« 上一頁繼續 »
Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,
In this rural retreat,
When my soul wings her flight
To the regions of night,
As ye pass by the tomb,
May no marble bestow
The splendour of woe,
No fiction of fame
Shall blazon my name :
AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE.
Delivered previous to the performance of « The Wheel of
Fortune , » at a private theatre..
Since the refinement of this polish'd age
Surely, the last will some protection find,
' ON THE DEATH OF Mr. FOX,
The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a
* Our Nation's foes lament on Fox's death, « But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath ; « These feelings wide let Sense and Truth unclue, a We give the palm where Justice points its due. »
To which the Author of these Pieces sent the
On! factious viper! whose envenom’d tooth)
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; He sunk, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight Of cares o’erwhelming our conflicting state'; When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd, Who, for a time, the ruin'd fabric rear’d; He, too, is fall’n, who Britain's loss supplied, With him, our fast reviving hopes have diéd : Not one great people only raise his urn, All Europe's far extended regions mourn. a These feelings wide let Sense and Truth unclue, « To give the palm where Justice points its due ; » Yet, let not canker'd calumny assail, Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep. Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep, For whom, at last, e’en hostile nations groan, While friends and foes, alike, his talents own; Fox! shall in Britain's future annals shine, Nor e’en to Pitt, the patriot's palm resigv; Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, For Pity, and Pitt alone, has dar'd to ask.
This votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize;
A theme we never can despise..
Who blames it, but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid ? Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade.
Then read, dear girl, with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those; To thee, in vain, I shall not plead,
In pity for the Poet's woes.
He was, in sooth, a genuine bard;
But not thy hapless fate the same.
On! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine; . Though they might kindle less desire,
Love,'more than mortal, would be thioe.
For thou art form’d so heav'nly fair,
That fatal glance forbids esteem.