When my soul wings her flight,
To the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier;
As ye pass by the tomb,
Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow
The splendour of woe,
Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame
Shall blazon my name,
All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.
Delivered previous to the performance of
Wheel of Fortune," at a private theatre.
SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
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 Persone 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.
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
"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.
OH! 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,
Pity 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 Aṭlas, 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 assail,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must
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 resign,
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask.
With the Poems of Camoens.
THIS Votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear Girl! for me thou'❜lt prize ;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.
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