Mirth stood aloof, abash'd, but not dismay'd,
To gaze with wonder at the immortal Maid.
Her charge was with melodious meekness given,
Her eye, all radiance, beam'd the smile of Heaven.
"Henceforth," she said, " your Patroness and Guide,
"I o'er your pleasures will unseen preside;
"No more to self-love be your joys confin'd,
"Your future luxury shall bless mankind;
"By me inspir'd, the gen'rous grape shall know
"A magic power untasted yet below."
One heav'nly tear she dropp'd within the bowl,
And new sensations sprung from soul to soul.
The blushing beverage own'd the gift divine,
A ruby now, it sparkles in the wine.
The unperishable gem still gives a zest,
Warms while it chears, exalts, yet melts the breast.
see, I see the rapture it imparts,
I read her triumph o'er your yielding hearts;
The genial Spring's fair promise I survey,
The graceful emblem of an April day:
Whose sun, while showers distil, serenely cheers;
So Pity's eye is loveliest through her tears.
And oh! if ever Worth absorb'd in woe
Could claim that warmth, or cause that tear to flow;
"Tis when the cultur'd genius barbs the dart,
A brilliant fancy-with a broken heart.
On Want's pale cheek, when Merit's bloom refin'd,
Betrays the fatal hectic of the mind.
- Whate'er or good or happiness we call,
The power of intellect supplies it all.
Whether we contemplate a nation's weal,
The bliss of others or our own we feel:
To Science all we owe-her sacred store
Makes others wealthy, though herself be poor.
Who first contriv'd the bold expanding sail,
To shift and baffle the capricious gale;
Now, like some timid nymph in maiden pride,
Conceal her charms, and coyly seem to glide;
Now in full beauty, and voluptuous ease,
Swell her white bosom to the kinder breeze?
Who gave the mariner the law to keep
His faithful reckoning on the stormy deep?
Along the pathless wave his course to trace,
Uncheck'd by darkness-uncontroul'd by space?
Not he, for whom the bark returning pours
O'erflowing treasures on fair Britain's shores.
We blush to find, perhaps, that he recedes,
Obscure, forgotten, in an hermit's weeds:
For modest Science oft is doom'd to crave,
Unpity'd by the very pomp she gave.
Tho' humbly born, how many souls are found,
Whose active genius springs o'er every bound!
And is it sin fair Learning's heights to climb!
Yet Truth must own that 'tis a sin sublime—
And he who starves-compensates for the crime!
When, by the magic of the Historian's pen,
Ages long past act o'er their scenes again;
Alternate passions kindling as they tell
What empires flourish'd, and what kingdoms fell:
How Power has dignified a villain's crimes,
How Virtue triumph'd in the worst of times:
Where Rule despis'd, led on from bad to worse,
And headstrong Freedom prov'd a People's curse.-
When the rapt Bard, sublime on Fancy's wing,
To loftiest numbers strikes the sounding string;
Takes the soul captive, as he soars along,
With splendid force and majesty of song-
Or the wan Muse, in willow garland bound, Pours the soft anguish of some tender wound; Makes the grove vocal with his fond despair, Clings to his wrongs, yet loves the perjur'd fair. Such blameless strains, to Youth and Virtue dear, Refine the sigh, and consecrate the tear: Sighs that no loose unworthy passions know, Tears that from rectitude alone can flow. Or when Devotion labours to reclaim Misguided Nature from the paths of shame; Fearless to chide: yet faithful to impart, Immortal comfort to the sinking heart.
When these, or such as these, transport the mind,
Illume, instruct, ameliorate mankind;
Who can deny, though little he may spare,
That these are objects worthy of his care?
And oh! by every moment, when you prov'd
The best society in Books you lov'd:
When Wit's effulgence, or when Learning's toil,
Has sooth'd one care-rais'd one approving smile;
By the soul's rapture, when your earlier days
Bedew'd with sympathy the Poet's bays:
By the corrective force of Satire's line,
The Sage's moral, and by Truth divine,
By all that strengthen'd Reason, Vice repell'd,
By ev'ry hope confirm'd, or passion quell'd:
By the bless'd shades of those neglected men,
Who sunk the famish'd Martyrs of the Pen:
Whose daily toils not daily bread could give,
Whose fame alone could by their writings live;
And, by that future hour's sublime reward,
Which all shall know, who others woes have shar'd:
Compleat the charge committed to your trust,
And be to Genius and to Learning just!
TO MASSINGER'S DUKE OF MILAN,
AS REPRESENTED AT A PRIVATE THEATRE.
WITH thunders arm'd, while o'er the trembling tide,
Awful, Britannia's wooden bulwarks ride;
While from our snowy coast, of front sublime,
The naval genius braves each ambient clime,
Bares to the rushing blast his giant breast,
And shakes the feathery foam that forms his crest;
Say, shall the banish'd Muse, with pensive grace,
Presume, once more, to shew her charming face?
Shall Fancy scatter from her hov'ring car
Fresh roses on the bleeding brow of war,
Proud, in the land of heroes, to display
The splendid honours of her earlier day,
With equal vigor, uniformly bright,
When her bards triumph'd as her chiefs could fight?
Enough of recent valour has been shewn
To prove that courage calls this isle its own:
Old NILE, affrighted at our dauntless force,
Has shrunk, recoiling to his fabled source;
ACRE's tall turrets trembled in amaze,
And either Indies testify our praise.
But ill, indeed, of later days accord
The lyre's faint numbers with the conqu'ring sword;
And as the talents of the age decay,
The soldier's laurel scorns the poet's lay.
To-night, in all the pomp of years array'd,
We raise great MASSINGER'S immortal shade;
Thro' each strong scene his ardent soul pursue,
And bid his manly genius breathe anew.
Next to the wond'rous bard, whose daring hands
Unlock'd each heart, his genuine merit stands;
Admir'd by your forefathers' partial eyes,
TO SHAKSPEARE's self alone he yields the prize.
Bold was his fancy, regular his rage,
Nor oft did ribaldry pollute his page:
The scholar's skill, the poet's warmth combin'd,
Adorn'd the workings of his polish'd mind;
And MILAN'S DUKE, that wooes your candid sight,
Best proves, of yore, how Englishmen could write.
Oh! for a while discard the vulgar joys
Of empty pageant, and unmeaning noise;
Let folly rant, soft opera sigh in vain :
Let sense resume her long-neglected reign:
Be to your own illustrious nation just,
And shield the wreath that crowns the learned bust.
Weak tho' my zeal may be, to lend his line
Expression chaste, or energy divine;
Ill as my pow'rs, by no fine frenzy wrought,
May body forth the beauties of his thought,
Be all
my faults (the humble boon I claim)
Lost in the dazzling lustre of his name;
Kindly the honey'd dews of favour shed,
And spare the living for the mighty dead.
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