Heights unattain'd by female minds before.
Then to her ivy-bower she pleas'd retires,
And with light touch the trembling keys inspires
While wakeful Philomel no more complains,
But, raptur'd, listens to her sweeter strains.
Now (direful contrast!) in each gloomy shade
Behold a pitying swain, or weeping maid!
And hark! with sullen swing, the tolling bell
Proclaims that loss which language fails to tell.
In awful silence soon a sight appears,
That points their sorrows, and renews their tears:
For, lo! far-blackening all the verdant meads,
With slow parade the funeral pomp proceeds:
Methinks even now I hear th' encumber'd ground,
And pavement, echo with a rumbling sound:
And see the servant's tearful eyes declare
With speaking look, the herse, the herse, is here!
But, O thou sister of Clarissa's heart,
Can I the anguish of thy soul impart,
When, from your chariot flown with breathless haste,
Her clay-cold form, yet beauteous, you embrac'd ;
And cried with heaving sobs, and broken strains,'
Are these are these-my much-lov'd friend's re-
mains?
Then view each Harlowe-face; remorse, despair
And self-condemning grief, are pictur'd there.
Now first the brother feels, with guilty sighs,
Fraternal passions in his bosom rise:
By shame and sorrow equally opprest,
The sister wrings her hands, and beats her breast.
With streaming eyes, too late, the mother blames
Her tame submission to the tyrant James:
Even he, the gloomy father, o'er the herse
Laments his rashness, and recalls his curse.
And thus each parent, who, with haughty sway,
Expects his child to tremble and obey;
Who hopes his power by rigor to maintain,
And meanly worships at the shrine of gain;
Shall mourn his error, and, repenting, own,
That bliss can ne'er depend on wealth alone.
Riches may charm, and pageantry invite :
But what are these, unless the minds unite?
Drive then insatiate avarice from your breast,
Nor think a Solmes can make Clarissa blest.
And you, ye fair, the wish of every heart,
Though gric'd by Nature, and adorn`d by art,
Tho' sprightly youth its vernal bloom bestow,
And on your cheeks the blush of beauty glow,
Here see how soon those roses of a day,
Nipt by a frost, fade, wither, and decay!
Nor youth nor beauty could Clarissa save,
Snatch'd to an early, not untimely grave.
But still her own unshaken innocence,
Spotless and pure, unconscious of offence,
In the dread hour of death her bosom warm'd
With more than manly courage, and disarm'd
The griesly king: in vain the tyrant tried
His awful terrors-for she smil'd and died.
You too, ye libertines, who idly jest With virtue wrong'd, and innocence distrest; Who vainly boast of what should be your shame, And triumph in the wreck of female fame; Be warn'd, like Belford, and behold, with dread, The hand of vengeance hovering o'er your head! If not, in Belton's agonies you view
What dying horrors are reserv'd for you.
In vain even Lovelace, healthy, young, and gay, By nature form'd to please, and to betray, Tried from himself, by change of place, to run; For that intruder, Thought, he could not shun, Tasteless were all the pleasures that he view'd In foreign courts; for conscience still pursu'd: The lost Clarissa each succeeding night, In starry garment, swims before his sight; Nor ease by day her shrill complaints afford, But far more deeply wound than Morden's sword.
O! if a sage had thus on Attic plains
Improv'd at once and charm'd the listening swains
Had he, with matchless energy of thought,
Great truths like these in antient Athens taught:
On fam'd Ilyssus' banks in Parian stone
His breathing bust conspicuous would have shone
Ev'n Plato, in Lyceum's awful shade,
Th' instructive page with transport had survey'd; And own'd its author to have well supplied
The place his laws to Homer's self denied.
SIR CHA. HANBURY WILLIAMS, BART.
APOLLO of old on Britannia did smile,
And Delphi forsook for the sake of this isle.
Around him he lavishly scatter'd his lays,
And in every wilderness planted his bays;
Then Chaucer and Spenser harmonious were heard,
Then Shakspere, and Milton, and Waller appear'd,
And Dryden, whose brows by Apollo were crown'd,
As he sung in such strains as the God might have
own'd:
But now, since the laurel is given of late
To Cibber, to Eusden, to Shadwell and Tate,
Apollo has quitted the isle he once lov'd,
And his harp and his bays to Hibernia remov'd;
He vows and he swears he'll inspire us no more,
And has put out Pope's fires which he kindled be
|