Acafto's daughter, his whose open ftores,
Tho' vaft, were little to his ampler heart,
The father of a country, thus to pick
refuse of those harvest-fields,
Which from his bounteous friendship I enjoy.
Then throw that shameful pittance from thy hand,
But ill apply'd to fuch a rugged task;
The fields, the mafter, all, my fair, are thine;
If to the various bleffings which thy houfe
Has on me lavish'd, thou wilt add that bliss,
That dearest blifs, the power of bleffing thee!"
Here ceas'd the youth: yet ftill his speaking eye
Exprefs'd the facred triumph of his foul,
With confcious virtue, gratitude, and love,
Above the vulgar joy divinely rais'd.
Nor waited he reply. Won by the charm
Of goodness irrefiftible, and all
In fweet diforder loft, fhe blush'd confent.
immediate to her mother brought, While, pierc'd with anxious thought, the pin'd away moments for Lavinia's fate;
Amaz'd, and scarce believing what she heard,
Joy feiz'd her wither'd veins, and one bright gleam
Of fetting life fhone on her evening-hours:
Not lefs enraptur'd than the happy pair;
Who flourish'd long in tender blifs, and réar'd
A numerous offspring, lovely like themselves,
And good, the grace of all the country round.
Almoft all things written from the heart, as this certainly was, have fome merit. The poet here defcribes forrows and misfortunes which were by no means imaginary; and, thus, there runs a truth of thinking through this poem, without which it would be of little value, as Savage is, in other refpects, but an indifferent poet.
'N gayer hours, when high my fancy ran,
The muse, exulting, thus her lay began:
Bleft be the Bastard's birth! thro' wond'rous ways He fhines, eccentric, like a comet's blaze; No fickly fruit of faint compliance he! He! ftampt in Nature's mint of Extacy! He lives to build, not boast a generous race: No tenth tranfmitter of a foolish face. His daring hope no fire's example bounds: His firft-born lights no prejudice confounds. He, kindling from within, requires no flame: He glories in a baftard's glowing name. Born to himself, by no poffeffion led, In Freedom fofter'd, and by Fortune fed; Nor guides, nor rules, his fov'reign choice controul, His body independent, as his foul.
Loos'd to the world's wide range,—enjoin'd no aim ;
Prefcrib'd no duty, and affign'd no name:
Nature's unbounded son, he ftands alone,
His heart unbiass'd, and his mind his own.
O Mother, yet no Mother-'tis to you,
My thanks for fuch diftinguish'd claims are due.
You, unenflav'd to Nature's narrow laws,
Warm championess for Freedom's facred cause,
From all the dry devoirs of blood and line,
From ties maternal, moral, and divine,
Difcharg'd my grafping foul; pufh'd me from fhore,
And launch'd me into life without an oar.
What had I loft, if, conjugally kind,
By nature hating, yet by vows confin'd,
Untaught the matrimonial bounds to flight,
And coldly confcious of a husband's right,
You had faint-drawn me with a form alone,
A lawful lump of life, by force your own!
Then, while your backward will retrench'd defire,
And unconcurring fpirits lent no fire,
I had been born your dull, domestic heir;
Load of your life, and motive of your care;
Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great;
The flave of pomp, a cypher in the ftate;
Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown,
And flumbering in a feat, by chance my own.
Far nobler bleffings wait the baftard's lot;
Conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot!
Strong as necessity, he ftarts away,
Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.
Thus unprophetic, lately misinspir'd,
I fung: gay flutt'ring Hope my fancy fir'd;
Inly fecure, thro' conscious fcorn of ill,
Nor taught by wisdom how to ballance will,
Rafhly deceiv'd, I saw no pits to shun;
But thought to purpose, and to act, were one;
Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way,
Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray;
But now, expos'd, and fhrinking from distress,
I fly to shelter, while the tempefts press;
My muse to grief refigns the varying tone,
The raptures languish, and the numbers groan.
O Memory! thou foul of joy and pain!
'Thou actor of our paffions o'er again!
Why doft thou aggravate the wretches woe?
Why add continuous fmart to ev'ry blow?
Few are my joys; alas! how foon forgot!
On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not,
While sharp and numberless my forrows fall;
Yet thou repeat'ft, and multiply'st 'em all!
Is chance a guilt, that my difaftrous heart,
For mischief never meant, must ever smart?
Can felf-defence be fin ?-Ah, plead no more!
What tho' no purpos'd malice ftain'd thee o'er?
Had Heav'n befriended thy unhappy fide,
Thou had'ft not been provok'd-or Thou had'ft dy'd,
Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all,
On whom, unfought, embroiling dangers fall!
Still the pale Dead revives, and lives to me,
To me thro' Pity's eye condemn'd to fee.
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