Tho' high in health, the pleas of hunger strong,
In tempting opportunity, arise,
Generously proud he scorns his trust to wrong,
And all untouch'd the prey he rescued, lies!
Vainly while night and secrecy accord,
This sacred sense of honor to controul,
Do human records fairer proof afford
Of all that elevates a thinking soul?
Exempt the nuptial, and the filial ties,
Hast thou one Friend, amongst thy reasoning Kind,
On whom thy secret heart for truth relies,
Thus ardent, noble, constant, and refin'd?
To selfish passions thus superior found,
Whom neither interest sways, nor arts beguile?
To thee, in faith and trust unfaltering bound,
Thy will his law, his happiness thy smile.
Ah Wretch ingrate, to liberal hope unknown!
Does pride incrust thee in so dark a leaven,
To deem this Spirit, purer than thine own,
Sinks, while thou soarest to the light of Heaven?
What, tho' when Reason all her power displays,
Drawn from Philosophy's most copious source,
Too subtle proves Creation's endless maze
For her best skill, too mighty for her force;
Or when she tries the mystery to explain
Of the tremendous EXPIATORY PLAN,
Shows, only shows, how arrogant, how vain
Such needless, daring scrutiny in Man;
Yet, while ALMIGHTY WISDOM thus appears
To human Powers inscrutably sublime,
Her gracious form ALMIGHTY JUSTICE rears
Unveil'd, unchanging, thro' the rounds of Time.
Hear, from the centre of th' ETERNAL THrone,
Her aweful voice the fix'd award disclose,
"If evils over guiltless Life are strown,
"The GOD, who gave that Life, will recompense its ❝ woes."
CYPRESS dark, my garland long,
The hateful emblem of despair,
Now, while I raise the blissful song,
My hands thy sullen foliage tear!
Twine the rose, the myrtle twine!
For these may now my brows adorn,
Since ne'er again shall I repine,
The victim of neglect, or scorn!
Love! no more my tongue reviles
Thy power that prompted many a sigh:
On me the sweet Ianthe smiles;
She smiles, and all my sorrows die.
R. A. DAVENPORT.
TO THE DUCHESS OF GORDON.
THOU beauteous star! whose silvery light
Enchanting came upon my youthful sight,
Ah what a blaze has hid thy virgin rays,
Whilst I, in woods retir'd, have past my days!
Now, silver'd o'er by Time's eventful hand,
I greet thy evening beam on Scotia's strand.
CLARA! this image is to picture Thee!
I saw thee rising from th' Atlantic sea,
Thy tresses dropping the Cerulean wave,
From whence Thou, graceful, didst the water lave;
The Graces and the loving Boy were there,
And whilst they braided thy ambrosial hair,
I saw Thee blushing, shrinking from my view,
And thy quick footsteps brushing o'er the dew.
Old Kaimes, like Vulcan, first proclaim'd thy charms,
And blest ALEXIS took thee to his arms:
Clara! thy charms surpass the Paphian Queen,
Now Pallas' casque upon thy head is seen!
'Tis not our hearts suffice to grace thy car,
The Muses come at last to close the war.
'Tis fixt; behold the wreath THOU well hast won, I bear it smiling with my setting sun!
I ask no praise, no sympathetic tear,
Heav'n is my home, I am a Stranger here.
EDINBURGH, FEB. 17, 1802.
WHILST you for Gaylard's ‡ festive dance
Adorn your lovely face,
With pleasure see each charm advance,
And heighten every grace;
By Marmontel's instructive page
I strive my soul to dress,
In charms that shall defy old age,
And brighten in distress.
When Belisarius, old and blind,
To Fancy's view appears,
Soft pity overflows my mind,
And fills my eyes with tears.
* Afterwards Mrs. M.
Now Mrs. Lefroy of Hampshire.
A neighbouring family in Kent,
Taught by his fate how vain is
How fickle Fortune's smiles,
I learn to prize the peaceful hour,
And scorn Ambition's toils.
Surrounded by the pomp
Had I the hero view'd,
Those chiefs attendant on his car,
His valour had subdued,
Compassion for the sufferers' fate
Had o'er my soul prevail'd,
Obscur'd the conqueror's glittering state,
And all his glories veil❜d!
Despoil'd of honours, riches, power,
Bent with the weight of years,
Helpless and blind, in sorrow's hour,
How glorious he appears!
Torn from his brow in life's first bloom
The WARRIOR's crown may fade,
Or in the cold and silent tomb
Be wither'd and decay'd:
But round the GOOD MAN'S placid brow Unfading wreaths shall twine;
More fresh by time those laurels grow, Bestow'd by hands divine.
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