TO THE MINIATURE PICTURE *.
BY THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.
CHILL'D by rude gales, while yet reluctant May
Withholds the beauties of the vernal day,
As some fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove,
Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love,
The Season's pleasures too delay their hour,
And Winter revels with protracted power;
Then blame not, Critics, if thus late we bring
A Winter's Drama, but reproach the Spring.
What prudent Cit dares yet the season trust,
Bask in his whiskey, and enjoy the dust?
Hors'd in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer Spark
Achieves the Sunday triumph of the Park;
Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late,
Scour the New Road, and dash thro' Grosvenor-gate;
Anxious-yet timorous too-his steed to shew,
The hack Bucephalus of Rotten-row!
Careless he seems, yet vigilantly sly,
Wooes the stray glance of ladies passing by,
While his off heel, insidiously aside,
Provokes the caper which he seems to chide.
Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains,
The vulgar verdure of her walks remains!
* This prologue was also spoken before the play of Pizarro.
Where white-rob'd Misses amble two by two, Nodding to booted Beaux-" How' do, how' do ?" With gen'rous questions that no answer wait"How vastly full! A'n't you come vastly late? "I'n't it quite charming? When do you leave town? "A'n't you quite tir'd? Pray can we set you down?” These suburb pleasures of a London May, Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay.
Should our Play please-and you're indulgent everKindly decree ""Tis better late than never."
OF A LATIN POEM OF POLITIAN TO LORENZO DE
WHILE burning with poetic fire,
To you I tune th' applausive lyre;
The jeering rabble slyly note
(And well they may) my threadbare coat,
My shoes, that, gall'd by constant wearing,
Threaten to give my toes an airing.
The rogues but ill conceal their smirking,
When they remark my ragged jerkin ;
They cry, I'm but a scurvy poet,
And swear my shabby tatters show it:
While you, LORENZO, so bepraise me.
Your flatt'ry's sure, enough to craze me,
But prove your eulogies sincere;
Have mercy on my character,
And (no great boon your bard beseeches)
Send me at least, a pair of breeches.
SULLEN and slow from *Cawood's lessening spires,
Unheeded now, the mournful train retires.
Ah where's the thronging crowd, the long array?
Could one keen blast sweep all so soon away?
Power makes no friends that humble need can claim,
The wretch who meanly sought, will spurn the name.
The slaves whom fortune with a nod hath sway'd
Distress in vain shall beckon to her aid.
Ah wretched Wolsey! these no more remain,
But fancy still perceives another train:
Remorse, and shame, the tyrants of the mind,
And hated malice, thronging press behind.
And see where hooting envy claps her hands;
High on the distant castle's height she stands,
And gladly beck'ning round her muffled train,
Points to the conquest, which they help'd to gain.
O thou, reflected in whose starting tears,
The image of a melting heart appears,
From whence the dews of silent sorrow flow,
Whose locks so oft have dry'd the cheeks of woe,
*Cawood in Yorkshire, to which Wolsey had retired, and
where he was arrested, in order to be carried to London.
Soft pity! thou whose swelling eyes still bend
O'er some sad object, maid of heaven descend a
Ah let one face of generous grief be near;
Thy store can spare for helpless age a tear.
And thou whose eyes with patient hope serene,
Still look to heav'n, and scorn this languid scene:
Calm resignation! teach him how to prize
That awful hour on which thy faith relies.
A busy life demands a serious close;
And grief can ask no more than soft repose.
That ease is death's, when kings shall frown no more,
And victims bless the stroke, they fear'd before.
Then heart-wrung grief shall draw a longer lot,
The scalding tear of yesterday forgot;
Then shall the cloud that frown'd upon the sight
Disclose its brighter side, its tints of light.
Already sickness chills the small remains
Of vital heat that warms his wither'd veins.
Already from his eyes its fires has stole,
Revealing there the fears that load his soul.
That force elastic which can rise tho' prest
With sorrows load, forsakes his aged breast;
The weakened frame receives the galling weight,
Feels its diminished strength, and yields to fate.
Tears fill the furrows of his reverend cheek,
Whose silent rhetoric proves language weak.
Each heart must sicken when a man shall weep,
A great man's tears inflict a shock too deep.
Too strong the conflict. Nature sinks oppress'd.
What gate stands wide to succour the distress'd?
Religion's holy mansion* rises near,
No son of woe can come a stranger there.
There pious hands shall thrust the bar aside;
Slow to her humble door, too low for pride,
Till pride shall stoop, they bear their painful load,
There sorrow oft has found a safe abode.
With kind concern and hospitable care,
The sons of peace each needful help prepare,
An anxious readiness in each appears,
For all with pity view his helpless years.
Soon as his rank, and high estate they learn,
Respect and wonder swell their first concern;
In vain they strive; for Oh no kindling breath
Can e'er renew the flame once chill'd by death.
His eyes already lose their sickly gloom,
For well he feels his hour of peace is come.
These faultering words, whose accents last shall leave
His trembling lips, the pious train receive.
"O sad mistake! O vain misguiding light,
"Pursued alas too far, as false, as bright!
“O fatal error, ill repented now,
"O wretch, before a mortal God to bow!
"Had I, just God of truth, obeyed thy word "With half the zeal I serv'd an earthly Lord, "Thou ne'er had'st left me in my friendless hour, "Thus old, to feel the Scourge of worldly power.
*Leicester Abby. The fatigue of his journey, and the distress of his mind, rendered him incapable of proceeding further towards London. He reached this place with great difficulty, and died there.
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