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WHAT! and no more?-Is this, my soul, said I,
My whole of being ?-Must I surely die?
Be robb'd at once of health, of strength, of time,
Of youth's fair promise, and of pleasure's prime ?
Shall I no more behold the face of morn,
The cheerful day-light, and the spring's return?
Must I the festive bower, the banquet leave,
For the dull chambers of the dark some grave?
Have I consider'd what it is to die?
In native dust with kindred worms to lie;
To sleep in cheerless cold neglect! to rot!
My body loath'd, my very name forgot!
Not one of all those parasites, who bend
The supple knee, their monarch to attend!
What, not one friend! No, not a hireling slave
Shall hail great Hezekiah in the grave.
Where's he, who falsely claim'd the name of great?
Whose eye was terror, and whose frown was fate?
Who aw'd a hundred nations from the throne?
See, where he lies, dumb, friendless, and alone!
Which grain of dust proclaims the noble birth?
Which is the royal particle of earth?
Where are the marks, the princely ensigns where?
Which is the slave, and which great David's heir ?
Alas! the beggar's ashes are not known
From his who lately sat on Israel's throne!
How stands my great account? My soul, survey
The debt eternal justice bids thee pay!
Should I frail Memory's records strive to blot,
Will Heaven's tremendous reckoning be forgot?
Can I, alas, the awful volume tear?
Or rase one page of the dread register?
"Prepare thy house, thy heart in order set;
Prepare the Judge of Heaven and Earth to meet."
So spake the warning Prophet.-Awful words:
Which fearfully my troubled soul records.
Am I Prepar'd? And can I meet my doom?
Nor shudder at the dreaded wrath to come?
Is all in order set, my house, my heart?
Does no besetting sin still claim a part?
No cherish'd error, loth to quit its place,
Obstruct within my soul the work of grace?
Did I each day for this great day prepare,
By righteous deeds, by sin-subduing pray'r?
Did I each night, each day's offence repent,
And each unholy thought and word lament?
Still have these ready hands th' afflicted fed,
And minister'd to Want her daily bread?
The cause I knew not did I well explore?
Friend, advocate, and parent of the poor ?
Did I, to gratify some sudden gust
Of thoughtless appetite, some impious lust
Of pleasure or of pow'r, such sums employ
As would have flush'd pale penury with joy?
Did I in groves forbidden altars raise,
Or molten gods adore, or idols praise?
Did my firm faith to Heaven still point the way?
Did Charity to man my actions sway?
Did meek-ey'd Patience all my steps attend?
Did generous Candour mark me for her friend?
Did I unjustly seek to build my name
On the pil'd ruins of another's fame?
Did I abhor, as hell, th' insidious lie,
The low deceit, th' unmanly calumny?
Did my fix'd soul the impious wit detest?
Did my firm virtue scorn the unhallow'd jest,
The sneer profane, and the poor ridicule
Of shallow Infidelity's dull school?
Did I still live as born one day to die,
And view th' eternal world with constant eye?
If so I liv'd, if so I kept thy word,
In mercy view, in mercy hear me, Lord!
For oh how strict soe'er I kept thy law,
From mercy only all my hopes I draw;
My holiest deeds indulgence will require;
The best but to forgiveness will aspire;
If thou my purest services regard,
"Twill be with pardon only, not reward.
How imperfection's stamp'd on all below!
How sin intrudes in all we say or do!
How late in all the insolence of health,
I charm'd th' Assyrian by my boast of wealth
How fondly, with elab'rate pomp, display'd
My glittering treasures! with what triumph laid
My gold and gems before his dazzled eyes,
And found a rich reward in his surprise!
Oh! mean of soul, can wealth elate the heart,
Which of the man himself is not a part!
Oh, poverty of pride! Oh, foul disgrace!
Disgusted Reason, blushing, hides her face.
Mortal, and proud! strange contradicting terms !
Pride for death's victim, for the prey of worms:
Of all the wonders which the eventful life
Of man presents; of all the mental strife
Of warring passions; all the raging fires
Of furious appetites and mad desires;
Not one so strange appears as this alone,
That man is proud of what is not his own,
How short is human life! the very breath
Which frames my words, accelerates my death.
Of this short life how large a portion's fled!
To what is gone I am already dead;
As dead to all my years and minutes past,
As I, to what remains, shall be at last;
Can I past miseries so far forget,
To view my vanish'd years with fond regret?
Can I again my worn-out fancy cheat?
Indulge fresh hope? solicit new deceit ?
Of all the vanities weak man admires,
Which greatness gives, youth hopes, or pride de-
sires,
Of these, my soul, which hast thou not enjoy'd?
With each, with all, thy stated pow'rs are cloy'd.
What can I then expect from length of days?
More wealth, more wisdom, pleasure, health, or
praise ?
More pleasure! hope not that, deluded king;
For when did age increase of pleasure bring?
Is health, of years prolong'd the common boast?
And dear-earn'd Fame, is it not cheaply lost?
More Wisdom! that indeed were happiness;
That were a wish a king might well confess;
But when did Wisdom covet length of days?
Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth, or praise ?
No:-Wisdom views with an indifferent eye
All finite joys, all blessings born to die.
The soul on earth is an immortal guest,
Compell'd to starve at an unreal feast :
A spark, which upward tends by Nature's force;
A stream diverted from its parent source;
A drop dissever'd from the boundless sea;
A moment, parted from eternity;
This is an anachronism. Hezekiah did not show his treasures to the Assyrian till after his recovery from his sickness.
A pilgrim panting for the rest to come;
An exile, anxious for his native home.
Why should I ask my forfeit life to save ?
Is Heav'n unjust which dooms me to the grave?
Was I with hope of endless days deceived?
Or of lov'd life am I alone bereav'd?
Let all the great, the rich, the learn'd, the wise,
Let all the shades of Judah's monarchs rise,
And say, if gens. learning, empire, wealth,
Youth, beauty, virtue, strength, renown, or health,
Has once revers'd the immutable decree
On Adam pass'd, of man's mortality?
What! have these eyes ne'er seen the felon worm
The damask cheek devour, the finish'd form?
On the pale rose of blasted beauty feed,
And riot on the lip so lately red?
Where are our fathers? Where th' illustrious line
Of holy prophets, and of seers divine?
Live they for ever? Do they shun the grave?
Or when did wisdom its professor save?
When did the brave escape? When did the breatn
Ot eloquence charm the dull ear of death?
When did the cunning argument avail,
The polish'd period, or the varnish'd tale;
The eye of lightning, or the soul of fire,
Which thronging thousands crowded to admire?
Even while we praise the verse the poet dies;
And silent as his lyre great David lies.
Thou, blest Isaiah! who, at God's command
Now speak'st repentance to a guilty land,
Must die! as wise and good thou had'st not been,
As Nebat's son, who taught the land to sin.
And shall I then be spar'd? Oh monstrous
Shall I escape, when Solomon has died? [pride !
If all the worth of all the saints were vain-
Peace, peace, my troubled soul, nor dare complain!
LORD, I submit. Complete thy gracious will;
For if thou slay me, I will trust Thee still.
Oh! be my will so swallow'd up in thine!
That I may do thy will in doing mine.
As the following Poem turns chiefly on the danger of Delay or Error in the important article of Educa tion, I know not to whom I can, with more propriety, dedicate it, than to you, as the subject it inculcates has been one of the principal objects of your attention in your own family.
Let not the name of Dedication alarm you; I am not going to offend you by making your Eulogium. Panegyric is only necessary to suspicious characters; Virtue will not accept it; Delicacy
The friendship with which you have honoured me from my childhood, will, I flatter myself, induce you to pardon me for venturing to lay before you this public testimony of my esteem, and to assure you how much I am,
DEAR MADAM,
Your obedient
FLORELLA, a young Shepherdess.
IN these grave scenes, and unembellish'd strains, Where neither sly intrigue nor passion reigns; How dare we hope an audience will approve A Drama void of wit, and free from love? Where no soft Juliet sighs, and weeps, and starts, No fierce Roxana takes by storm your hearts; No comic ridicule, no tragic swagger,, Not one elopement, not one bowl or dagger? No husband wrong'd, who trusted and believed, No father cheated, and no friend deceived; No libertine in glowing strains described, No lying chambermaid that rake had bribed: Nor give we, to reward the rover's life, The ample portion and the beauteous wife: The frequent moral of the scenic page! Behold, to raise the manners of the age, And shall we then transplant these noxious scenes To private life? to misses in their teens? The stilts, the buskin, the dramatic fire, The pompous tone, the masculine attire, Corrupt the softness of the gentler kind, And taint the sweetness of the youthful mind. Ungovern'd passions, jealousy and rage, But ill become our sex, still less our age; Whether we learn too well what we describe, Or fail the Poet's meaning to imbibe ; In either case your blame we justly raise, In either lose, or ought to lose, your praise. How dull, if tamely flows th' impassion'd strain; If well- how bad to be the thing we feign; To fix the mimic scene upon the heart, And keep the passions when we quit the part! Such are the perils the dramatic muse, In youthful bosoms threatens to infuse; Our timid Author labours to impart THE object of the following Poem, which was writ- A less pernicious lesson to the heart; ten in very early youth, was an earnest wish to fur- What, though no charm of melody divine, nish a substitute for the very improper custom, Smooth her round period, or adorn her line; which then prevailed, of allowing plays, and those Though her unpolish'd page in vain aspires not always of the purest kind, to be acted by young To emulate the graces she admires; Ladies in boarding schools. And it has afforded a Though destitute of skill, her sole pretence serious satisfaction to the Author to learn that this But aims at simple truth and common sense; little Poem, and likewise the Sacred Dramas, have Yet shall her honest unassuming page very frequently been adopted to supply the place of Tell that its Author in a modish age, those more dangerous amusements. If it may be Preferr'd plain virtue to the boast of art, still happily instrumental in promoting a regard Nor fix'd one dangerous maxim on the heart. to Religion aud Virtue in the minds of young per- Oh if, to crown her efforts, she could find, sons, and afford them an innocent, and perhaps not They rooted but one error from one mind; altogether unuseful, amusement in the exercise of If in the bosom of ingenuous youth recitation, the end for which it was originally com- They stamp'd one useful thought, one lasting truth, posed, and the author's utmost wish in its re-publi-Twould be a fairer tribute to her name, cation, will be fully answered. Than loud applauses, or an empty fame!
and obliged humble servant,
THE AUTHOR.
Euphelia, Cleora, Pastorella, Laurinda.
WELCOME, ye humble vales, ye flow'ry shades,
Ye crystal fountains, and ye silent glades!
From the gay misery of the thoughtless great,
The walks of folly, the disease of state;
From scenes where daring guilt triumphant reigns,
Its dark suspicions and its hoard of pains;
Where Pleasure never comes without alloy,
And Art but thinly paints fallacious joy;
Where Languor loads the day, Excess the night,
Aud dull Satiety succeeds Delight;
Where midnight Vices their fell orgies keep,
And guilty Revels scare the phantom Sleep;
Where Dissipations wears the name of Bliss:
From these we fly in search of Happiness.
EUPHELIA.
Not the tir'd Pilgrim, all his dangers past, When he descries the long-sought shrine at last; E'er felt a joy so pure as this fair field,
These peaceful shades, and smiling valleys yield; For sure, these oaks, which old as Time appear, Proclaim Urania's lonely dwelling near.
How the description with the scene agrees!
Here lowly thickets, there aspiring trees;
The hazel copse excluding noon-day's beam,
The tufted arbour, the pellucid stream;
The blooming sweet-briar, and the hawthorn shade,
The springing cowslips, and the daisy'd mead;
The wild luxuriance of the full-blown fields,
Which Spring prepares, and laughing Summer
yields!
Here simple Nature strikes the enraptured eye With charms, which wealth and art but ill supply; The genuine graces, which without we find, Display the beauty of the owner's mind.
These deep embowering shades conceal the cell, Where sage Urania and her daughters dwell: Florella too, if right we've heard the tale, With them resides-the lily of the vale.
But soft; what gentle female form appears, Which smiles of more than mortal beauty wears ? Is it the Guardian Genius of the grove? Or some fair angel from the choirs above!
Enter FLORELLA, who speaks.
Whom do I see? ye beauteous virgins, say, What chance conducts your steps this lonely way? Do you pursue some favourite lambkin stray'd?' Or do yon alders court you to their shade? Declare, fair strangers! If aright I deem, No rustic nymphs of vulgar rank you seem.
From whom the wholesome counsel we may gain,
How our young hearts may happiness obtain.
By Fancy's mimic pencil oft portray'd,
Still have we woo'd the visionary maid:
The lovely phantom mocks our eager eyes;
And still we chase, and still we miss the prize!
Long have we 'search'd throughout this boun-
teous isle,
With constant ardour and with ceaseless toil;
The various ways of various life we've tried;
But still the bliss we seek has been deny'd.
We've sought in vain through every different state;
The murmuring poor, the discontented great.
If Peace, and Joy, in palaces reside,
Or in obscurer haunts delight to hide;
If Happiness with worldly pleasures dwell,
Or shrouds her graces in the hermit's cell:
If Wit, if Science, teach the road to bliss,
Or torpid dulness find the joys they miss;
To learn this truth, we've bid a long adieu
To all the shadows blinded men pursue.
-We seek Urania; whose sagacious mind
May lead our steps this latent good to find:
Her worth we emulate; her virtues fire
Our ardent hearts to be what we admire:
For though with care she shuns the public eye,
Yet worth like hers, unknown can never lie.
On such a fair and faultless model form'd, By Prudence guided, and by Virtue warm'd, Perhaps Florella can direct our youth, And point our footsteps to the paths of Truth.
Ill would it suit my unexperienced age
In such important questions to engage.
Young as I am, unskilful to discern,
Nor fit to teach, who yet have much to learn.
But would you with maturer years advise,
And reap the counsel of the truly wise,
The dame in whom such worth and wisdom meet,
Dwells in the covert of yon green retreat :
All that the world cal's great she once possess'd,
With wealth, with rank, her prosperous youth was
bless'd.
In adverse fortune, now, serene and gay,
"Who gave," she said, "had right to take away."
Two lovely daughters bless her growing years,
And, by their virtues, well repay her cares..
With them, beneath her sheltering wing I live,
And share the bounties she has still to give;
For Heaven, who in its dispensations, join'd
A narrow fortune to a noble mind,
Has bless'd the sage Urania with a heart
Which Wisdom's noblest treasures can impart;
In Duty's active round each day is past,
As if she thought each day might prove her last:
Her labours for devotion best prepare,
And meek Devotion smooths the brow of Care.
Then lead, Florella, to that humble shed
Where Peace resides: from courts and cities fled! SONG.
O Happiness, celestial fair,
Our earliest hope, our latest care,
Oh hear our fond request !
Vouchsafe, reluctant Nymph, to tell
On what sweet spot thou lov'st to dwell,
And make us truly blest.
Amidst the walks of public life,
The toils of wealth, ambition's strife,
We long have sought in vain :
The crowded city's noisy din,
And all the busy haunts of men,
Afford but care and pain.
Pleased with the soft, the soothing power
Of calm Reflection's silent hour,
Sequester'd dost thou dwell?
Where care and tumult ne'er intrude,
Dost thou reside with Solitude?
Thy humble votaries tell.
O Happiness, celestial fair,
Our earliest hope, our latest care
Let us not sue in vain!
O deign to hear our fond request, Come, take possession of our breast, And there for ever reign.
SCENE-The Grove.
Urania, Sylvia, Eliza.
SYLVIA (singing).
SWEET Solitude, thou placid queen
of modest air, and brow serene
"Tis thou inspirest the Sage's themes;
The poet's visionary dreams.
Parent of Virtue, nurse of Thought!
By thee were Saints and Patriarchs taught;
Wisdom from thee her treasures drew,
And in thy lap fair Science grew.
Whate'er exalts, refines, and charms,
Invites to thought, to virtue warms;
Whate'er is perfect, fair, and good,
We owe to thee, sweet Solitude!
In these blest shades, O still maintain
Thy peaceful, unmolested reign!
Let no disorder'd thoughts intrude
On thy repose, sweet Solitude!
With thee the charm of life shall last,
Although its rosy bloom be past;
Shall still endure when Time shall spread
His silver blossoms o'er my head.
No more with this vain world perplex'd, Thou shalt prepare me for the next; The springs of life shall gently coase, And angels point the way to peace.
Ye tender objects of maternal love, Ye dearest joys my widow'd heart can prove, Come, taste the glories of the new-born day, And grateful homage to its author pay! Oh! ever may this animating sight Convey instruction while it sheds delight! Does not that sun, whose cheering beams impart Joy's glad emotions to the pure in heart; Does not that vivid power teach every mind To be as warm, benevolent and kind; To burn with unremitted ardour still, Like him to execute their Maker's will; Then let us, Power Supreme! thy will adore, Invoke thy mercies, and proclaim thy power. Shalt thou these benefits in vain bestow? Shall we forget the fountain whence they flow? Teach us through these to lift our hearts to Thee, And in the gift the bounteous giver see. To view Thee as thou art, all good and wise, Nor let thy blessings hide thee from our eyes. From all obstructions clear our mental sight; Pour on our souls thy beatific light! Teach us thy wondrous goodness to revere, With love to worship, and with reverence fear! In the mild works of thy benignant hand, As in the thunder of thy dread command. In common objects we neglect thy power, While wonders shine in every plant and flower. -Tell me, my first, my last, my darling care, If you this morn have raised your hearts in prayer? Say, did you rise from the sweet bed of rest, Your God unpraised, his holy name unblest?
Our hearts with gratitude and rev'rence fraught, By those pure precepts you have ever taught; By your example, more than precept strong, Of pray'r and praise have tun'd their matin song.
With ever-new delight, we now attend The counsels of our fond maternal friend. Enter Florella, with Euphelia, Cleora, Pastorella, Laurinda.
FLORELLA (Aside to the Ladies). See how the goodly dame, with pious art, Makes each event a lesson to the heart!
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Bred in the regal splendours of a court,
Where pleasures, dress'd in every shape, resort,
I try'd the pow'r of pomp and costly glare,
Nor e'er found room for thought, or time for pray'r:
In diff'rent follies ev'ry hour I spent ;
I shunn'd Reflection, yet I sought Content.
My hours were shar'd betwixt the park and play,
And music serv'd to waste the tedious day;
Yet softest airs no more with joy I heard,
If any sweeter warbler was preferr'd;
The dance succeeded, and, succeeding, tir'd,
If some more graceful dancer were admir'd.
No sounds but flatt'ry ever sooth'd my ear:
Ungentle truths I knew not how to bear.
The anxious day induc'd the sleepless night,
And my vex'd spirit never knew delight;
Coy Pleasure mock'd me with delusive charms;
Still the thin shadow fled my clasping arms.
Or if some actual joy I seem'd to taste,
Another's pleasures laid my blessings waste:
One truth I prov'd, that lurking Envy hides
In ev'ry heart where Vanity presides.
A fairer face would rob my soul of rest,
And fix a scorpion in my wounded breast.
Or, if my elegance of form prevail'd,
And haply her inferior graces fail'd;
Yet still some cause of wretchedness I found,
Some barbed shaft my shatter'd peace to wound.
Perhaps her gay attire exceeded mine-
When she was finer, how could I be fine?
Pardon my interruption, beauteous maid! Can Truth have prompted what you just have said? What! can the poor pre-eminence of dress Ease the pain'd heart, or give it happiness? Or can you think your robes, tho' rich and fine, Possess intrinsic value more than mine?
So close our nature is to vice ally'd, Our very comforts are the source of pride; And dress, so much corruption reigns within, Is both the consequence and cause of sin.
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