STANZAS read on the Day of the Publication of Mr. GIBBON'S Continuation of his HISTORY; which was alfo his Birth-day. By Mr. HAYLEY.
ENII of England and of Rome!
In mutual triumph here affume
The honours each may claim!
This focial scene with fmiles furvey!
And confecrate the feftive day
To friendship and to fame!
Enough, by defolation's tide,
With anguifh, and malignant pride,
Has Rome bewail'd her fate;
And mourn'd that time in havock's hour,
Defac'd each monument of power
To speak her truly great.
O'er maim'd Polybius, juft and fage,.
O'er Livy's mutilated page,
How deep was her regret!
Touch'd by this queen, in ruin grand,
See! Glory, by an English hand,
Now pays a mighty debt..
Lo facred to the Roman name,
And rais'd, like Rome's immortal fame,
By genius and by toil,
The fplendid work is crown'd to-day,
On which oblivion ne'er fhall prey,
Nor envy make her spoil!
England, exult! and view not now
With jealous glance each nation's brow,
Where Hiftory's palm has spread!
In every path of liberal art,
Thy fons to prime distinction start,
And no fuperior dread.
Science for thee a Newton rais'd;
For thy renown a Shakspeare blaz❜d,
Lord of the drama's fphere!
In different fields to equal praife
See History now thy GIBBON raise
To fhine without a peer!
Eager to honour living worth,
And blefs to-day the double birth,
That proudest joy may claim;
Let ardefs truth this homage pay,
And confecrate the feftive day
To friendfhip and to fame,
ELEGY, written on the Plain of FONTENOY.
[From the POETRY of ANNA MATILDA.]
HILL blows the blaft, and twilight's dewy hand
Draws in the weft her dufky veil away;
A deeper fhadow steals along the land,
And Nature mufes at the death of day!
Near this bleak wafte no friendly manfion rears
Its walls, where mirth, and focial joys refound,
But each fad object melts the foul to tears,
While horror treads the scatter'd bones around,
As thus, alone and comfortless I roam,
Wet with the drizling fhow'r, I figh fincere ;
I caft a fond look tow'rds my native home,
And think what valiant Britons perish'd here.
Yes, the time was, nor very far the date,
When carnage here her crimson toil began ; When nations' standards wav'd in threat'ning ftate, And man the murd❜rer met the murd'rer man.
For war is murder, tho' the voice of kings
Has ftyl'd it justice, ftyl'd it glory too!
Yet from worft motives, fierce ambition fprings,
And there, fix'd prejudice is all we view!
But fure, 'tis heaven's immutable decree,
For thousands ev'ry age in fight to fall;
Some nat❜ral caufe prevails, we cannot fee,
And that is Fate, which we Ambition call,
O let th' afpiring warrior think with grief,
That as produc'd by chymic art refin'd;
So glitt'ring conqueft, from the laurel-leaf
Extracts a gen'ral poifon for mankind.
Here let him wander at the midnight hour,
These morbid rains, thefe gelid gales to meet ;
And mourn, like me, the ravages of pow'r!
And feel, like me, that vict'ry is defeat!
Nor deem, ye vain! that e'er I mean to fwell
My feeble verfe with many a founding name;
Of fuch, the mercenary bard may tell,
And call fuch dreary defolation, fame.
The genuine Mufe removes the thin disguise
That cheats the world, whene'er fhe deigns to fing; And full as meritorious to her eyes
Seems the poor foldier, as the mighty king!
Alike I fhun in labour'd strain to show,
How Britain more than triumph'd, tho' flie fled,
Where Louis ftood, where stalk'd the column slow ;
I turn from these, and dwell upon the dead.
Yet much my beating breaft refpects the brave;
Too well I love them not to mourn their fate,
Why should they seek for greatness in the grave?
Their hearts are noble - and in life they're great.
Nor think 'tis but in war the brave excel,-
To Valour ev'ry virtue is allied!
Here faithful friendship 'mid the battle fell,
And love, true love, in bitter anguish died.
Alas! the folemn flaughter I retrace,
That checks life's current cirling thro' my veins, Bath'd in moist forrow, many a beauteous face, And gave a grief, perhaps, that still remains.
I can no more-an agony too keen,
Abforbs my fenfes, and my mind fubdues,
Hard were that heart which here could beat ferene,
refuse.
Or the just tribute of a pang
But lo! thro' yonder op'ning clouds afar
Shoots the bright planet's fanguinary ray,
That bears thy name, fictitious lord of war!
And with red luftre guides, my lonely way.
Then FONTENOY, farewel! Yet much I fear,
(Wherever chance my courfe compels) to find
Difcord and blood-the thrilling founds I hear,
"The noife of battle hurtles in the wind."
From barb'rous Turkey to Britannia's fhore,
Oppofing int'refts into rage increase;
Destruction rears her fceptre, tumults roar,
Ah! where fhall hapless man repofe in peace?
STANZAS to DELLA CRUSA, occafioned by the above Elegy.
USH'D' be each ruder note!-foft filence spread,
H With ermine hand, thy cobweb robe around;
Attention! pillow my reclining head,
Whilft eagerly I catch the golden found.
Ha! what a tone was that, which floating near,
Seem'd harmony's full foul-whofe is the lyre?
Which feizing thus on my enraptur'd ear,
Chills with its force, yet melts me with its fire.
Ah dull of heart! thy minstrel's touch not know,
What bard but Della Crufa boasts such skill ?
From him alone, thofe melting notes can flow-
He only knows adroitly thus to trill,
Well have I left the groves, which fighing wave
Amidst November's blafts their naked arms,
Whilft their red leaves fall flutt'ring to their grave,
And give again to duft May's vernal charms.
Well have I left the air-embofom'd hills,
Where fprightly health in verdant buskin plays;
Forfaken fallow meads, and circling mills,
And thyme-dress'd heaths, where the foft flock yet ftrays.
Obfcuring fmoak, and air impure I greet,
With the coarfe din that trade and folly form,
For here the Mufe's fon again I meet
I catch his notes amidst the vulgar storm.
His notes now bear me, penfive, to the plain,
Cloth'd by a verdure drawn from Britain's heart;
Whose heroes bled fuperior to their pain,
Sunk, crown'd with glory, and contemn'd the smart,
Soft, as he leads me round th' enfanguin'd fields,
The laurel'd fhades forfake their grassy tomb,
The bursting fod its palid inmate yields,
And o'er th' immortal waste their spirits roam.
Obedient to the Mufe the acts revive
Which time long past had veil'd from mortal ken,
Embattled fquadrons rufh, as when alive,
And fhadowy falchions gleam o'er fhadowy men.
Ah, who art thou, who thus with frantic air
Fly'ft fearless to fupport that bleeding youth;
Binds his deep gathes with thy glowing hair,
And dieft befide him, to atteft thy truth?
"His fifter I; an orphan'd pair, we griev'd
"For parents long at reft within the grave,
"By a falfe guardian of our wealth bereav'd.
"The little ALL parental care cou'd fave.
"Chill look'd the world, and chilly grew our hearts,
"Oh! where' fhall Poverty expect a fmile?
"Grofs lawlefs love, affumed its ready arts,
"And all befet was I, with fraud and guile.
"My Henry fought the war, and drop'd the tears
"Of love fraternal as he bade farewel;
"But fear foon made me rife above my fears-"I follow'd-and fate toll's our mutual knell."
Chafte maiden reft; and brighter fpring the green
That decorates the turf thy bloom will feed!
And oh, in fofteft mercy 'twas I ween,
To worth like thine, a brother's grave's decreed
The dreadful fhriek of death now darts around,
The hollow winds repeat each tortur'd figh,
Deep bitter groans, ftill deeper groans refound,
Whilft fathers, brothers, lovers, husbands die!
Turn from this spot, bleft bard! thy mental eye;
To hamlets, cities, empires, bend its beam!
"Twill there fuch multiplying deaths decry,
That all before thee'll but an abstract seem.
Why waste thy tears o'er this contracted plain?
The sky which canopies the fons of breath,
Sees the whole earth one fcene of mortal pain,
The vaft, the universal bed of death!
Where do not husbands, fathers, dying moan?
Where do not mothers, fifters, orphans weep?
Where is not heard the last expiring groan,
Or the deep throttle of the deathful fleep!
If, as philofophy doth often muse,
Aftate of war, is natural state to man,"
Battle's the fickness bravery would chufe-
Nobleft disease in nature's various plan!
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