SIR JAMES BLAND BURGESS, BART.
On his admirable Poem of Richard the First.
LO! from the ruins of the mighty dead,'
Once more the English Genius lifts his head;
Britain once more with partial transport views
Th' appropriate honours of the epic muse.
Oft has the fervour of her genuine flame
Illum'd the Theban or the Spartan name;
Lending, with liberal grace, to chiefs unknown
Immortal wreaths, and laurels not their own:
While the brave worthies of this favour'd clime
Lay clouded in some legendary rhyme,
Whose quaint inanity presum'd to raise
A lasting theme in mockery of praise.
Not so, with unaffected splendour bright,
Meets thy First Richard our enraptur'd sight:
Emerging from oblivion's central shade,
In all the majesty of song array'd.
Oh! would the heirs of pomp, the gifted great,
So charm the hours of dignified retreat;
So, by soft sanction, tenderly impart
A new-born lustre to the tuneful art:
Still might I hope, intent on high emprize,
To see a Dorset or a Sidney rise.-
The hope is vain; that gen'rous glow divine
Which breathes in harmony from breasts like thine;
That soaring spirit which disdains to creep
Round the smooth base of the Parnassian steep,
But, hurried with the whirlwind's force along,
Grasps the rough summit of sublimest song;
Where shall I seek 'mid the degen'rate band
Who slight the beauties of their native land:
For foreign flow'rs of short duration sigh,
And scorn those hardy blooms that never die,
Nurs'd by the rigours of our northern sky ?
To thy auspicious star we fondly turn,
Whose steadier rays aloft distinctly burn:
To light the minstrel through life's stormy main,
Or guide the banish'd muses back again;
Here, safe at length, to rest their pilgrim feet,,
And claim their old hereditary seat..
Quo quisque est major, magis est placabilis ira ;
Et faciles motus mens generosa capit.
BY what strange fate great talents are allied
To greatest faults, whose judgment can decide?
Whether the finer fibres of the brain,
Intensely bent, and stretching ev'n to pain,
Relaxing, may too frequently require
Fresh fuel for the intellectual fire:
Or that rash genius, in its wild career,
All-devious visits each eccentric sphere;
And, conversant with fancied forms of air,
Mocks the cold caution of terrestrial care ;-
Now, bravely borne on seraph-wing sublime,
List'ning th' eternal systems' choral chimet ;
Now 'mid the gloom of central Hades hurl'd,
Groping the rayless dungeons of the world;
* This name, Dermody, in all his writings, applied to Mr. Addington.
Anon with more effulgent face to rise,
And sun-like travel through serener skies,
Till vile Intemperance, of hideous birth,
The struggling pinion chains to native earth,
And reason's spark, irregularly bright,
At length exhausted sinks in mournful night.
How sad the wreck, the triumph how malign,
When Vice allures the muses to her shrine;
Round her black brow when roses are entwin'd,
And demons revel o'er the ruin'd mind!
In vain for causes would stern prudence seck, But of the dread effect all ages speak ; While on full many a minstrel's doom severe, Relenting pardon streams th' eternal tear. Though 'mid the guilty but illustrious band My humble name unknown must never stand; Though little praise, alas! to me is due ; Would I deserv'd so little censure too! Deeply impress'd th' unpleasing theme I feel Which conscious blushes, spite of pride, reveal:: Yet, sooth'd once more by thy absolving smile, Enrag'd compunction's scorpion-sting beguile; And find my soul from sensual bondage free, Tutor'd by Virtue, Atticus, and thee..
AS, with step full weak and weary,
Faint from door to door I roam,
While the wind whistles deep and dreary,
And, in vain, I seek a home;
Tho' my grey locks with rain are dripping,
Tho' scarce my limbs their load can bear,
Tho' faster than the show'r I'm weeping,
See! they mock the falling tear !
Tell me, sweet Child of Pity, why-
gui ltless wanderer am I ?
On this sad head, with age so stooping,
Full fourscore winters roll'd away,
And, ah! tho' now with sorrow drooping,
Once I've seen a brighter day;
Once I had fortune, health, and beauty,
And houses tall, and cultur'd land,
Children, observant of their duty,
A spouse, who press'd this shrivell'd hand,
Now stretch'd in vain : Ah tell me why-
A poor, old wanderer am I?
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