Shall kindly stop my grief-exhausted breath,
And dry up every tear: Perhaps, obsequious to my will,
But ah from my affections far removed!
The last sad office strangers may fulfil,
As if I ne'er had been beloved ;
As if, unconscious of poetick fire,
I ne'er had touch'd the trembling lyre,
As if my niggard hand ne'er dealt relief,
heart melted at another's grief.
Yet while this weary life shall last,
While yet my tongue can form the impassion'd strain,
In piteous accents shall the Muse complain,
And dwell with fond delay on blessings past:
For O how grateful to a wounded leart,
The tale of misery to impart ;
From other's eyes bid artless sorrows flow,
And raise esteem upon the base of woe!
Even HE,* the noblest of the tuneful throng,
Shall deign my love-lorn tale to hear,
Shall catch the soft contagion of my song,
the pensive Muse the tribute of a tear.
An Irish Gentleman, father to the Right Honourable George Canning.
Lord Epistle from Lord William Russel to William
Cavendish, supposed to have been written by
Lord Russel, on Friday night, July 20, 1806, in
Newgate.
LOST to the world, to-morrow doom'd to die,
Still for my country's weal my heart beats high.
Though rattling chains ring peals of horror round,
While Night's black shades augment the savage
Midst bolts and bars the active soul is free,
And flies, unfetter'd, CAVENDISH, to thee.
Thou dear companion of my better days,
When hand in hand we trod the paths of praise;
When, leagued with patriots, we maintain'd the
Of true religion, liberty, and laws,
Disdaining down the golden stream to glide,
But bravely stemm'd Corruption's rapid tide;
Think not I come to bid thy tears to flow,
Or melt thy generous soul with tales of woe;
No view me firm, unshaken, undismay'd,
As when the welcome mandate I obey'd—
Heavens! with what pride that moment I recall!
Who would not wish, so honour'd, thus to fall !
When England's Genius, hovering o'er, inspired
Her chosen sons with love of Freedom fired,
Spite of an abject, servile, pension'd train,
Minions of Power, and worshippers of Gain,
To save from Bigotry its destin'd prey,
And shield three nations from tyrannick sway.
'Twas then my CA'NDISH caught the glorious flame, The happy omen of his future fame;
Adorn'd by Nature, perfected by Art,
The clearest head, and warmest, noblest heart,
His words, deep-sinking in each captived ear,
Had power to make even Liberty more dear.
While I, unskill'd in Oratory's lore,
Whose tongue ne'er speaks but when the heart runs
In plain blunt phrase my honest thoughts express'd Warm from the heart, and to the heart address'd.
Justice prevail'd; yes, Justice, let me say,
Well poised her scales on that auspicious day.
The watchful shepherd spies the wolf afar,
Nor trusts his flock to try the unequal war;
What though the savage crouch in humble guise,
And check the fire that flashes from his eyes,
Should once his barbarous fangs the fold invade,
Vain were their cries, too late the shepherd's aid,
Thirsting for blood, he knows not how to spare,
His jaws distend, his fiery eye-balls glare,
While ghastly Desolation, stalking round,
With mangled limbs bestrews the purple ground.
Now, Memory, fail! nor let my mind revolve,
How England's Peers annull'd the just resolve,
Against her bosom aim'd a deadly blow,
And laid at once her great Palladium low!
Degenerate nobles! Yes, by Heaven I swear, Had BEDFORD's self appear'd delinquent there,
And join'd, forgetful of his country's claims,
To thwart the exclusion of the apostate JAMES,
All filial ties had then been left at large,
And I myself the first to urge the charge.
Such the fix'd sentiments that rule my soul, Time cannot change, nor Tyranny controul; While free, they hung upon my pensive brow, Then my chief care, my pride and glory now; Foil'd I submit, nor think the measure hard, For conscious Virtue is its own reward.
Vain then is force, and vain each subtile art,
To wring retraction from my tortured heart;
There, lie, in marks indelible engraved,
The means whereby my country must be saved;
Are to thine eyes those characters unknown?
To read my inmost heart, consult thine own;
There wilt thou find this sacred truth reveal'd,
Which shall to-morrow with my blood be seal'd,
Seek not infirm expedients to explore,
But banish James, or England is no more.
Friendship her tender offices may spare,
Nor strive to move the unforgiving pair,
Hopeless the tyrant's mercy-seat to climb-
Zeal for my country's freedom is my crime?
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