How worthy Pity, Love, Respect, and Grief-
He claims Protection-he compels Relief;-
And shall we send him from our view, to brave
The Storms abroad, whom we at home might save,
And let a Stranger dig our ancient Brother's Grave?
No!-we will shield him from the Storm he fears,
And when he falls, embalm him with our Tears.
THE FELON'S DREAM.
[From the same.]
Within his view, I fancied there was Shame,
I judg'd Resentment; I mistook the Air,-
These fainter Passions live not with Despair;
Or but exist and die :-Hope, Fear, and Love,
Joy, Doubt, and Hate, may other Spirits move,
But touch not his, who every waking hour
Has one fix'd Dread, and always feels its power.
"But will not Mercy?"-No! she cannot plead
For such an Outrage;-'twas a cruel Deed:
He stopp'd a timid Traveller ;-to his Breast,
With Oaths and Curses, was the Danger prest:
No! he must suffer; Pity we may find
For one Man's Pangs, but must not wrong Mankind.
Still I behold him, every thought employ'd
On one dire View ! all others are destroy'd;
This makes his Features ghastly, gives the tone
Of his few words resemblance to a groan:
He takes his tasteless Food, and when 'tis done,
Counts up his Meals, now lessen'd by that one;
For Expectation is on Time intent,
Whether he brings us Joy or Punishment.
Yes! e'en in sleep th' impressions all remain,
He hears the Sentence and he feels the Chain;
He sees the Judge and Jury, when he shakes,
And loudly cries, "Not Guilty," and awakes:
Then chilling Tremblings o'er his Body creep,
Till worn-out Nature is compell'd to sleep.
Now comes the Dream again: it shows each Scene, With each small Circumstance that comes betweenThe Call to Suffering and the very DeedThere Crowds go with him, follow, and precede,
But still for publie good the Boy was train'd,
The Mother suffer'd, but the Matron gain'd:
Here Nature's outrage serves no cause to aid,
The Ill is felt, but not the Spartan made.
Then, too, I own it grieves me to behold
Those ever virtuous, helpless now and old,
By all for Care and Industry approved,
For truth respected and for temper loved;
And who by sickness and misfortune tried,
Gave Want its worth, and Poverty its pride:
I own it grieves me to behold them sent
From their old Home; 'tis Pain, 'tis Punishment,
To leave each scene familiar, every Face,
For a new People and a stranger Race;
For those who, sunk in Sloth and dead to Shame,
From Scenes of Guilt with daring Spirits came;
Men, just and guileless, at such Manners start,
And bless their God that Time has fenced their Heart,
Confirmed their Virtue, and expell'd the Fear
Of Vice in Minds so simple and sincere.
Here the good Pauper, losing all the Praise
By worthy Deeds acquired in better days,
Breathes a few Months, then to his Chamber led,
Expires, while Strangers prattle round his bed.
The grateful Hunter, when his Horse is old,
Wills not the useless Favourite to be sold;
He knows his former Worth, and gives him place
In some fair Pasture, till he's run his Race:
But has the Labourer, has the Seaman done
Less worthy Service, though not dealt to one?
Shall we not then contribute to their Ease,
In their old Haunts where ancient Objects please?
That, till their Sight shall fail them, they may trace
The well-known Prospect and the long-loved Face.
The Oak, in distant Ages seen,
With far-stretch'd Boughs and Foliage fresh and green',
Though now its bare and forky Branches show
How much it lacks the vital Warmth below,
The stately Ruin yet our Wonder gains,
Nay, moves our Pity, without thought of Pains:
Much more shall real Wants and Cares of Age
Our gentler passions in their cause engage;→
Drooping and burthen'd with a weight of Years,
What venerable ruin Man appears!
How worthy Pity, Love, Respect, and Grief-
He claims Protection-he compels Relief;-
And shall we send him from our view, to brave
The Storms abroad, whom we at home might save,
And let a Stranger dig our ancient Brother's Grave?
No!-we will shield him from the Storm he fears,
And when he falls, embalm him with our Tears.
THE FELON'S DREAM.
[From the same.]
Within his view, I fancied there was Shame,
I judg'd Resentment; I mistook the Air,-
These fainter Passions live not with Despair;
Or but exist and die:-Hope, Fear, and Love,
Joy, Doubt, and Hate, may other Spirits move,
But touch not his, who every waking hour
Has one fix'd Dread, and always feels its power.
"But will not Mercy?"-No! she cannot plead
For such an Outrage;-'twas a cruel Deed:
He stopp'd a timid Traveller ;-to his Breast,
With Oaths and Curses, was the Danger prest:
No! he must suffer; Pity we may find
For one Man's Pangs, but must not wrong Mankind.
Still I behold him, every thought employ'd
On one dire View all others are destroy'd;
This makes his Features ghastly, gives the tone
Of his few words resemblance to a groan:
He takes his tasteless Food, and when 'tis done,
Counts up his Meals, now lessen'd by that one;
For Expectation is on Time intent,
Whether he brings us Joy or Punishment.
Yes! e'en in sleep th' impressions all remain,
He hears the Sentence and he feels the Chain;
He sees the Judge and Jury, when he shakes,
And loudly cries, " Not Guilty," and awakes:
Then chilling Tremblings o'er his Body creep,
Till worn-out Nature is compell'd to sleep.
Now comes the Dream again: it shows each Scene, With each small Circumstance that comes between-t The Call to Suffering and the very DeedThere Crowds go with him, follow, and precede,
She had been reading in the Book of Prayer,
And led him forth and plac'd him in a chair:
Lively he seem'd, and spoke of all he knew,
The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall,
But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all;
When in her way, she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people death has made them dear.
He nam'd his Friend, but then his hand she press'd,
And fondly whisper'd, "Thou must go to rest;"
"I go," he said, but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound;
Then gaz'd affrighten'd: but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, and all was past!
She plac'd a decent Stone his Grave above,
Neatly engrav'd-an offering of her Love;
For that she wrought, for that forsook her bed.
Awake alike to Duty and the Dead;
She would have griev'd, had friends presum❜d to spare
The least assistance-'twas her proper care.
Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But if Observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
Forbear, sweet Maid; nor be by Fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain,
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain;
All have their tasks and trials: thine are hard,
But short the time and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the Dead, but to the Living, live.
HERE Avarice first, the keen desire of Gain,
Rules in each Heart and works in every Brain;
Alike the Veteran-Dames and Virgins feel,
Nor care what Grey-beards or what Striplings deal;
Sex, Age, and Station, vanish from their view,
And gold, their sov'reign Good, the mingled Crowd pursue.
Hence they are jealous, and, as Rivals, keep
A watchful Eye on the beloved Heap;
Meantime Discretion bids the tongue be still,
And mild Good-humour strives with strong Ill-will:
Till Prudence fails; when, all impatient grown,
They make their Grief, by their Suspicions known.
"Sir, I protest, were Job himself at play,
"He'd rave to see you throw your Cards away;
"Not that I care a button-not a pin
"For what I lose; but we had Cards to win :
"A Saint in Heaven would grieve to see such Hand
"Cut up by one who will not understand."
Complain of me! and so you might indeed,
"If I had ventured on that foolish Lead,
"That fatal Heart-but I forgot your play-
"Some Folk have ever thrown their Hearts away.”
"Yes, and their Diamonds: I have heard of one "Who made a Beggar of an only Son."
"Better a Beggar, than to see him tied
"To Art and Spite, to Insolence and Pride."
I'd strive to be polite, "Sir, were I you, "Against my nature, for a single Night."
"Against their Nature they might show their Skill
"With small Success, who're Maids against their will.”
Is this too much? alas! my bashful Muse
Cannot with half their Virulence abuse.
And hark! at other tables Discord reigns,
With feign'd contempt for Losses and for Gains;
Passions awhile are bridled; then they rage,
In waspish Youth, and in resentful Age;
With of Insult" Sir, when next you play,
scraps
'tis throw away.
"Reflect whose money you
"No one on Earth can less such things regard,
"But when one's Partner doesn't know a Card"
"I scorn Suspicion Ma'am, but while you stand "Behind that Lady, pray keep down your hand."
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