TO THE PLAY OF
THE GOOD MOTHER,*
METHINKS Prudentius cries, is this an age
To bring your children forth on any stage,
And from their bosoms rend the shadowy veil
That guards 'em best from Life's too sultry gale,
Nurtures young Virtue's opening flow'r, and feeds
Its fairest shoots 'mid Vices baleful weeds?
Where Heav'n has mark'd th' instructor's leading line,
Let him, with rev'rence, hail the light divine,
And, working by eternal Wisdom's law,
The picture finish which her sketches draw-
Till, in his charge, his height'ning efforts shew
Angelic Modesty's consummate glow,
The tint too strong to dread the stroke of Time,
Serene by mildness, and by Faith sublime,
* Aced in 1793, by the young ladies of Mr. St. Quentin's and Mrs. Latournelle's school at Reading, for the benefit of the French Refugees there resident.
Whilst Charity with Prudence blends her hue,
And brings that brightest form, the Christian's worth, to view.
So speaks the patron of unblemish'd youth,
And claims our rev'rence for the words of truth:
But need we dread that here his guardian eye
Should find us err from hallow'd modesty,
And ought theatric deem this young essay
Our pow'rs to strengthen rather than display?
Be
you the judges, judges whose applause
That holy circle 'round our efforts draws~-
That comes the demon Envy creeping near,
We need not dread its blasting entrance here:
Within this circle, worthy such a fence,
Rich is the space with Genlis' wit and sense,
The far-fam'd instruments of Virtue found;
And ye must hail th' inclosure, sacred ground,
So richly show'r the precepts of the sage,
To feed in Virtue's field our infant age.
Wide is that field, and various that domain,
Where all the virtues, Heav'n commanding, reign;
Here it tow'rs high, with cliff and rock sublime,
And asks the vent'rous foot of man to climb,
Till on its brow the dauntless hero stand,
And snatch his blazing wreath from Glory's hand.
Our's is a safer and serener scene,
Where Virtue haunts the vale and meadow green;
Where, if our toils, that shun the blaze of day,
Should Virtue deign with such a smile repay,
As from your kind indulgence may arise,
We leave to lofty man-his loftier prize.
When last our best, poor efforts were display'd, Here, of your censure, and with cause, afraid, With trembling feet we trod this private stage, But now our hearts swell high with manlike rageAt war with France, our patriot fires arise, And flash forth Britain's fame from British eyesAt war with base Dishonour, vaunting Pride, And urg'd to wrath for God and man defy'd, At Honour's call our spirits bravely beat, And stamp, in hope, his foes beneath our feet: But if the tear into our eyes should start, It speaks not half the pang that wrings the heart, When o'er our thought but half the horrors flow Of Virtue try'd with unexampled woeWhen Honour's victims at his shrine appear, And wanting all things but Britannia's tear, Smile 'mid their griefs this tribute to receive, And, thus consol'd, are struggling not to grieve, Assur'd that we, with them to Honour true, Shall proudly pay his martyrs all their due.
I THOUGHT but now, where'er I threw mine
Still by their radiant force to snatch some prize:
I came, I saw, I conquer'd, glanc'd a look,
And by that lightning many a hero shook ;
Gaily destructive, smilingly severe,
I flew, and rais'd my trophies ev'ry where—
The lovely marchioness—she comes, she comes,
Sound trumpets, beat the spirit-stirring drums-
Life in her look, in ev'ry movement grace—
O'er a fall'n host she runs her conquʼring race,
And spite of beldam Envy's blasting eye,
The world's fair victor glides triumphant by
Such was my day-dream-for at length I find
This but a meteor's play before my mind:
Moncalde is married, and is mine no more;
He scorns me whilst I wish he would adore,
And the gay trifler marks with laughing eyes,
Whilst in his heart Emilia's image lies,
Wrought there with deep impression by the power
Of Virtue's warmth impurpling Beauty's flower.
But sure this loss to me might grow a gain,
Were young Aurora hence no longer vain,
Nor idly proud of youth's fast-fading rose
Would form the worth which undecaying glows,
A lambent lustre beams on snow-white Age,
And dares the dark'ning frown of Death's stern rage.
Beauty is but a butterfly when May
Brings out its fluttering pride, since Winter's day,
Which comes to all, its airy course shall close,
And all its revels in the dust compose.
Ah! virtuous Orsan, your's the living grace,
Not the faint glories of the fading face,
Since Life's calm-setting, with remembrance fraught
Of all the worth your moral noon has wrought,
Brings with it airs from Heav'n, that wing your heart
Gaily from Life's poor painted scenes to part,
O'er vulgar admiration lifts your mind,
To the true dignity of human kind,
And shews you that when Virtue's pointing eye
(Sweet model of maternal piety)
Still won your dear observance, that you knew
What was to reason, what to woman due,
Would your own age, a bright example, grace,
And form the like to bless the coming race.
Thus might the marchioness her follies blame,
And close the tried career, whose fruit was shame.
Ah! little thought that all-accomplish'd mind,
Which drew these fancied pictures for mankind,
How soon this rank and over-ripening age
Would bring to proof the lessons of the sage-
|