"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cry'd out;
"We'll all keep a corner, was echo'd about."
While thus we resolv'd and the pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid;
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night;
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her,
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven,
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similies drop-
And now that I think on't the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning-
A relish-a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake and think slightly of this.
To the Memory of a young Lady.
YET do I live! O how shall I sustain
This vast unutterable weight of woe?
This worse than hunger, poverty, or pain,
Or all the complicated ills below?
She, in whose life my hopes were treasur'd all,
Is gone-for ever fled-
My dearest Emma's dead;
These eyes, these tear-swoln eyes beheld her fall.
Ah, no-she lives on some far happier shore,
She lives-but, cruel thought! she lives for me no
I, who the tedious absence of a day
Remov'd, would languish for my charmer's sight; Would chide the ling'ring moments for delay, And fondly blame the slow return of night; How, how shall I endure
(O misery past a cure!)
Hours, days, and years, successively to roll,
Nor ever more behold the comfort of my soul?
Was she not all my fondest wish could frame?
Did ever mind so much of heaven partake?
Did she not love me with the purest flame?
And give up friends and fortune for my sake?
Tho' mild as evening skies,
With downcast, streaming eyes,
Stood the stern frown of supercilious brows,
Deaf to their brutal threats, and faithful to her
Come then, some Muse, the saddest of the train
(No more your bard shall dwell on idle lays,)
Teach me each moving melancholy strain,
And, oh! discard the pageantry of phrase:
Ill suits the flowers of speech with woes like mine! Thus, haply, as I paint
The source of my complaint,
'My soul may own th' impassion'd line;
A flood of tears may gush to my relief,
And from my swelling heart discharge this load of grief.
Forbear, my fond officious friends, forbear
To wound my ears with the sad tales you tell; "How good she was, how gentle, and how fair!" In pity cease-alas! I know too well How in her sweet expressive face
Beam'd forth the beauties of her mind,
Yet heighten'd by exterior grace,
Of manners most engaging, most refin'd.
No piteous object could she see,
But her soft bosom shar'd the woe,
While smiles of affability
Endear'd whatever boon she might bestow.
Whate'er the emotions of her heart,
Still shone conspicuous in her eyes,
Stranger to every female art,
Alike to feign or to disguise :
And, oh! the boast how rare!
The secret in her faithful breast repos'd
She ne'er with lawless tongue disclos'd,
In secret silence lodg'd inviolate there.
Oh, feeble words-unable to express
Her matchless virtues, or my own distress.
Relentless death! that, steel'd to human woe,
With murderous hands deals havock on mankind, Why (cruel!) strike this deprecated blow,
And leave such wretched multitudes behind?
Hark! groans come wing'd on every breeze!
The sons of grief prefer their ardent vow,
Oppress'd with sorrow, want, or dire disease,
And supplicate thy aid, as I do now:
In vain-perverse, still on the unweeting head
"Tis thine thy vengeful darts to shed;
Hope's infant blossoms to destroy,
And drench in tears the face of joy.
But, oh! fell tyrant! yet expect the hour
When Virtue shall renounce thy power;
When thou no more shalt blot the face of day,
Nor mortals tremble at thy rigid sway.
Alas, the day! where'er I turn my eyes,
Some sad memento of my loss appears;
I fly the fatal house-suppress my sighs,
Resolv'd to dry my unavailing tears:
But, ah! in vain-no change of time or place
The memory can efface
Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air,
Now lost; and nought remains but anguish and
despair.
Where were the delegates of heaven, oh, where!
Appointed Virtue's children safe to keep?
Had Innocence or Virtue been their care,
She had not died, nor had I liv'd to weep:
Mov'd by my tears, and by her patience mov'd,
To see her force the endearing smile,
My sorrows to beguile,
When Torture's keenest rage she prov'd;
Sure they had warded that untimely dart,
Which broke her thread of life, and rent a husband's
How shall I e'er forget that dreadful hour,
When, feeling Death's resistless power,
My hand she press'd wet with her falling tears,
And thus, in faltering accents, spoke her fears!
"Ah, my lov'd lord, the transient scene is o'er, And we must part, alas! to meet no more!
But, oh! if e'er thy Emma's name was dear,
If e'er thy vows have charm'd my ravish'd ear;
If, from thy lov'd embrace my heart to gain,
Proud friends have frown'd, and fortune smil'd in vain;
If it has been my sole endeavour still
To act in all obsequious to thy will;
To watch thy very smiles, thy wish to know,
Then only truly blest when thou wert so;
If I have doated with that fond excess,
Nor Love could add, nor Fortune make it less;
If this I've done, and more-oh! then be kind
To the dear lovely babe I leave behind.
When time my once lov'd memory shall efface,
Some happier maid may take thy Emma's place,
With envious eyes thy partial fondness see,
And hate it for the love thou bor'st to me!
My dearest Shaw, forgive a woman's fears;
But one word more-I cannot bear thy tears-
Promise-and I will trust thy faithful vow
(Oft have I tried, and ever found thee true)
That to some distant spot thou wilt remove
This fatal pledge of hapless Emma's love,
Where safe thy blandishments it may partake,
And, oh! be tender for its mother's sake.
Wilt thou?-
I know thou wilt-sad silence speaks assent;
And in that pleasing hope thy Emma dies content."
I, who with more than manly strength have bore
The various ills impos'd by cruel Fate,
Sustain the firmness of my soul no more;
But sink beneath the weight;
Just Heaven! I cried, from Memory's earliest day
No comfort has thy wretched suppliant known;
Misfortune still with unrelenting sway,
Has claim'd me for her own.
But, oh! in pity to my grief, restore
This only source of bliss; I ask-I ask no more
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