Part 42 (1/2)

What though no funeral pomp, no borrow'd tear, Your hour of death to gazing crowds shall tell; Nor weeping friends attend your sable bier, Who sadly listen to the pa.s.sing bell;

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The tutor'd sigh, the vain parade of woe, No real anguish to the soul impart; And oft, alas! the tear that friends bestow Belies the latent feelings of the heart.

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What though no sculptured pile your name displays, Like those who perish in their country's cause?

What though no epic Muse in living lays Records your dreadful daring with applause?--

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Full oft the nattering marble bids renown With blazon'd trophies deck the spotted name; And oft, too oft, the venal Muses crown The slaves of vice with never-dying fame.

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Yet shall remembrance from oblivion's veil Relieve your scene, and sigh with grief sincere; And soft compa.s.sion at your tragic tale In silent tribute pay her kindred tear.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

THE DEMAGOGUE. [1]

Bold is the attempt, in these licentious times, When with such towering strides sedition climbs, With sense or satire to confront her power, And charge her in the great decisive hour.

Bold is the man, who, on her conquering day, Stands in the pa.s.s of fate to bar her way: Whose heart, by frowning arrogance unawed, Or the deep-lurking snares of specious fraud, The threats of giant-faction can deride, And stem with stubborn arm her roaring tide. 10 For him unnumber'd brooding ills await, Scorn, malice, insolence, reproach, and hate: At him, who dares this legion to defy, A thousand mortal shafts in secret fly: Revenge, exulting with malignant joy, Pursues the incautious victim to destroy: And slander strives, with unrelenting aim, To spit her blasting venom on his name: Around him faction's harpies flap their wings, And rhyming vermin dart their feeble stings: 20 In vain the wretch retreats, while in full cry Fierce on his throat the hungry bloodhounds fly.

Enclosed with perils, thus the conscious Muse, Alarm'd, though undismay'd, her danger views.

Nor shall unmanly Terror now control The strong resentment struggling in her soul.

While Indignation, with resistless strain, Pours her full deluge through each swelling vein; By the vile fear that chills the coward breast, By sordid caution is her voice suppress'd. 30 While Arrogance, with big theatric rage, Audacious struts on power's imperial stage; While o'er our country, at her dread command, Black Discord, screaming, shakes her fatal brand; While, in defiance of maternal laws, The sacrilegious sword rebellion draws: Shall she at this important hour retire, And quench in Lethe's wave her genuine fire?

Honour forbid! she fears no threat'ning foe, When conscious justice bids her bosom glow: 40 And while she kindles the reluctant flame, Let not the prudent voice of friends.h.i.+p blame!

She feels the sting of keen resentment goad, Though guiltless yet of satire's th.o.r.n.y road.

Let other Quixotes, frantic with renown, Plant on their brows a tawdry paper crown!

While fools adore, and va.s.sal-bards obey, Let the great monarch a.s.s through Gotham bray!

Our poet brandishes no mimic sword, To rule a realm of dunces self-explored; 50 No bleeding victims curse his iron sway; Nor murder'd reputation marks his way.

True to herself, unarm'd, the fearless Muse Through reason's path her steady course pursues: True to herself advances, undeterr'd By the rude clamours of the savage herd.

As some bold surgeon, with inserted steel, Probes deep the putrid sore, intent to heal; So the rank ulcers that our patriot load, Shall she with caustic's healing fires corrode. 60 Yet ere from patient slumber satire wakes, And brandishes the avenging scourge of snakes; Yet ere her eyes, with lightning's vivid ray, The dark recesses of his heart display; Let candour own the undaunted pilot's power, Felt in severest danger's trying hour!

Let truth consenting, with the trump of fame, His glory, in auspicious strains, proclaim!

He bade the tempest of the battle roar, That thunder'd o'er the deep from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e. 70 How oft, amid the horrors of the war, Chain'd to the b.l.o.o.d.y wheels of danger's car, How oft my bosom at thy name has glow'd, And from my beating heart applause bestow'd; Applause, that, genuine as the blush of youth Unknown to guile, was sanctified by truth!

How oft I blest the patriot's honest rage, That greatly dared to lash the guilty age; That, rapt with zeal, pathetic, bold, and strong, Roll'd the full tide of eloquence along; 80 That power's big torrent braved with manly pride, And all corruption's venal arts defied!

When from afar those penetrating eyes Beheld each secret hostile scheme arise; Watch'd every motion of the faithless foe, Each plot o'erturned, and baffled every blow: A fond enthusiast, kindling at thy name, I glow'd in secret with congenial flame; While my young bosom, to deceit unknown, Believed all real virtue thine alone. 90 Such then he seem'd, and such indeed might be, If truth with error ever could agree!

Sure satire never with a fairer hand Portray'd the object she design'd to brand.

Alas! that virtue should so soon decay, And faction's wild applause thy heart betray!

The Muse with secret sympathy relents, And human failings, as a friend, laments: But when those dangerous errors, big with fate, Spread discord and distraction through the state, 100 Reason should then exert her utmost power To guard our pa.s.sions in that fatal hour.

There was a time, ere yet his conscious heart Durst from the hardy path of truth depart; While yet with generous sentiment it glow'd, A stranger to corruption's slippery road; There was a time our patriot durst avow Those honest maxims he despises now.

How did he then his country's wounds bewail, And at the insatiate German vulture rail! 110 Whose cruel talons Albion's entrails tore, Whose hungry maw was glutted with her gore!

The mists of error, that in darkness held Our reason, like the sun, his voice dispell'd.

And lo! exhausted, with no power to save, We view Britannia panting on the wave: Hung round her neck, a millstone's pond'rous weight Drags down the struggling victim to her fate!

While horror at the thought our bosom feels, We bless the man this horror who reveals. 120 But what alarming thoughts the heart amaze, When on this Ja.n.u.s' other face we gaze!