Authority unfeeling power, But thou canft Want with Guilt confound: Thy bonds the man of virtuous toil furround, How favage are thy ftern decrees? Thy cruel minister I see A weak, laborious victim feize, To fpare her little children's fole fupport, Whom this terrific form has frighten'd from their fport. Nor weeps the only from the thought, Thofe infants muft no longer thare Drop, in that murd'rous fcene, his pale, expiring head. Take comfort yet in thefe keen pains, Has purg'd the damp of Death from that polluted air. His care exulting BRITAIN found Ye nations thro' whofe fair domain Philanthropy outftrip'd keen Pleasure's pace, Where-e'er her generous Briton went, He feem'd the enquiring angel, fent Her languid head with transport rear'd; And gazing on her godlike guest, Like thofe of old, whom Heaven's pure fervant blest, Een by his fhadow feem'd of demons difpofeft. Amaz'd her foreign children cry, Seeing their patron pafs along; *I am credibly informed that several Princes, or at leaft perfons in authority, requested Mr. Howard not to publish a minute account of some prifons, which reflęcted difgrace on their government. "O! who is he, whofe daring eye "Has tempted Freedom's fon to share Thefe perils; fearching with an angel's care "Each cell of dire Difeafe, each cavern of Defpair?" No monarch's word, nor lucre's luft, Nor vain ambition's reftlefs fire, Nor ample power, that facred trust ! His life-diffufing toils infpire: Rous'd by no voice, fave that whose cries Internal bid the foul arife From joys, that only feem to bless, From low purfuits, which little minds poffefs, To Nature's nobleft aim, the Succour of Diftress! Taught by that God, in Mercy's robe, Who his cœleftial throne refign'd, To free the prison of the globe From vice, th' oppreffor of th' mind! For thee, Captivity! he left Fair Fortune's lap, who, far from coy, Bade him with fmiles his golden hours employ While to thy virtue's utmoft scope I boldly strive my aim to raise Say! HOWARD, fay! what may the Mufe, What may the ask for thee, from Power Divine, Sweet is the joy when Science flings Spring-tides of fancy o'er the poet's foul, That waft his flying bark thro' feas above the pole. Sweet the delight when the gall'd heart Feels Confolation's lenient hand Bind up the wound from Fortune's dárt These fainter joys, when pureft Love When he in blifs the melting fpirit fteeps, Who drops delicious tears, and wonders that he weeps ! But not the brighteft joy, which Arts, In floods of mental light, beftow; Nor what firm Friendship's zeal imparts, Nor those that Love's sweet hours dispense, Can equal the ecstatic sense, When, fwelling to a fond excefs, The grateful praifes of reliev'd diftrefs, Re-echoed thro' the heart, the foul of Bounty bless. These transports, in no common fate, Supremely pure, fublimely ftrong, Bleft HOWARD these to thee belong : While years encreafing o'er thee roll, Its radiance thro' thy noon of life difplay, And when the Power, who joys to fare, In that bright day, whofe wonders blind When life's glad angel fhall resume His ancient fway, announce to Death his doom, And from existence drive that tyrant of the tomb: In that bleft hour when Seraphs fing F 1 N 1 S. |