Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect;
To-night, no Veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No COOKE, NO KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night, you throng to witness the debut
Of embryo Actors, to the drama new.
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try;
Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly;
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise,
But all our Dramatis Persona wait,
In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze:
Surely, the last will some protection find,
None to the softer sex can prove unkind:
Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest Censor to the fair must yield.
Yet should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail;
Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.
ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX.
The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a Morning Paper.
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,
We give the palm where Justice points it due.
To which the Author of these Pieces sent the following
Reply.
On! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;
What, though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expired, in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pay her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead."
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 died:
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide let Sense and Truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points it due;"
Yet let not canker'd calumny assal,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy vei
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 Brita:n's future annals, shine,
Nor e'en to PITT the patriot's palm resign,
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask.
STANZAS TO A LADY. With the Poems of Camoens. This votive pledge of fond esteem, Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou 'It prize; It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 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;
His was no faint fictitious flame;
Like his, may love be thy reward,
But not thy hapless fate the same.
OH! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine;
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine. For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, We must admire, but still despair: That fatal glance forbids esteem. When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, So much perfection in thee shone, She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own. Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize, She bade a secret lightning lurk
Within those once celestial eyes. These might the boldest sylph appal, When gleaming with meridian blaze? Thy beauty must enrapture all,
But who can dare thine ardent gaze? "T is said, that Berenice's hair
In stars adorns the vault of heaven; But they would ne'er permit thee there, Thou would'st so far outshine the seven. For, did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now control, Would twinkle dimly through their spher
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