LINES
Occasioned by the Death of Miss Mary Blackbourn, who expired of an apoplectic fit, on the 4th of July, 1796.
“Quis scit an adjiciant hodiernæ crastina summæ
“Tempora Di superi?”
Horace.
Attend, ye thoughtless!—Hear, ye young and gay!
Who chearly pass the buxom hours away;
And let reflection for a while prevail,
While the sad Muse unfolds her mournful tale:
In pensive strains her solemn numbers flow,
And shew the vanity of all below.
The day that mark’d, in majesty sublime.
The greatest epoch in the rounds of time,
Since hymning angels, in exalted lays,
Proclaim’d salvation to our ruin’d race,
Began the east with radiance to adorn,
And joy and gladness usher’d in the morn;
Each heart exulted, every bosom glow’d;
Great Liberty inspir’d the son’rous ode;
And while the flame through every patriot burn’d,
Responsive echo Liberty return’d.
Now sportive youths in jovial bands combin’d,
Tn social converse to unbend the mind;
While ruddy nymphs, flush’d with unusual charms,
That rouz’d the kindling breast with sweet alarms,
To tuneful airs sung the harmonious lay,
And swell’d the acclamations of the day.
Among the rest, with inoffensive glee,
Maria joy’d th’ auspicious morn to see:
A lovely virgin, a young charming maid,
In youthful bloom and modesty array’d;
Whose gentle soul ne’er knew the dangerous ways;
Where innocence in paths of error drays:
But in the spotless school of virtue taught,
No other pattern for her conduct sought.
Thus undefil’d the graceful fair one grew,
“Like the young blossom fed with vernal dew.”
But lo! while she no fell disaster fear’d,
And to receive her welcome guests prepar’d;
When each warm transport in her breast reviv’d,
The grisly messenger of death arriv’d:
In his cold arms embrac’d the helpless maid,
And number’d her for ever with the dead.
Oh! matchless cruelty! Thou haggard foe!
Grim king of terrors! Ghastly prince of woe!
Virtue immaculate thus to requite!
And on the innocent to wreak thy spite!
To blast the rose just op’ning into bloom,
And hide its faded glories in the tomb!
O! could I touch, with sympathetic smart,
The tender feelings of the melting heart;
Then would I long on the dire subject dwell,
And the sad verse with gloomy numbers swell:
But ’tis not mine,—I must the task forego,
And let the gushing tear in silence flow.
Rest then, thou gentle spirit, rest in peace;
All jarring passions now for ever cease;
No more shall sickness thy soft frame invade;
And grief and pain eternally are fled,
Ere long thy friends, who now thy fate deplore,
Will follow thee and be beheld no more;
And the young hand that pays this tribute, must
Lie down in death, and mingle with the dust.
ETHICUS.
New-York, July 7, 1796.
The quoted line “Like the young blossom fed with vernal dew” is from Falconer, The Shipwreck, 1762.
For the New-York Weekly Magazine.
AN EPISTLE FROM OCTAVIA TO ANTHONY.
From the French.
BY MATILDA.
(Concluded from [page 8].)
Too fleeting moments! now succeed your flight,
Ambitious rivals rise in hostile fight;
Thou fly’st me—fast thy rapid vessel flies,
Snatch’d from my eager, my expiring eyes;
From that dread moment, sad presage and care,
Brood in my heart, my fortitude impair;
My fear of Cleopatra’s pow’r renews,
Thy former passion, trembling mem’ry views;
O rise ye winds! and in the deeps below,
Plunge ev’ry bark t’avenge a lover’s woe;
Th’ingrate whose crimes no more deserve the light,
Death, and the furious pangs of love requite!
Or ah! at least the fatal fleet detain,
From the curs’d region of my rival’s reign
The winds, (ye Gods, I fruitlessly implore!)
Already land thee on that hateful shore;
The haughty fair I see, with smiles approve
The pow’rful influence of her captive love;
I see thee adulate her treach’rous charms,
And boast my suff’rings, cruel, in her arms;
And when enfeebling transports long controul,
To languid indolence resigns thy soul;
She comes in all her secret arts array’d,
Augments her charms by grief’s deceitful aid;
Affects the tenderness of pensive thought,
A mind with doubt and apprehension fraught;
And with her treach’rous sighs and feign’d distress,
Revives the passion lost in calm success;
’Tis thus, that mingling caprices and tears,
Her form still new, still unimpair’d appears;
Thou court’st the error that obscures thy mind,
And think’st thou’rt happy, when thou art but blind.
What strange excess of folly could delight,
When a base triumph dignified thy flight?
A Roman chief assuming Bacchus’ name,
Thro’ Alexandria, publishes his shame;
In these low arts can I that hero view,
Who once in Rome far different triumphs knew.
Ah! fruitless pains, requited with disdain,
The charms of Egypt all thy soul detain;
In her gay garden, of umbrageous grove,
The Field of War and Fame no more can move.
On flowers reclining in luxurious state,
Rest Cæsar’s friend, the avenger of his fate;
While to Octavia sunk in hapless grief,
No spouse, no titles, yield a kind relief:
Rome views my hapless fate with pitying eye,
Fain from her sight, from all mankind I’d fly:
Despair consumes me—and with calm delight,
Thy hate forbids thy palace to my flight.
To all Marcellus’ tears and mine proclaim,
Even to Augustus mingled grief and shame;
That infant feels my tears, with fond desire
To sooth my sorrows, prattles of his sire;
Thy cruel mandates all have seen obey’d,
A trophy to thy guilty flame I’m made;
In our misfortunes dost thou pleasure find,
Can grief and joy at once possess thy mind;
But if thy worthless heart more outrage give,
I ought to warn thee, long thou wilt not live:
I speak as wife, I speak as Roman too,
Rome daily loses her respect for you;
The child, she says, that own’d my fost’ring care,
Thus with a foreigner his life to share,
And give the sun to see amidst our arms
A stranger Queen display her haughty charms;
Our veteran’s to her dastard courts confin’d,
Our standards wave, to love-devices join’d;
Shall these dishonours vile be calmly borne,
Till all the universe regards with scorn;
No: when a Roman proves unworthy breath,
Abridge his shame, or give him instant death.
The people warm, the senate join applause,
Thy crime due vengeance even to Syria draws;
Augustus’ rage, the just intent pursues,
T’ avenge a sister, and a rival lose.
Ah! yet regard the impending danger near,
Hear glory’s call, that glory once so dear;
Return to crown Octavia’s constant love,
No fierce reproaches thou from her shalt prove;
Though beauty’s transient charms no more you see,
Those charms, lamented husband, fled with thee;
The kindness of the wanderer I deplore,
Will to this form each banish’d grace restore:
Could I whom only I desire, retain,
Even Cleopatra’s eyes I’d wish to gain.
Thou sigh’st, I triumph——thy relenting soul
For glory form’d, and virtue’s blest controul,
Wilt for Marcellus take a father’s part,
For him sole solace of his mother’s heart.
——What do I say—when you, perhaps, even now
In Cleopatra’s arms my ruin vow;
Would to the gods! ah! would the Fates decree
That barbarous fair the lot ordain’d for me;
O may she fall betray’d, and as she dies,
View joy exulting in her lover’s eyes;
On her who poison’d all my bliss of life,
A cruel death avenge an injur’d wife.
So perish all who boast such dangerous arms,
Whom Nature ornaments with guilty charms;
To banish faith, conceal a vicious heart,
Or elevate caprice and fraud to art,
The despicable beauties, whose controul,
Destroys the seeds of honour in the soul;
Who glorying o’er illustrious slaves to reign,
Contrive each day to swell the inglorious train;
The blaze of beauty wrap in viewless gloom,
And dress with flow’rs their passage to the tomb.
Forgive this transport; yes, the keenest dart
Should pierce, had I the pow’r, that barb’rous heart.
For thee, dear Anthony, live ever blest,
No hostile vows from me thy peace molest.
May Rome behold thee, is my warmest pray’r,
Augustus’ rank and the world’s empire share:
While I descending to the realms beneath,
Not even the pang of one remorse bequeath.
New-York, June 26, 1796.
“An Epistle from Octavia to Anthony” (p. [8], 16):
The French original may be Nicolas Renouard, “Epitre (or Lettre) d’Octavie a Marc-Antoine”.