Of Infamy and Ruin-there are joys
Which treasures cannot buy, nor guilt attain,
Nor dissipation prize. Oh sure the tears,
That, pour'd by myriads, now bedew his grave,
Are of more worth than oriental pearls.—
Tho' restless Calumny and canker'd Spite,
For ever waiting, in the hateful train,
Rang'd thro' the land; and prey'd with noxious tooth,
On proudest merit, and the fairest names;
Yet, so distinguish'd was a Caulfield's worth,
Those things of darkness, from its sacred light
Shrunk back appall'd; his fair integrity,
And pure unquestion'd motives, ev'n from malice:
Rev'rence extorted. Parties all combin'd,
Who ne'er combin'd before, in CAULFIELD's praise.
After long absence, with propitious step,
When Science and the Muses, hand in hand,
Deign'd to revisit this neglected isle,
Among the nations a degraded name,
Degraded for transgressions not her own;
Foremost of all the learn'd and polish'd train,
That strove, with liberal and useful arts *,
Or elegant pursuits, to decorate
The parent soil, and teach the blessed lore,
Of mental, proud enjoyment; Caulfield shone.
Yes, he was first, among full many names,
Of fame not undeserving, nor unknown,
To that mild glory, which, in better times,
Awaits the letter'd toil.-A day shall come,
When the wild burst of stormy war is spent,
(For, sure, this storm, at length must overblow,
And halcyon calms succeed,) when this fair isle,
Alluding to the Institution of the Royal Irish Academy.
Too long the seat of ignorance and sloth,
Too long the scene of sanguinary rage,
The blandishments of that Aonian maid,
Shall hear enraptur'd; and awake her sons,
From deep Lethean trance, to cultivate
The good and fair, and nurse with pious hand,
The palm unstain'd with blood. O Caulfield, then,
Some Bard may rise with genius worthy thee.—
Just to thy praise, he shall embalm thy name,
And to the swelling breeze, in rapture borne,
Shall words of heav'n resound and echo learn the
Meantime, the cultur'd vales, and shaggy glens,
And lofty hills smote by the rays of morn,
Deplore their patriot lost; and all resound
Responsive to my sighs," that Caulfield is no more."
Should ravag'd Italy again respire,
From murderous deeds, and more than Gothic rage,
On Tiber's bank some Poet may for him
Melodious grief awake; for Caulfield's name
Was not unhonour'd, or his steps unknown,
Where Arno flows, or sliding Mincio strays.-
Nor was he heedless of the Tuscan lore.-
The parted shades of many a bard arise
Borne on the sweeping blast, at the sad strain:
Stern Dante's awful port, the graceful form
Of him that Laura lov'd, and the sweet Muse,
To Fancy dearest, fair Ferrara's child,
With him that sung of Solyma redeem'd;
To celebrate a Caulfield's honour'd name;
While hoary Mansus bows the reverend head.
And yet, we mourn not Caulfield for himself.
Not for himself, who parted, well assur'd
Of those rewards, for virtuous men prepar'd;
And sorrowing mark'd, how chearless was the fate, Of gentle spirits, cast on iron days,
And iron men, amid th' outrageous din
Of war and factious hate; when polish'd arts
Are all despis'd, and some accursed spell
Has conjur'd up the furies of the mind,
With blood-stain'd garments, torch of Stygian flame,
And maddening yell; to mix, in conflict dire,
The human savage-from the hideous scene,
The soul benign still gladly would escape.-
-What can the virtuous spirit find in life,
To make him prize it? In society,
What charm for him?-Oh no, he turns away,
With deadly loathing, and for freedom calls,
On welcome death, most willing to depart,
And seek th' abodes where Peace and Virtue dwell.
Oh well I know, what generous Caulfield felt,
When civil Strife, with her infernal crew,
Defac'd the lov'd parental soil, and War,
With Want, and Woe, and Famine in the rear,
Spread her alarms around, his patriot soul
Could not within it's own pursuits retire,
Sequester'd with the sweet abstracted Muse.
Born for mankind at large his patriot soul
Could not the welfare of the whole exclude,
Or lose th' afflicting sense of human ills
In home enjoyments, or in private goods.
Yet, private goods were his, and home delights,
Ev'n to satiety.-Wealth, honours, taste,
Refin'd by science, general esteem,
And fame unenvied, with a spirit apt
For every pleasure that consorts with virtue.
-Nor yet did public cares estrange his mind,
From mild enjoyments of the social life,
And soft unbendings, from the tender charms,
Of the domestic hearth. He felt and lov'd
Th' endearing charities, that weave the band
Of friendship, kindred, and affinity.
The charm of flowing converse, and the grace
Of playful wit, in the gay festive hour,
Rebounding quick, shone eminent in him.
-Benevolent affections, the warm heart
Were his. I well can speak thee as thou art,
O Caulfield, for my drooping soul recalls
The days for ever past, and with them joins,
Th' afflicting moment-the last tender grasp→
The feeble pressure of the clay-cold hand,
Clammy with dews of death-deep, deep the trace
With mighty force is printed on the heart
Indelible by time, the faint adieu,
Slow, interrupted, to the outward sense
Scarce audible-to Fancy's ear resounds
Loud unremitting, with a Seraph's voice
It speaks immortal things; it tells how vain,
The modern dreams of rash Philosophy,
Chearless, unhallow'd, that consign the soul,
With powers divine endued, and capable
Of happiness progressive, to the gloom
Of sleep eternal!—no, I will not think
That faculties like thine were only giv❜n
To shine a moment in this bounded span
Of sorrows, imperfections, and despair;
Then sink, confounded with the meanest works
Of Wisdom infinite, with brutes that graze.
Thou art not gone for ever, these sad eyes,
That now bewail thy loss, may yet behold
Caulfield in glory, if I may indulge,
Unworthy as I am, th' aspiring hope
such society, amid the train
Of honest men, that lov'd their native soil;
The virtuous and the just, in scenes remov'd
From human suff'rings, and from human crimes.
There, the full measure of his just reward
Attends the good; and never-fading crowns
Adorn the patriot's brow; nor envy blasts
His fame deserv'd, nor human wickedness,
With human folly, shall combine to foil
The wish benevolent, and pious aim.
Erin, meantime, lament thy Caulfield dead,
With tears of grief unfeign'd, till thou hast shown,
To heal the wounds inflicted by his loss,
And dry those tears, a rival of his worth.
ON A BEAUTIFUL BATH AT SMYRNA.
THE Graces bathing on a day,
Love stole their robes and ran away;
So naked here they since have been
Ashamed in day-light to be seen.
* This Epigram has been imitated by the late T. Warton.
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