Ah! willing labour of assiduous pride!
Light till it floats in elegance supreme,
Each Rival’s envy, each Admirer’s theme;
And when, as the late dinner-bell around
Spreads, through the gay saloon, the silver sound,
The nymph descends amid the dazzled throng,
Each mirror ogling as she glides along,
To glut her senses and to charm her eyes
With food more grateful than the board supplies,
Pil’d though it be with all of rich and rare
That glides the water, or that wings the air;
Till they, with every native semblance chang’d,
In taste Parisian flavor’d and arrang’d,
Wake the pale Epicure’s keen hope, and vie
With Gallic Perigord’s recorded pie.
Round for a dearer feast she looks the while,
With triumph’s gay anticipating smile;
For those wish’d flatteries, that reward and bless
The morning labours o’er the evening dress.
And there, encircled by the gaudy shew,
By every bauble, and by every beau,
Musing I see my sage CORNELIA sit,
Inly repentant of her wasted wit;
Launch’d twice, or thrice, around the glittering board,
’Mid belles, and sparks, the colonel, and my lord;
With aim as lucky, and with equal lot
As the keen arrow at the wool-pack shot;
See her in speechless eloquence resign
All hope one fashionable theme to join;
“Charmant the Opera!--Theatre, how triste!”
Each step of Vestris, and each chance of whist;
Or,--when the gilded drawing-room invites
To yield victorious Pain his wonted rites,
Listless, and leaning o’er BELINDA’S chair
Bend on the velvet board the vacant stare;
Much marvelling what spell her footsteps drew
To such a maze of nothingness and Loo!
Thus past those hours, a lavish pen pourtray’d
As blest by friendship, and in wit array’d;
BELINDA, boast them long!--since ne’er again
CORNELIA figures in thy modish train.
I, who had ne’er beheld this dame refin’d,
This cloud-formed friend, this meteor of a mind,
But when the shades of languor, and of pain,
Screen’d every passion, frivolous and vain,
Lur’d by her specious tenderness, impart
The bleeding griefs that rankled at my heart;
Death, recent death of her my soul held dear,
The pang’d remembrance, the incessant tear;
The mortal dart shook o’er a mother’s head,
The night’s despondence, and the morning’s dread.
Lo! in reply to all her eye had met
Of filial grief, and friendship’s long regret,
Her answering pages eloquently rave
Of every joy CORNELIA’S converse gave;
And of her own charm’d thoughts, that love to greet
Me, happy me! amid my green retreat,
Where still, she tells me, smiling fortune blends
The glad society of polish’d friends
With melting music, and the strains divine
Of Poesy inspir’d by all the nine.
Replying thus to lines, where heart-sick woe
Sought in her breast kind pity’s balmy flow,
She proves it, in profession’s spite, their lot
Ne’er to be read, or instantly forgot.
Type of such hearts, amid the garden’s store,
Their gifts where Flora and Pomona pour,
Shines the gay orange-gourd, of gorgeous grain,
In lavish promise, and allurement vain.
Who would not guess its splendid veins supplied
Streams, rich as gush from Seville’s golden pride?
But ah! less taste, less nutriment it yields
Than the uncultur’d weed that choaks the fields;
The watry juice within that glowing mould
Is vapid, sick’ning, colourless, and cold.
CORNELIA, skill’d to trace, with reason’s force,
Each action’s motive to its secret source,
Say why BELINDA, to such fruitless end,
Apes, what she ne’er was form’d to be,--a Friend?
A Friend to us, whose granted faith must bring
Intrusive homage on a flagging wing.
Ah! wherefore grasping at such barren power,
Defraud her toilet of one precious hour;
Why these warm phrases, that to Friendship prove
A mockery vain, as Coquetry to Love;
This pomp of kindness, that thus idly feigns,
Joyless exults, and sorrowless complains;
These wandering lights--this cold, this meteor fire,
Lit to mislead, and blazing to expire?
Perchance, in Sorrow’s mazes doom’d to stray,
Fondly we deem its ineffectual ray,
As the illusive gleams before us glide,
To Friendship’s shelter our auspicious guide.
Hope, whose rash course wise Doubt not oft impedes,
Smiles through her tears, and follows where it leads;
Till round her erring footsteps, startled, checkt,
Rise the cold billows of confirm’d neglect.
From such vain models spleen’d Museus drew[58]
The light camelion nymphs that meet our view,
While in the immortal beauty of his lays
Lives bold Injustice to remotest days.
Such though there be,--twin Sisters of the Fair
Who spreads for us the sentimental snare,
Ah! do the empty tribe his fancy paints,
Dispassion’d Sinners, and voluptuous Saints,
Coquets, that seize the Sage’s clue, and spin it,
With all the cloud-form’d Cynthias of the minute,
Do these epitomize the female kind,
Than man more virtuous, more than man refin’d?
How many duteous maids to filial cares
Yield unrepining all their rosy years!
How many fair and faithful wives sustain
From base ingratitude the keenest pain,
Feel ev’ry woe that broken vows create,
Deepen’d by cold neglect, or sullen hate!
The Sot, returning from his midnight crew
Each loathsome night, how many live to view;
In outrag’d delicacy shudder near,
Breathe the scorn’d sigh, and shed th’ unheeded tear;
Their lot in bitterness of thought endure,
Nor once reproach for ills they cannot cure!--
What grieving numbers find the wealth they brought
Melt in Profusion’s spilt and needless draught;
Or stores, that might exempt from hourly fear,
From mean dependence, and from want severe,
Their injur’d selves,--their little ones,--behold
Risqu’d in the avarice of superfluous gold;
The Gamester’s desperate avarice,--more unjust
Injurious, baleful, than the sordid lust
That goads the Miser to increase his gain,
Freezing his heart ’gainst ev’ry thought humane!
Through trials, hard as these, how oft are seen
The tender Sex, in fortitude serene;
Revenge unsought, and injuries unreveal’d,
Each wrong forgiven, and each fault conceal’d!
Whate’er of Woman’s frailty ye have known,
Own then, Creation’s Lords, impartial own,
If right, or wrong, the spleenful Bard defin’d
The general texture of the female mind!
Say, do two passions only sway our soul,
The thirst of pleasure, and of proud controul?
And, while the mortals masculine pursue
The various object, seen in various view,
As “some to business, some to pleasure take,”
Is “every woman at her heart a Rake?”
Says Hogarth’s pencil so?--that through the will
Trac’d hidden impulse with unerring skill;
That firm, and faithful to his moral views,
Drew real life in nature’s genuine hues;
And with more striking, more resistless force,
Warns lurking vice, on her progressive course,
Than all that poignant wit, in nervous rhyme,
Rouses, to lash a folly, or a crime.
See, in its speaking tints, the ruin’d maid,[59]
By solemn vows, and tender trust betray’d,
From perjur’d love, with bursting grief, depart,
His gold refusing, who recalls his heart!
Yet, ’mid the prospect dire of all that strows
The path of Woman with the sharpest woes,
O’er his deep crimes her darkest fears impend;
For their dread doom her bitterest tears descend!
Environ’d as she is by every ill,
To her heart’s first impression faithful still,
Round his lov’d image yet resistless rise
Thrill’d recollections of their former joys;
Those pleading accents! that impassion’d sigh!
The shining ardours of that lucid eye,
Whose glance might thaw, with its enamour’d glow,
“On Dian’s lap the consecrated snow!”
Smote by sore famine and the Winter’s wind,
To keen reproach and taunting scorn consign’d,
And oft to her chill’d bosom pressing wild,
Pledge of his love, her little, helpless child,
Near the false youth she strays, unseen, unknown,
His fate more dreading, than she dreads her own.
While Love’s deserter, Fashion’s bubbled tool,
Compound abhorr’d of villain and of fool!
His hours in flatter’d ostentation wastes,
Ere to the orgies of the night he hastes.
Then what an odious groupe the board surround![60]
Here sottish filthiness distains the ground;
There lolls detested Lewdness, lost to shame,
Here to the pictur’d Globe applies the flame;
O speaking emblem of the mortal doom
When Sin’s dread fires the general peace consume!
Ere fully play’d Profusion’s desperate part,
Wasting that wealth, which harden’d first his heart,
Through her wild vortex as the false-one goes,
An happier lot the sweet Forsaken knows.
’Gainst new temptation proof, though doom’d to mourn,
She rises o’er the woes of Want and Scorn;
Ingenious Industry resource affords,
Its efforts decent Competence rewards.
Behold the pencil’s power display again,
The heart of Woman, and the vice of Man![61]
Round the gay Wretch, clos’d in the tossel’d chair,
Law’s ruthless ministers severely glare;
Drag towards the lonely prison’s dim retreat
Th’ embroider’d victim from his gilded seat.
Her pensive step by chance conducted there,
Mark the too faithful, the too generous fair!
See her, with streaming eyes, the scene behold,
See! in that injur’d hand the rescuing gold!
Sav’d from the reckless debtor’s bound forlorn
By her, whom he betray’d to want and scorn,
Preserv’d, yet thankless, sullen, cold, and rude,
Steel’d ’gainst remorse, and dead to gratitude,
From the imploring look, the warning sighs,
To the mean refuge of his vice he flies.
Now, in another speaking scene display’d,[62]
Rise the loose Rake, and violated Maid;
We see him at the outrag’d altar stand,
Breathe the false vows, and plight th’ insidious hand;
Vows, to yon hapless Fair-one only due,
Afflicted, sinking in a distant pew,
She hears the prostituted Youth engage
To loath’d deformity and wither’d age.
Wealth thus re-purchas’d at a price so base,
Again he runs profusion’s headlong race;
Again her drains have sunk the golden pile,
And made the odious Hymen vain as vile.
At length the fate of folly and of vice
Hurl’d, past redemption, by the loaded dice,
All, all its horrors now the false-one feels;
See! in demoniac agony, he kneels![63]
See eyes uprais’d, in desperation fierce,
On his own head invoke the direful curse!
It falls!--the careless phrenzy fires his brain,
And whips and stripes, and manacles remain.
Beyond e’en all sweet Prior’s lays impart
Of the firm texture of the female heart,
When gentle Emma rises o’er the snare
That groundless doubt, and jealousy prepare,
View life’s just Limner eminently prove
“The faith of Woman, and the force of Love;”[64]
The last sad scene of guilt aveng’d disclose,
And its fair victim’s voluntary woes.
And now unveil’d, beneath the pencil’s truth,
Stands the accomplish’d doom of perjur’d Youth.
Where yelling Bedlam shuts, to darkness hurl’d,
The furious maniac from the trembling world;
Chang’d for its horrid dungeon’s dreariest shade.
Her decent table, and her downy bed,
See on his straw that injur’d form reclin’d,
Her wrongs forgotten, to her dangers blind,
And scorning the strong sense of corporal pain,
Scarce feel her bruises from the rattling chain!
One struggling arm her soft arms fold around;--
The gash’d head bleeding from the self-struck wound,
Towards the blank floor, with hideous laugh, he turns,
Nor heeds the guardian form, that o’er him mourns.
Shock’d, yet assiduous to assuage his woe,
While on his writhing limbs her eyes o’erflow,
Fain would her soothing tones to rest beguile
The dire contortion and the ghastly smile!
Satiric pupils of Museus’ train,
Echoing your Master’s dogmas, false and vain,
The just, the life-drawn scene consider well,
And then in this, a female bosom, tell
Which passion govern’d through each hapless hour,
The love of pleasure, or the love of power!
From constancy, above their reach, or aim,
Who female fickleness aloud proclaim,
Turn we, CORNELIA, to thy happier life,
Thou duteous Daughter, and thou faithful Wife,
Whom beauty’s dangerous gifts and triumphs ne’er
To indolence, or vanity’s soft snare,
Once tempted; thou, that in youth’s jocund hours
Sought truth and science, in their classic bowers;
Yet whom nor they, nor all the fame they brought,
When wits admired thee, and when sages sought,
Seduced one duty to resign, that spreads
The smile of peace, the balm of comfort sheds,
And gay prosperity’s enlivening bloom
Through the mild precincts of thy happy home.
Virtues like thine consume in truth’s bright fire,
Th’ invidious slander of the Cynic lyre.
And ye of the proud Sex, that shun to prove
The blissful intercourse of wedded love,
Whom yet, upon whose fair and manly frame
No foul distortion bars your tender claim
To win, with all its soft and generous fires,
The heart of woman to your just desires,
You, with the tetchy bard’s invidious sneer,
Will you asperse the sex you should revere?
Resemble him, who felt each passion warm
Check’d by the influence of his hapless form?
Who, sore with disappointment’s galling pain,
Hated the sex, to which he sued in vain.
Turn from the Railer!--nor, without the fate,
That warpt his mind to the false bent of hate,
Draw, in the causeless rage of kindred spleen,
The gloomy curtains of his cold chagrin
Before the purple torch, that love displays
To light your steps through life’s bewilder’d maze.
Yes, let each liberal youth, who would not be
That suicide on self-felicity,
Though wisely he may shun the gaudy snare,
Spread by the vain, the fashionable Fair,
For winning patterns of the powers that throw,
On wedded hearts, delight’s unfading glow,
Fond love, resisting, in a woman’s breast,
The stings of falsehood, and the lures of rest;
Wit, brilliant wit, with soberest wisdom join’d,
Each charm of temper, and each strength of mind;
The first in Hogarth’s melting female see,
And for the last, CORNELIA, study thee!
EPISTLE
TO
MR ROMNEY,
BEING PRESENTED BY HIM WITH A PICTURE OF
WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
Ingenious Romney, in thy liberal heart
We feel thy virtues rivals of thy art;
Indulgent wilt thou then accept my lay,
Though faintly gilded by poetic ray,
When it would tell how much to thee I owe,
That on these walls thy Hayley’s features glow?
Remote in studious bowers, around his head
Too long false Modesty her shadows spread;
But when at length upon the general sight
Rose his gay Muse, array’d in classic light,
Full on thy science her warm effluence shone,[65]}
And mark’d its dear relation to her own,}
Painting and Poetry on one bright throne;}
And ’mid their mutual votaries display’d
The kindred excellence that ne’er shall fade.
High on the tablet, consecrate to fame,
Painter belov’d, appears thy honor’d name.
Reclin’d and musing on the secret shade,
Oft have aerial Beings round me play’d,
While Fancy, promptress of the waking dream,
Bent her clear prism upon its rising theme;
Blest could I catch, O ROMNEY, as they shine,
As brilliant lights, and shades as bold as thine!
Ah! not for me, in such resistless blaze,
Descend Poetic Fancy’s plastic rays;
But when their utmost force the Muse inspires,
Through clearest crystal when they dart their fires,
Then scenes arise, in intellectual hue,
Gay, soft, and warm, as Claude or Poussin drew;
Then setting sun-beams gild the lonely vale,
Wet with the shower and trembling from the gale;
Green circling hills imbibe them as they stream,
And their moist tops are yellow in the gleam.
Or sternly if she leads the mental sight
Where Horror scowls, beneath incumbent night,
With all Salvator’s savage dignity
Scowl the dark, rugged rock, and lurid sky.
When Love and Beauty to her pen are given,
She draws their forms in colours dipt in heaven;
For Homer’s leaf her hands the hues prepare,
And Helen shines as Titian’s Venus fair.
She orient tints to Milton’s page supplies,}
And his sweet Eve with Raphael’s Mary vies,}
While deck’d in floating pomp the gorgeous angels rise.}
Or, if, obedient to her potent sway,
Passions embodied move in long array;
If wild Revenge fierce bound into his car,
Wave the dark crest, and shake the lance of war;
If Love sit melting in the azure eye,
Dye the warm blush, and swell the tender sigh;
Glares conscious Guilt, or trembles hurried Fear,
Or if mild Pity drop the balmy tear,
Poetic Fancy o’er the shape and face
Breathes Michael’s force, and Guido’s flowing grace;
Nor to one image, nor one scene confin’d,
Successive pictures rise before the mind.