SIR EUSTACE GREY.
Scene.—A MADHOUSE.
Persons.
VISITOR, PHYSICIAN, AND PATIENT.
Veris miscens falsa.—
Seneca in Herc. furente.
VISITOR.
I’ll know no more;—the Heart is torn
By Views of Woe, we cannot heal;
Long shall I see these Things forlorn,
And oft again their Griefs shall feel,
As each upon the Mind shall steal;
That wan Projector’s mystic Style,
That lumpish Idiot leering by,
That peevish Idler’s ceaseless Wile,
And that poor Maiden’s half-form’d Smile,
While struggling for the full-drawn Sigh!—-
I’ll know no more.
PHYSICIAN.
— Yes, turn again;
Then speed to happier Scenes thy Way,
When thou hast view’d, what yet remain,
The Ruins of Sir Eustace Grey,
The Sport of Madness, Misery’s Prey:
But he will no Historian need,
His Cares, his Crimes will he display,
And shew (as one from Frenzy freed)
The proud-lost Mind, the rash-done Deed.
That Cell, to him is Greyling Hall:—
Approach; he’ll bid thee welcome there;
Will sometimes for his Servant call,
And sometimes point the vacant Chair:
He can, with free and easy air,
Appear attentive and polite;
Can veil his Woes in Manners fair,
And Pity with Respect excite.
PATIENT.
Who comes?—Approach!—‘Tis kindly done:—
My learn’d Physician, and a Friend,
Their Pleasures quit, to visit One,
Who cannot to their Ease attend,
Nor Joys bestow, nor Comforts lend,
As when I liv’d so blest, so well,
And dream’d not, I must soon contend
With those malignant Powers of Hell.
PHYSICIAN.
“Less warmth, Sir Eustace, or we go.”—
PATIENT.
See! I am calm as Infant-Love,
A very Child, but one of Woe,
Whom you should pity, not reprove:—
But Men at ease, who never strove
With Passions wild, will calmly show,
How soon we may their Ills remove,
And Masters of their Madness grow.
Some twenty Years I think are gone,—
(Time flies, I know not how, away,)
The Sun upon no happier shone,
Nor prouder Man, than Eustace Grey.
Ask where you would, and all would say,
The Man admir’d and prais’d of all,
By Rich and Poor, by Grave and Gay,
Was the young Lord of Greyling Hall.
Yes! I had Youth and rosy Health;
Was nobly form’d, as Man might be;
For Sickness then, of all my Wealth,
I never gave a single Fee:
The Ladies fair, the Maidens free,
Were all accustom’d then to say,
Who would an handsome Figure see,
Should look upon Sir Eustace Grey.
He had a frank and pleasant Look,
A cheerful Eye and Accent bland;
His very Speech and Manner spoke
The generous Heart, the open Hand;
About him all was gay or grand,
He had the Praise of Great and Small;
He bought, improv’d, projected, plann’d,
And reign’d a Prince at Greyling Hall.
My Lady!—she was all we love;
All Praise (to speak her Worth) is faint;
Her Manners shew’d the yielding Dove,
Her Morals, the seraphic Saint;
She never breath’d nor look’d Complaint,
No Equal upon Earth had she:—-
Now, what is this fair Thing I paint?
Alas! as all that live, shall be.
There was beside, a gallant Youth,
And him my Bosom’s Friend, I had:—-
Oh!I was rich—in very truth,
It made me proud—it made me mad!—
Yes I was lost—but there was Cause!——
Where stood my Tale?—I cannot find—
But I had all Mankind’s Applause,
And all the Smiles of Womankind.
There were two Cherub-things beside,
A gracious Girl, a glorious Boy;
Yet more to swell my full-blown Pride,
To varnish higher my fading Joy,
Pleasures were ours without alloy,
Nay Paradise,—- till my frail Eve
Our Bliss was tempted to destroy;
Deceiv’d and fated to deceive.
But I deserv’d; for all that time,
When I was lov’d, admir’d, caress’d,
There was within, each secret Crime,
Unfelt, uncancell’d, unconfess’d;
I never then my God address’d,
In grateful Praise or humble Prayer;
And if His Word was not my Jest!
(Dread thought!) it never was my Care.
I doubted:—Fool I was to doubt!
If that all-piercing Eye could see,—
If He who looks all Worlds throughout,
Would so minute and careful be,
As to perceive and punish me:—
With Man I would be great and high,
But with my God so lost, that He,
In his large View, should pass me by.
Thus blest with Children, Friend, and Wife,
Blest far beyond the vulgar Lot;
Of all that gladdens human Life,
Where was the Good, that I had not?
But my vile Heart had sinful Spot,
And Heaven beheld its deep’ning Stain,
Eternal Justice I forgot,
And Mercy, sought not to obtain.
Come near,—- I’ll softly speak the rest!—
Alas! ’tis known to all the Crowd,
Her guilty Love was all confest;
And his, who so much Truth avow’d,
My faithless Friends.—In Pleasure proud
I sat, when these curs’d Tidings came;
Their Guilt, their Flight was told aloud,
And Envy smil’d to hear my shame!
I call’d on Vengeance; at the Word
She came:—Can I the Deed forget?
I held the Sword, th’ accursed Sword,
The Blood of his false Heart made wet;
And that fair Victim paid her Debt,
She pin’d, she died, she loath’d to live;—
I saw her dying—see her yet:
Fair fallen Thing! my Rage forgive!
Those Cherubs still, my Life to bless,
Were left; could I my Fears remove,
Sad Fears that check’d each fond Caress,
And poison’d all parental Love:
Yet that, with jealous Feelings strove,
And would at last have won my Will,
Had I not, Wretch! been doom’d to prove
Th’ Extremes of mortal Good and Ill.
In Youth! Health! Joy! in Beauty’s Pride!
They droop’d: As Flowers when blighted bow,
The dire Infection came:—They died,
And I was curs’d—as I am now——
Nay frown not, angry Friend,—allow,
That I was deeply, sorely tried;
Hear then, and you must wonder how
I could such Storms and Strifes abide.
Storms!—not that Clouds embattled make,
When they afflict this earthly Globe;
But such as with their Terrors shake
Man’s Breast, and to the bottom probe;
They make the Hypocrite disrobe,
They try us all, if false or true;
For this, one Devil had pow’r on Job;
And I was long the Slave of two.
PHYSICIAN.
Peace, peace, my Friend; these Subjects fly;
Collect thy Thoughts—go calmly on.—
PATIENT.
And shall I then the Fact deny?
I was,—thou know’st,—I was begone,
Like him who fill’d the Eastern Throne,
To whom the Watcher cried aloud[16];
That royal Wretch of Babylon,
Who was so guilty and so proud.
Like him with haughty, stubborn Mind,
I, in my State, my Comforts sought;
Delight and Praise I hop’d to find,
In what I builded, planted, bought!
Oh! Arrogance! by Misery taught—
Soon came a Voice! I felt it come;
“Full be his Cup, with Evil fraught,
“Dæmons his Guides, and Death his Doom!”
Then was I cast from out my State;
Two Fiends of Darkness led my Way;
They wak’d me early, watch’d me late,
My Dread by Night, my Plague by Day!
Oh! I was made their Sport, their Play,
Through many a stormy troubled Year,
And how they us’d their passive Prey,
Is sad to tell: but you shall hear.
And first, before they sent me forth,
Through this unpitying World to run,
They robb’d Sir Eustace of his Worth,
Lands, Manors, Lordships, every one;
So was that gracious Man undone,
Was spurn’d as vile, was scorn’d as poor,
Whom every former Friend would shun,
And Menials drove from every Door.
Then those ill-favour’d Ones[17], whom none
But my unhappy Eyes could view,
Led me, with wild Emotion on,
And, with resistless Terror, drew.
Through Lands we fled, o’er Seas we flew,
And halted on a boundless Plain;
Where nothing fed, nor breath’d nor grew,
But Silence rul’d the still Domain.
Upon that boundless Plain, below,
The setting Sun’s last Rays were shed,
And gave a mild and sober Glow,
Where all were still, asleep or dead;
Vast Ruins in the midst were spread,
Pillars and Pediments sublime,
Where the grey Moss had form’d a Bed,
And cloth’d the crumbling Spoils of Time.
There was I fix’d, I know not how,
Condemn’d for untold Years to stay;
Yet Years were not;—one dreadful Now,
Endur’d no Change of Night or Day;
The same mild Evening’s sleeping Ray,
Shone softly-solemn and serene.
And all that time, I gaz’d away,
The setting Sun’s sad Rays were seen.
At length a Moment’s Sleep stole on,—
Again came my commission’d Foes;
Again through Sea and Land we’re gone,
No Peace, no Respite, no Repose;
Above the dark broad Sea we rose,
We ran through bleak and frozen Land;
I had no Strength, their Strength t’ oppose,
An Infant in a Giant’s hand.
They plac’d me where those Streamers play,
Those nimble Beams of brilliant Light;
It would the stoutest Heart dismay,
To see, to feel, that dreadful Sight:
So swift, so pure, so cold, so bright,
They pierc’d my Frame with icy Wound,
And all that half-year’s polar Night,
Those dancing Streamers wrapt me round.
Slowly that Darkness pass’d away,
When down upon the Earth I fell,—
Some hurried Sleep, was mine by day;
But soon as toll’d the Evening Bell,
They forc’d me on, where-ever dwell
Far-distant Men in Cities fair,
Cities of whom no Travellers tell,
Nor Feet but mine were Wanderers there.
Their Watchmen stare, and stand aghast,
As on we hurry through the dark;
The Watch-light blinks, as we go past,
The Watch-dog shrinks and fears to bark;
The Watch-tower’s Bell sounds shrill; and, hark!
The free Wind blows—we’ve left the Town—
A wide Sepulchral Ground I mark,
And on a Tomb-stone place me down.
What Monuments of mighty Dead!
What Tombs of various kinds are found!
And Stones erect, their Shadows shed,
On humble Graves, with Wickers bound;
Some risen fresh, above the Ground,
Some level with the native Clay,
What sleeping Millions wait the Sound,
“Arise, ye Dead, and come away!”
Alas! they stay not for that Call;
Spare me this Woe! ye Dæmons, spare!—
They come! the shrowded Shadows all,—
’Tis more than mortal Brain can bear!
Rustling they rise, they sternly glare
At Man upheld by vital Breath;
Who led by wicked Fiends should dare
To join the shadowy Troops of Death!
Yes! I have felt all Man can feel,
Till he shall pay his Nature’s Debt;
Ills that no Hope has Strength to heal,
No Mind the Comfort to forget:
Whatever Cares the Heart can fret,
The Spirits wear, the Temper gall;
Woe, Want, Dread, Anguish, all beset
My sinful Soul!—together all!
Those Fiends, upon a shaking Fen,
Fix’d me, in dark tempestuous Night;
There never trod the Foot of Men,
There flock’d the Fowl in wint’ry Flight;
There danc’d the Moor’s deceitful Light,
Above the Pool where Sedges grow;
And when the Morning-Sun shone bright,
It shone upon a Field of Snow.
They hung me on a Bough, so small,
The Rook could build her Nest no higher;
They fix’d me on the trembling Ball,
That crowns the Steeple’s quiv’ring Spire;
They set me where the Seas retire,
But drown with their returning Tide;
And made me flee the Mountain’s Fire,
When rolling from its burning Side.
I’ve hung upon the ridgy Steep
Of Cliffs, and held the rambling Brier;
I’ve plung’d below the billowy Deep,
Where Air was sent me to respire;
I’ve been where hungry Wolves retire;
And (to complete my Woes) I’ve ran,
Where Bedlam’s crazy Crew conspire
Against the Life of reasoning Man.
I’ve furl’d in Storms the flapping Sail,
By banging from the Top-mast-head;
I’ve serv’d the vilest Slaves in Jail,
And pick’d the Dunghill’s Spoil for Bread;
I’ve made the Badger’s Hole my Bed,
I’ve wander’d with a Gipsey Crew,
I’ve dreaded all the Guilty dread,
And done what they would fear to do.
On Sand where ebbs and flows the Flood,
Midway they plac’d and bade me die;
Propt on my Staff, I stoutly stood
When the swift Waves came rolling by;
And high they rose, and still more high,
Till my Lips drank the bitter Brine;
I sobb’d convuls’d, then cast mine Eye
And saw the Tide’s re-flowing Sign.
And then, my Dreams were such as nought
Could yield but my unhappy Case;
I’ve been of thousand Devils caught,
And thrust into that horrid Place,
Where reign Dismay, Despair, Disgrace;
Furies with iron Fangs were there,
To torture that accursed Race,
Doom’d to Dismay, Disgrace, Despair.
Harmless I was; yet hunted down
For Treasons, to my Soul unfit;
I’ve been pursued through many a Town,
For Crimes that petty Knaves commit:
I’ve been adjudg’d t’ have lost my Wit,
Because I preach’d so loud and well,
And thrown into the Dungeon’s Pit,
For trampling on the Pit of Hell.
Such were the Evils, Man of Sin,
That I was fated to sustain;
And add to all, without—within,
A Soul defil’d with every Stain,
That Man’s reflecting Mind can pain;
That Pride, Wrong, Rage, Despair can make;
In fact, they’d nearly touch’d my Brain,
And Reason on her Throne would shake.
But Pity will the vilest seek,
If punish’d Guilt will not repine,—
I heard an heavenly Teacher speak,
And felt the Sun of Mercy shine:
I hail’d the Light! the Birth divine!
And then was seal’d among the few;
Those angry Fiends beheld the Sign;
And from me in an instant flew.
Come hear how thus, the Charmers cry,
To wandering Sheep the Strays of Sin;
While some the Wicket-gate pass by,
And some will knock and enter in;
Full joyful ’tis a Soul to win,
For he that winneth Souls is wise;
Now hark! the holy Strains begin,
And thus the sainted Preacher cries[18]:—
“Pilgrim burthen’d with thy Sin,
“Come the way to Zion’s Gate,
“There, till Mercy lets thee in,
“Knock and weep and watch and wait.
“Knock!—He knows the Sinner’s Cry;
“Weep!—He loves the Mourner’s Tears:
“Watch!—for, saving Grace is nigh:
“Wait,—till heavenly Light appears.”
“Hark! it is the Bridegroom’s Voice:
“Welcome, Pilgrim, to thy Rest;
“Now within the Gate rejoice,
“Safe and seal’d and bought and blest!
“Safe—from all the Lures of Vice,
“Seal’d—by Signs the Chosen know,
“Bought by Love and Life the Price,
“Blest—the mighty Debt to owe.
“Holy Pilgrim! what for thee,
“In a World like this remain?
“From thy guarded Breast shall flee,
“Fear and Shame, and Doubt and Pain.
“Fear—the Hope of Heaven shall fly,
“Shame—from Glory’s View retire,
“Doubt—in certain Rapture die,
“Pain—in endless Bliss expire.”
But though my Day of Grace was come,
Yet still my Days of Grief I find;
The former Clouds’ collected Gloom,
Still sadden the reflecting Mind;
The Soul to evil Things consign’d,
Will of their Evil some retain;
The Man will seem to Earth inclin’d,
And will not look erect again.
Thus, though elect, I feel it hard,
To lose what I possess’d before,
To be from all my Wealth debarr’d,—
The brave Sir Eustace is no more;
But old I wax and passing poor,
Stern, rugged Men my Conduct view;
They chide my Wish, they bar my Door,
’Tis hard—I weep—you see I do.—
Must you, my Friends, no longer stay?
Thus quickly all my Pleasures end?
But I’ll remember, when I pray,
My kind Physician and his Friend;
And those sad Hours, you deign to spend
With me, I shall requite them all;
Sir Eustace for his Friends shall send,
And thank their Love at Greyling Hall.
VISITOR.
The poor Sir Eustace!—Yet his Hope,
Leads him to think of Joys again;
And when his Earthly Visions droop,
His Views of Heavenly Kind remain:—
But whence that meek and humbled Strain,
That Spirit wounded, lost, resign’d;
Would not so proud a Soul disdain
The Madness of the poorest Mind?
PHYSICIAN.
No! for the more he swell’d with Pride,
The more he felt Misfortune’s Blow;
Disgrace and Grief he could not hide,
And Poverty had laid him low:
Thus Shame and Sorrow working slow,
At length this humble Spirit gave;
Madness on these began to grow,
And bound him to his Fiends a Slave.
Though the wild Thoughts had touch’d his Brain,
Then was he free:—So, forth he ran;
To soothe or threat, alike were vain;
He spake of Fiends; look’d wild and wan;
Year after year, the hurried Man
Obey’d those Fiends from place to place;
Till his religious Change began
To form a frenzied Child of Grace.
For, as the Fury lost its Strength,
The Mind repos’d; by slow Degrees,
Came lingering Hope, and brought at length,
To the tormented Spirit, Ease:
This Slave of Sin, whom Fiends could seize,
Felt or believ’d their Power had end;—
“’Tis faith,” he cried, “my Bosom frees,
“And now my Saviour is my Friend.”
But ah! though Time can yield Relief,
And soften Woes it cannot cure;
Would we not suffer Pain and Grief,
To have our Reason sound and sure?
Then let us keep our Bosoms pure,
Our Fancy’s favourite Flights suppress;
Prepare the Body to endure,
And bend the Mind to meet Distress;
And then His Guardian Care implore,
Whom Dæmons dread and Men adore.
THE
HALL OF JUSTICE.
Part the First.
Confiteor facere hoc annos; sed et altera causa est,
Anxietas animi, continuusque dolor.
Ovid.
MAGISTRATE, VAGRANT, CONSTABLE, &C.
VAGRANT.
Take, take away thy barbarous Hand,
And let me to thy Master speak;
Remit awhile the harsh Command,
And hear me, or my Heart will break.
MAGISTRATE.
Fond Wretch! and what canst thou relate,
But Deeds of Sorrow, Shame, and Sin?
Thy Crime is prov’d, thou know’st thy Fate;
But come, thy Tale! begin, begin!—
VAGRANT.
My Crime!—— This sick’ning Child to feed,
I seiz’d the Food, your Witness saw;
I knew your Laws forbad the Deed,
But yielded to a stronger Law.
Know’st thou, to Nature’s great Command,
All human Laws are frail and weak?
Nay! frown not—stay his eager Hand,
And hear me, or my Heart will break.
In this, th’ adopted Babe I hold,
With anxious Fondness to my Breast,
My Heart’s sole Comfort, I behold,
More dear than Life, when Life was blest,
I saw her pining, fainting, cold,
I begg’d—but vain was my Request.
I saw the tempting Food, and seiz’d—
My Infant-Sufferer found Relief;
And, in the pilfer’d Treasure pleas’d,
Smil’d on my Guilt and hush’d my Grief.
But I have Griefs of other Kind,
Troubles and Sorrows more severe;
Give me to ease my tortur’d Mind,
Lend to my Woes a patient ear;
And let me—if I may not find
A Friend to help—find one to hear.
Yet nameless let me plead—my Name
Would only wake the Cry of Scorn;
A Child of Sin, conceiv’d in Shame,
Brought forth in Woe, to Misery born.
My Mother dead, my Father lost,
I wander’d with a vagrant Crew;
A common Care, a common Cost,
Their Sorrows and their Sins I knew;
With them, on Want and Error forc’d,
Like them, I base and guilty grew.
Few are my Years, not so my Crimes;
The Age, which these sad Looks declare,
Is Sorrow’s Work, it is not Time’s,
And I am old in Shame and Care.
Taught to believe the World a place,
Where every Stranger was a Foe,
Train’d in the Arts that mark our Race,
To what new People could I go?
Could I a better Life embrace,
Or live as Virtue dictates? No!—
So through the Land, I wandering went,
And little found of Grief or Joy;
But lost my Bosom’s sweet Content,
When first I lov’d, the Gipsey-Boy.
A sturdy Youth he was and tall,
His Looks would all his Soul declare,
His piercing Eyes were deep and small,
And strongly curl’d his Raven-Hair.
Yes, Aaron had each manly Charm,
All in the May of youthful Pride,
He scarcely fear’d his Father’s Arm,
And every other Arm defied.—
Oft when they grew in Anger warm,
(Whom will not Love and Power divide?)
I rose, their wrathful Souls to calm,
Not yet in sinful Combat tried.
His Father was our Party’s Chief,
And dark and dreadful was his Look,
His Presence fill’d my Heart with Grief,
Although to me, he kindly spoke.
With Aaron I delighted went,
His Favour was my Bliss and Pride;
In growing Hope our Days we spent,
Love, growing Charms in either spied,
It saw them, all which Nature lent,
It lent them, all which she denied.
Could I the Father’s Kindness prize,
Or grateful Looks on him bestow;
Whom I beheld in wrath arise,
When Aaron sank beneath his Blow?
He drove him down with wicked Hand,
It was a dreadful Sight to see;
Then vex’d him, till he left the Land,
And told his cruel Love to me;—
The Clan were all at his Command,
Whatever his Command might be.
The Night was dark, the Lanes were deep,
And one by one, they took their way;
He bade me lay me down and sleep,
I only wept and wish’d for Day.
Accursed be the Love he bore,—
Accursed was the Force he us’d,—
So let him of his God implore
For Mercy, and be so refus’d!
You frown again,—to show my Wrong,
Can I in gentle Language speak?
My Woes are deep, my Words are strong,—
And hear me, or my Heart will break.
MAGISTRATE.
I hear thy Words, I feel thy Pain;
Forbear awhile to speak thy Woes;
Receive our Aid, and then again,
The Story of thy Life disclose.
For, though seduc’d and led astray,
Thou’st traveil’d far and wander’d long;
Thy God hath seen thee all the way,
And all the Turns that led thee wrong.
THE
HALL OF JUSTICE.
Part the Second.
Quondam ridentes oculi, nunc fonte perenni
Deplorant pœnas nocte dieque suas.
Corn. Galli Eleg.
MAGISTRATE
Come, now again thy Woes impart,
Tell all thy Sorrows, all thy Sin;
We cannot heal the throbbing Heart,
Till we discern the Wounds within.
Compunction weeps our Guilt away,
The Sinner’s Safety is his Pain;
Such Pangs for our Offences pay,
And these severer Griefs are Gain.
VAGRANT.
The Son came back—he found us wed,
Then dreadful was the Oath he swore;—
His Way through Blackburn Forest led,—
His Father we beheld no more.
Of all our daring Clan, not one,
Would on the doubtful Subject dwell;
For all esteem’d the injur’d Son,
And fear’d the Tale, which he could tell.
But I had mightier Cause for Fear,
For slow and mournful round my Bed,
I saw a dreadful Form appear,—
It came when I and Aaron wed.
(Yes! we were wed, I know my Crime,—
We slept beneath the Elmin Tree;
But I was grieving all the time,
And Aaron frown’d my Tears to see.
For he not yet had felt the Pain,
That rankles in a wounded Breast;
He wak’d to Sin, then slept again,
Forsook his God, yet took his Rest.—
But I was forc’d to feign Delight,
And Joy in Mirth and Music sought,—
And Mem’ry now recalls the Night,
With such Surprise and Horror fraught,
That Reason felt a moment’s Flight,
And left a Mind, to Madness wrought.)
When waking, on my heaving Breast,
I felt a Hand as cold as Death;
A sudden Fear my Voice suppress’d,
A chilling Terror stopp’d my Breath.—
I seem’d—no Words can utter how!
For there my Father-Husband stood,—
And thus he said:—“Will God allow,
“The great Avenger, just and good,
“A Wife, to break her Marriage Vow?
“A Son, to shed his Father’s Blood?”
I trembled at the dismal Sounds,
But vainly strove a Word to say;
So, pointing to his bleeding Wounds,
[19]The threat’ning Spectre stalk’d away.
I brought a lovely Daughter forth,
His Father’s Child, in Aaron’s Bed;
He took her from me in his wrath,
“Where is my Child?”—‘Thy Child is dead.’
’Twas false—we wander’d far and wide,
Through Town and Country, Field and Fen,
Till Aaron fighting, fell and died,
And I became a Wife again.
I then was young:—my Husband sold
My fancied Charms, for wicked Price;
He gave me oft, for sinful Gold,
The Slave, but not the Friend of Vice:—
Behold me Heav’n! my Pains behold,
And let them for my Sins suffice!
The Wretch who lent me thus for Gain,
Despis’d me when my Youth was fled;
Then came Disease and brought me Pain:—
Come, Death, and bear me to the Dead!
For though I grieve, my Grief is vain,
And fruitless all the Tears I shed.
True, I was not to Virtue train’d,
Yet well I knew my Deeds were ill;
By each Offence my Heart was pain’d,
I wept, but I offended still;
My better Thoughts my Life disdain’d,
But yet the viler led my Will.
My Husband died, and now no more,
My Smile was sought or ask’d my Hand,
A widow’d Vagrant, vile and poor,
Beneath a Vagrant’s vile command.
Ceaseless I rov’d the Country round,
To win my Bread by fraudful Arts,
And long a poor Subsistence found,
By spreading Nets for simple Hearts.
Though poor, and abject, and despis’d,
Their Fortunes to the Crowd I told;
I gave the Young the Love they priz’d,
And promis’d Wealth to bless the Old;
Schemes for the Doubtful I devis’d,
And Charms for the Forsaken sold.
At length for Arts like these confin’d,
In Prison with a lawless Crew;
I soon perceiv’d a kindred Mind,
And there my long-lost Daughter knew.
His Father’s Child, whom Aaron gave
To wander with a distant Clan,
The Miseries of the World to brave,
And be the Slave of Vice and Man.
She knew my Name—we met in Pain,
Our parting Pangs, can I express?
She sail’d a Convict o’er the Main,
And left an Heir to her Distress.
This is that Heir to Shame and Pain,
For whom I only could descry
A World of Trouble and Disdain:
Yet, could I bear to see her die,
Or stretch her feeble Hands in vain,
And weeping, beg of me Supply?
No! though the Fate thy Mother knew,
Was shameful! shameful though thy Race
Have wander’d all, a lawless Crew,
Outcasts, despis’d in every Place;
Yet as the dark and muddy Tide,
When far from its polluted Source,
Becomes more pure, and purified,
Flows in a clear and happy Course;—
In thee, dear Infant! so may end
Our Shame, in thee our Sorrows cease!
And thy pure Course will then extend,
In Floods of Joy, o’er Vales of Peace.
Oh! by the God who loves to spare,
Deny me not the Boon I crave;
Let this lov’d Child your Mercy share,
And let me find a peaceful Grave;
Make her yet spotless Soul your Care,
And let my Sins their Portion have,
Her for a better Fate prepare,
And punish whom ’twere Sin to save!
MAGISTRATE.
Recall the Word, renounce the Thought,
Command thy Heart and bend thy Knee,
There is to all a Pardon brought,
A Ransom rich, assur’d and free;
’Tis full when found, ’tis found if sought,
Oh! seek it, till ’tis seal’d to Thee.
VAGRANT.
But how my Pardon shall I know?
MAGISTRATE.
By feeling Dread that ’tis not sent,
By Tears for Sin that freely flow,
By Grief, that all thy Tears are spent,
By Thoughts on that great Debt we owe,
With all the Mercy God has lent,
By suffering what thou canst not show,
Yet showing how thine Heart is rent,
Till thou canst feel thy Bosom glow,
And say, “My Saviour, I repent!”
WOMAN!
Mr. Ledyard, as quoted by M. Parke, in his
Travels into Africk.
“To a Woman I never addressed myself in the language of decency and friendship, without receiving a decent and friendly answer. If I was hungry or thirsty, wet or sick, they did not hesitate, like Men, to perform a generous action: In so free and kind a manner did they contribute to my relief, that if I was dry, I drank the sweetest draught; and if hungry, I ate the coarsest morsel with a double relish.”
Place the White-Man on Africk’s Coast,
Whose swarthy Sons in Blood delight,
Who of their Scorn to Europe boast,
And paint their very Dæmons white:
There while the sterner Sex disdains
To soothe the Woes, they cannot feel;
Woman will strive to heal his Pains,
And weep for those, she cannot heal:
Hers is warm Pity’s sacred Glow;
From all her Stores, she bears a Part,
And bids the Spring of Hope re-flow,
That languish’d in the fainting Heart.
“What though so pale his haggard Face,
“So sunk and sad his Looks,”—she cries;
“And far unlike our nobler Race,
“With crisped Locks and rolling Eyes;
“Yet Misery marks him of our Kind,
“We see him lost, alone, afraid;
“And Pangs of Body, Griefs in Mind,
“Pronounce him Man and ask our Aid.
“Perhaps in some far distant Shore,
“There are who in these Forms delight;
“Whose milky Features please them more,
“Than ours of Jet thus burnish’d bright;
“Of such may be his weeping Wife,
“Such Children for their Sire may call,
“And if we spare his ebbing Life,
“Our Kindness may preserve them all.”
Thus her Compassion Woman shows,
Beneath the Line her Acts are these;
Nor the wide Waste of Lapland-Snows,
Can her warm Flow of Pity freeze:—
“From some sad Land the Stranger comes,
“Where Joys, like ours, are never found;
“Let’s soothe him in our happy Homes,
“Where Freedom sits, with Plenty crown’d.
“’Tis good the fainting Soul to cheer,
“To see the famish’d Stranger fed;
“To milk for him the Mother-Deer,
“To smooth for him the furry Bed.
“The Powers above, our Lapland bless,
“With Good no other People know;
“T’ enlarge the Joys that we possess,
“By feeling those that we bestow!”
Thus in Extremes of Cold and Heat,
Where wandering Man may trace his Kind;
Where-ever Grief and Want retreat,
In Woman they Compassion find;
She makes the Female Breast her Seat,
And dictates Mercy to the Mind.
Man may the sterner Virtues know,
Determin’d Justice, Truth severe:
But Female Hearts with Pity glow,
And Woman holds Affliction dear;
For guiltless Woes her Sorrows flow,
And suffering Vice compels her Tear;
’Tis her’s to soothe the Ills below,
And bid Life’s fairer Views appear;
To Woman’s gentle Kind we owe,
What comforts and delights us here;
They its gay Hopes on Youth bestow,
And Care they soothe and Age they cheer.
Printed by Brettell and Co.
Marshall-Street, Golden-Square.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See the Life of S. Johnson, by Boswell, vol. iv. p. 185 8vo. edit.
[2] Neither of these were adopted; the Author had written, about that time, some Verses to the memory of Lord Robert Manners, Brother to the late Duke of Rutland; and these, by a junction, it is presumed, not forced or unnatural, form the concluding part of the Village.
[4] A pauper who, being nearly past his labour, is employed by different masters, for a length of time proportioned to their occupations.
[5] Some apology is due for the insertion of a circumstance by no means common: That it has been a subject for complaint in any place, is a sufficient reason for its being reckoned among the evils which may happen to the Poor, and which must happen to them exclusively; nevertheless, it is just to remark, that such neglect is very rare in any part of the kingdom, and in many parts is totally unknown.
[6] Lord Robert Manners, the youngest son of the Marquis of Granby and the Lady Frances Seymour, daughter of Charles Duke of Somerset, was born the 5th of February, 1758; and was placed with his brother, the late Duke of Rutland, at Eton-School, where he acquired, and ever after retained, a considerable knowledge of the classical authors.
Lord Robert, after going through the duties of his profession on-board different ships, was made Captain of the Resolution, and commanded her in nine different actions, besides that last memorable one on the 2d of April, 1782, when, in breaking the French Line of Battle, he received the wounds which terminated his life, in the 24th year of his age.
See the Annual Register, printed for Mr. Dodsley.
[7] Allusions of this kind are to be found in the Fairy-Queen. See the end of the first book, and other places.
[8] Clarissa, vol. vii. Lovelace’s Letter.
[9] Spencer.
[11] In the more antient Libraries, Works of value and importance were fastened to their places by a length of chain; and might so be perused, but not taken away.
[12] The Manna of the Day. Green’s Spleen.
—— in foliis descripsit carmina Virgo;—
—— et teneres turbavit janua frondes.
Virg. Æneid. lib. iii.
How many hours bring about the day.
How many days will furnish up the year,
How many years a mortal Man may live; &c.
Shakspeare’s Henry VI.
[15] “Myrica Gale,” a shrub growing in boggy and fenny grounds.
[16] Prophecy of Daniel, chap. iv. 22.
[17] Vide Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress
[18] It has been suggested to me, that this change from restlessness to repose, in the mind of Sir Eustace, is wrought by a methodistic call; and it is admitted to be such: a sober and rational conversion, could not have happened while the disorder of the brain continued: Yet the verses which follow, in a different measure, are not intended to make any religious Persuasion appear ridiculous; they are to be supposed as the effect of memory in the disordered mind of the speaker, and though evidently enthusiastic, in respect to language, are not meant to convey any impropriety of sentiment.
[19] The state of mind here described, will account for a vision of this nature, without having recourse to any supernatural appearance.