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The
Poems
of
Anna Maria.

Hence Poetry exalts Her Voice to Ages; and informs the Page With Music, Image, Sentiment, and Thought, Never to die! the Treasure of Mankind! Their highest Honour, and their truest Joy! Thomson.


[Price one gold mohur.]


Calcutta:
From the press of Thomson & Ferris.
17931793.

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Dedication.

The flattering Approbation with which some of the following poems were received, on their Appearance in the Asiatic Mirror and Calcutta Morning Post, induced the Authoress to arrange and publish Them, with Additions.— Anna Maria is impressed with the most grateful Pleasure for the very distinguished Patronage she has been honored with; and regrets, that her ill State of Health, for some Time past, has prevented her from making the Book more extensive and complete.—Proud of the Encomiums bestowed on the Efforts of her Muse, Anna Maria will ever be zealous to merit the Applause of a polished People,—to whom these Poems are most respectfully dedicated.

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13 D1r

Ode

to Happiness.

Thou Phantom!— who art said to dwell

Within the Hermit’s hallow’d Cell;

Remote from where the worldly Train

Their Homage pay at Fortune’s Fane:—

Thee I have sought with suppliant Eye,

When bursting with the pent up Sigh,

My aching Heart hath learn’d to muse,

And feed on Sorrow’s bitter Dews!

When keen Affliction charg’d the Blow,

That struck each finer nerve with Woe;

I’ve call’d upon thy Aid in vain,

To strew thy Roses on my Pain:—

No friendly hand the Balsam brought,

To drop it on the wounded Thought!

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Thus kindred with the fiend Despair,

I’ve fed the goading Worm of Care;

Have hied me at the Noon of Night,

To ſteal pale Grief from Cynthia’s melancholy Light!

I’ve sought Thee on my native Shore,

Where prowling Billows wildly roar:—

Have run thro’ Pleasure’s mazy Dance,

And gaz’d upon the fleeting Trance

Of splendid Fetes, and courtly Pride,

To Engliſh Luxury allied:

Turn’d giddy at the varied Scene

Of Dissipation’s ſhining Mein!

E’en in Retirement’s vapid Bow’rs,

I’ve watch’d the solitary Hours;

Observ’d the Primrose shoot its Head,

And decorate its mossy Bed;

The fleecy Herd too skip and play,

Delighted with the noon-tide Day:—

I’ve tasted all the Joys that Spring

In vegetation’s Bloom could bring;

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Yet Happiness!—thou wert not there,

For jealous Love prey’d deeply on a Heart of Care!

From Greenland’s bleak unfriendly Coaſt,

Where oft the Mariner is loſt;

Where sternest Winter loves to reign,

White rob’d upon the frozen Main:—

To where the Majeſty of Day

Beams on the World his fiery Ray;

Through all the habitable Space,

Man’s penetrating Eye can trace,

Thy mocking Form I still pursue,

That Form of fascinating hue;

O’er which the radiant Genius throws,

A magic Scarf ’gainſt human Woes:—

Yet thou false Friend, ne’er deign’st to rest

Upon Maria’s troubled Breaſt;

But like the swift resentful Wind,

Do’st leave me in the Vale behind:—

Then bring kind Apathy Relief,

Or soothe my weary Mind with Luxury of Grief!

.
16 D2v

Ode

to Sensibility.

Icall thee from the ivy Bow’r,

At Ev’ning’s sad and pensive Hour;

When Silence throws her witching Spell,

Around where thou art wont to dwell;

Or, if by fainting Moonlight’s Wane,

Thou musest on the fairy Plain;

Or, on the Sea’s responsive Shore,

Thou listen’st to the wild Wind’s roar;

Oh!—light upon my timid Sight,

And chase the visionary Spright,

That in the air-blue Flame now plays,

Regardless of my tender Lays!

Dear Sensibility, impart

Thy chasten’d Feeling to my Heart;

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Convey me ’mid the Storms of Night,

To the brown Mountain’s giddy Height;

Where ’tentive to the sweeping Blast,

I’ll meditate on Sorrows past;

And as the Cascade’s Waters roll,

Their hollow Murmurs shall delight my Soul!

Oft as I stray the dewy Lawn,

At Day’s refreshing early Dawn;

I feel thy virtuous Pow’r dispense,

Religion’s meekness o’er my Sense;

Thy soft Infatuation throw

A transient Calm o’er bursting Woe;

And as I drink the Breeze of Spring,

Or trace the Linnet’s flutt’ring Wing;

Sweet Contemplation deigns to shed,

Her placid Glories o’er my Head;—

Whilst Thou, with mild enquiring Eye,

Return’st the sympathizing Sigh.—

Each fine Emotion of my Soul,

Expanded by thy pure Controul,

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Disdains to blot from Mem’ry’s Leaf,

Th’ Impressions of her early Grief:

Thus Sensibility, I raise

To Thee my sad devoted Lays;

Around thy Temples I’ll entwine,

The Myrtle, Laurel, and the Cypress Vine!

In vain shall sparkling Mirth advance,

With Folly in the rosy Dance;

Gay Pleasure with her Summer Crew,

Now fades before my pensive View;

No Joys illume my weary Eye,

Save the proud Tear—the parting Sigh;

Ah! what’s to me the jocund Hour,

Of Gaiety or Wealth, the Pow’r;

The splendid Scene no Charm can find,

To cure my Lassitude of Mind.—

Oh! Sensibility, thy starting Tear

Obeys the Impulse of corrosive Fear;

Thy fine thin Form, with fervid Feeling wrought,

Points to th’ attentive Gaze the Bliss of Thought!—

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The conscious Vigil on thy burning Lids,

The Calmy Purposes of Sleep forbids;

And thy sweet Voice such Melody conveys,

As far excells the Muse’s softest Lays;

Then let me live to feel thy Force divine,

And oh! the Taste of Sympathy be mine!—

.
20 E2v

Ode

to Reflection.

Sweet maid of Thought, with Mind serene,

Whose soft Persuasion oft I ween;

Thou pleasing Guardian of my Hours,

When murky Care my Passion sours;

How ſhall I strike the lofty Lyre,

How charge the Strings with lambent Fire;

How raise to Thee the chaſtened Song,

To whom the Sympathies belong!—

Oft ere the ruby God of Morn

Hath bask’d upon the dewy Thorn;

Or yet the Nymph of early Day

Hath chas’d the Fogs of Night away;

I’ve met Thee in the twilight Shade,

As walking through my fav’rite Glade;

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Held Converse with thy searching Eye,

And from Thee learnt Philosophy!—

When torn with Love, my breaking Heart

Hath felt the saddest, keenest Smart,

Of Jealousy’s devoted Rage;

Those fervid Pangs that erst engage,

With fear distrest, the tender Mind,

I’ve seen Thee in the gentle Wind—

In Meekness clad, with all the Grace

Of Beauty’s soft enchanting Face;

Thy lovely Features shone so bright,

They gave a new created Light;

And with their Lustre charm’d my Soul,

To Resignation’s mild controul.—

Chaste Maid! —’tis thou, canst Human Nature give,

The temper’d Wisdom—how to think and live!

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Sonnet

to Echo.

Isaw her in the fleeting Wind,

I heard Her on the sounding Shore;

The fairy Nymph of shadowy Kind,

That oft derides the Winter’s Roar:

I heard her lash from Rock to Rock,

With shrill repeating solemn Shock;

I met her in the twilight’s Shade

As flitting o’er my pensive Glade;

O’er yonder tepid Lake ſhe flew,

Her Mantle gemm’d with silver Dew;

The bursting Note swept through the Sky

As the young Vallies pass’d the Sigh:

In Accents varied as the Passions change,

The Nymph, wild Echo, sweeps the hallow Range.

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The following ode, to the Memory of Della Crusca, was written on the Information, that the elegant and admired Author, had paid the laſt Debt of Nature.

Ode

to the Memory of Della Crusca.

Child of the Muses, art thou fled

To the far Mansions of the Dead;

Hast Thou the via sacra trod,

And view’d the Majesty of God!

Pierc’d the bland Realms of Heav’n’s Domain,

And flitted through the starry Plain;

Beyond the glorious Orb of Light,

Wing’d through the finer Void thy Flight,

To that eternal fulgent Seat,

Where the bright-sainted Mortals meet!—

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Oh!—Della Crusca—Shade Divine,

Breathe thy pure Spirit on the Line;

Teach Me to grace thy magic Lyre,

Like Thee to charm the silver Wire;

Then on the list’ning Air shall float,

The trilling Music of each Note;

Attendant Seraphs waft the Lay

Of thy high Fame to endless Day:

Thy Genius with the Glories twine,

And the sweet Harp of Heav’n to Thee resign!

Wild Fancy, who, on flights sublime,

Disdains the narrow Bounds of Rhyme;

Who, soaring on the rapt’rous Thought,

Oft in the wily Maze is caught;

Whether on Clouds of stormy Night,

Or from the sharp Rock’s dizzy Height,

Thou gazest on the Blast severe,

And o’er the Tempest shedst a Tear:

Or, if within the Arctic’s Gloom,

Thou musest o’er a frozen Tomb;

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Where Winter on her polar Throne,

Still petrifies her Seas to Stone;

Contemns the Sun’s far distant Ray,

And mocks the lustrous Lamp of Day:—

Where ere thou art—oh, hither haste,

With Me and tread the silent Waste;

Thy Fav’rite—the British Muse,

No more will brush the Morning’s Dews;

Death sped the parting Shaft that gave

Thy Della Crusca to the laurel Grave!

Pure Taste now, with thy classic Train,

Approach the Muse’s sapphire Fane;

With Sprigs of Yew their Temples bind,

And fling thy Myrtle on the Wind;

The Bust of Poetry adorn,

With Bay-leaf and the dropping Thorn.—

Bright Genius too thy Fervor show,

And dim thine eagle Eye with Woe;

With Poppies deck thy golden Hair,

And scowl upon the Fiend Despair;

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Then hie Thee to the secret Glade,

Where Cypress weaves a gloomy Shade:—

Chaſte Learning quit thy calm Recess,

Thy Della Crusca’s Urn caress;

The Boon with sacred Ivy twine,

And stain it with Regret divine;

With Sorrow’s Spells, and sad Delight,

Iunvoke the mourning Bird of Night;

While I, with wild and trembling Verse,

Will deck the Plumes of Della Crusca’s Hearse!

27 G2r

Invocation

to the Muse.

Once more with Passion’s lambent Fire,

Maria sweep the golden Wire;

Once more the lyric Grace assume,

The laurel Wreath—the starry Plume;

Young Clio beams with lucid Ray,

And o’er Thee sheds poetic Day.—

Yes—I will soar the rapid Flight,

Nor dazzled with the Flood of Light;

The lustrous Spheres of purest Space,

For Virgin Images I’ll trace.—

Gay Fancy, from whose brilliant Thought,

Attention’s raptur’d Eye is caught,

Shall fling her Beauties o’er the Waste,

And charm with Ease and polish’d Taste:

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While from chaste Ida’s sacred Bow’rs,

Where bloom the everlasting Flow’rs,

I’ll pluck the fairest blushing Rose,

That never fading as it blows,

Shall deck my lovely Muse’s Breast,

The glowing Seat of Harmony and Rest.

At Eve on Hougly’s winding Side,

Attentive to the ripling Tide;

I trace the Moon serenely bright,

Pass in full Pomp the splendid Night;

Or mark th’ elusive silv’ry Beam,

Flash faintly o’er the sapphire Stream;

Enraptur’d with the Scene around,

Methinks I tread on fairy Ground;

Ten thousand Elves in Sport advance,

And Fawns and Satyrs flit the Dance;

A fancied World, a sprightly Train,

Appear upon the Diamond Plain;

The Tritons blow their hoarse shrill Note,

And Mermaids on the Water float;

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Amid the visionary Throng,

To Thee I raise the wizard Song:—

And Thou fair Syren of my Heart,

The wild Delusion still impart;

My Pow’rs with all thy Fervor trill,

And, oh!—dispense thy fascinating Skill!

Or if pure Morning’s rosy Breath,

Should tempt Thee to the russet Heath;

Ere from his crimson-curtain’d Bed,

The Sun uncanopies his Head;

Oblivions of corrosive Care,

With Thee I’ll drink the dewy Air;

With Thee o’er Nature’s healthy Plains,

I’ll lisp the Music of thy Strains;

And as the sparkling Glories fly,

In bright Effulgence from thine Eye,

The Rays of Genius I’ll absorb,

And fix them in a fainter Orb:—

Thus cherish’d by the Muse’s Fire,

I’ll boldly sweep the trilling Lyre:—

H 30 H1v 30

And Gratitude, with Chaplet gay,

Wove by the graceful-finger’d May,

Shall bind my blooming Clio’s Brow,

With this inscriptive hallow’d Vow:—

While Health and Genius are mine,

The Muse’s Fane with Laurel I’ll entwine

31 H2r

Ode

to Apathy.

Tame apathy, whose gelid Eye,

Ne’er moisten’d with a Tear, the Sigh

From Sorrows virgin Heart that flew,

Cherish’d by the pitying Dew,

As on the chilly Ev’ning Air,

It sought the scowling Nymph Despair:—

Who motionless—the sharpen’d Thorn,

From Misery’s weeping Briar torn,

Could’st see the smiling Envies dart.

Within her young and artless Heart!

Shalt Thou—thy languid Spells dispense,

And strew thy Torpor o’er the Sense;

Diffuse the lethean Show’rs of Snow,

O’er the warm Tide of human Woe;

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Or, on the Soul’s fine Fervor seize,

And Sympathy to Winter freeze?—

No, Nymph—so baneful to my Sight

I’ll chase Thee to the thick-wove Night;

Where Chaos shall thy Form enshroud,

And Darkness veil Thee in her blackest Cloud.—

Oh!—I have known the subtle Pang

Of Jealousy’s remorseless Fang;

Have own’d Love’s proud despotic Sway,

O’er this poor Tenement of Clay!

Have felt Compassion soothe my Breast,

And lull Anxiety to Rest;

Dear Sensibility too, spread

Her lightsome Vision o’er my Head;

While Tenderness my Thoughts inspir’d,

And the stern Nerve with Feeling fir’d,

Reflection hath enlarg’d her Scope,

Succeeded by the Fairy—Hope;

And young Sincerity, so gay,

Hath kindly shed her Virgin Ray;—

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I too have drank the bitter Tears,

Of Anguish and suspensive Fears:—

Yet—will I not their Taste resign,

Although Indifference be thine;

Nor from Life’s Troubles will I fly,

With Thee, cold Nymph, pale Apathy to die.—

Religion’s mild and sacred Truth,

Hath charm’d the Innocence of Youth;

For her, Philosophy hath chid

Misfortune from the burning Lid,

Hath taught the Passions to obey

Reason’s best captivating Sway:

Oh!—She is chaste and rosy as the Dawn,

That on the dewy Bosom of the Morn,

Sheds her light Glories o’er the tepid Earth,

To wake fair Nature to her glowing Birth!

And shall I spurn the pure Instruction giv’n.

By the meek sainted Messenger of Heav’n;

Shall I her plaintive Solaces contemn,

Or dim the Lustre of Life’s brightest Gem?

I 34 I1v 34

Ah!—no—thy Rays shall lighten up my Soul,

As the far Lamp illumes the dusky Pole.—

Hence then, mute Nymph, with thy bewitching Spells,

Hence to that Blank where no Creation dwells;

There Apathy insensibly decay,

And into Shade for ever fade away!!

35 I2r

Elegiac Ode,

Inscribed to Sir John Shore, Baronet, on the Death of His Two Infant Children, in England.

Remorseless Tyrant, Savage brave,

Lord of the silent, mould’ring Grave,

Unsated Death!—whose Glance severe

Levels the scorpion-pointed Spear;

Oh!—quit the Charnel’s loathsome Gloom,

The baleful Vault—the fretted Tomb;—

One Moment leave thy shrouded Throne,

Where Night’s lorn Birds their Anguish moan:

I charge Thee to the garish Day,

To eke thy venom’d Spleen away!

Ah!—could’st thou not the Shaft recede,

Nor pause upon the barb’rous Deed;

36 I2v 36

Had blushing Innocence no Pow’r

To lure thee—for a longer Hour!

A Mother’s Storm of Grief no Sway,

To lengthen yet their little Day,

Nor One thine Avarice supply,

But two bright Cherubims must die?

Unfeeling Death—thy Triumph’s great,

Yet Thou, proud Fiend, shall yield to Time and Fate.

Beneath yon aged Yew-tree’s Shade,

The loit’ring Genius of the Glade,

O’er the fresh Sod his wild Gaze throws,

That Gaze impierc’d with sharpest Woes;

By Grief subdued, his Eyes refuse

To shed their pure consoling Dews;

And thus in soft pathetic Strains,

To the lone Mansions he complains:

Ah me!—whose solitary Breath

Dwells on the faint chill Ear of Death;

In vain does rosy Morning bring,

The Perfumes of the blooming Spring;

37 K1r 37

In vain do Nature’s Charms appear,

Drest in the Pride of vernal Year;

Alas!—to me, the ruby Light,

Is but the Shadow of the Night!—

Those Joys I fondly strove to keep,

In their cold Cell forever sleep:—

Then Hope no more my Feelings mock,

By thy Delusions tam’d I’ll bear the Shock!—

Philosophy, thou Saint Divine,

Around each quiv’ring Fibre twine;

The Muse with temper’d Lustre skill,

And calm the Pulse of Passion’s Trill;

O’er Sorrow’s fainting fev’rish Sense

Thy mental Solaces dispense.—

Lo, meek eyed Pity, Virgin bright,

As to her God she wings her Flight,

Drops from her Eye the sacred Tear,

And with it gems the Infant Bier;

To meet her, the celestial Band,

On the Via Lactea stand;

K 38 K1v 38

The little Cherubs lead the Maid,

Through the transparent brilliant Glade;

Where Stars on Stars the Concave grace,

The Diamonds of etherial Space:—

And thus the lovely Seraphs sing,

Return to Earth on Glory’s Wing,

Our Sire this fond Assurance give

That We in Heaven’s fair Realms for ever live!

39 K2r

Stanzas

To the Memory of Louis, the Unfortunate.

If the Chaste Grief of Nations can attest,

The suff’ring Virtues of distinguish’d Fame;

In the bright Goal of pure celestial Rest,

Thy Spirit enters with superior Claim.—

Illustrious Louis, on whose Birth-right shone,

The Star of Glory with resplendent Light:

Too soon it’s Lustre fled the Bourbon Throne,

Shed a pale Gleam and faded into Night!

Ah!—what avails the Morning’s azure Grace,

Ting’d with the softness of the Rose’s dye;

Swift the black Clouds o’er ev’ry Beauty pace,

Dim the proud Sun, and terrify the Sky.

40 K2v 40

Rich in the Treasure of thy Subjects’ Praise,

Thine Hours with conscious Happiness did glide;

Till, like a Meteor, Liberty’s full Blaze,

Scorch’d the fair Lillies of despotic Pride.

Cast from thy high Pre-eminence of State,

Thy Grandeur like a falling Star appears:—

Ah!—who shall search the Mysteries of Fate,

Or dare to draw the Veil from future Years!—

On the chill Ether of the twilight Gale,

The dying Murmur caught my stricken Ear;

And oh!—like Light’ning, soon the horrid Tale,

Flash’d on the Sense and rous’d me to a Tear.

Reduc’d beyond the Verge of Mis’ry low,

On the dire Block thou bend’st thy martyr’d Head;

A Frantic Nation gave the murd’ring Blow,

That sped their Monarch to the sainted Dead!

41 L1r 41

Nor e’en could base insulting Vengence there,

Give to pure Grief—one melancholy Pause!

Ah, no!—the thund’ring Tocsin rent the Air,

’Mid the loud Shouts of barb’rous Applause.

Unsated still, with more than savage Soul,

They dipt their Streamers in the lifeless Tide;

Bore thy pale bleeding Head upon a Pole,

The crimson Banner of Rebellion’s Pride!

I can no more—a keen convulsive Pain,

Shoots thro’ the Nerve with desolating Woe;

Cold is the Pulse now trembling in the Vein,

And soon these bitter Dews shall cease to flow.

Who shall the Royal Mother’s Sorrows calm,

Take from her Grasp the beck’ning Sprite—Despair;

Drop on her wounded Peace the soothing Balm,

Or still the Poison of corrosive Care.—

L 42 L1v 42

Lo!—o’er her Innocents she wildly raves,

She weeps—she starts—she maddens into Fits;

While as their Lives with Agony she craves,

Thy murder’d Shadow cross her Vision flits!—

Ah!—soon shall Death the beaut’ous Captive free,

From lawless Tyranny and mortal Pain;

Soon as by Heav’n’s immutable Decree,

A brighter Glory ’mid the Spheres shall reign.

There Thou, blest Star, thy Consort Light shall trace,

Catch from her Beam the silv’ry Ray divine;

Guard her pale Splendor thro’ etherial Space,

And in eternal Life forever shine.

43 L2r

Sonnet

to the Moon.

Thou lovely Sorc’ress of the witching Night,

Whose paly Charms thro’ sombre Regions glide;

Lur’d by the Softness of thy silver Light,

The Muse pathetic glows with conscious Pride.

On the gem’d Margin of the lustrous Flood,

Whose ripling Waters glide so sweetly by;

Oft have I list’ning to its Murmurs stood,

Trac’d thy pure Ray, and wing’d a lonely Sigh!

For Thou, chaste Cynthia, o’er my gentle Soul,

Shed’st the mild Beam of Contemplation’s Sway;

Thy fascinating Spell with proud Controul

Sweeps the full Cadence of my trembling Lay:

Then gleam, bright Orb, from Midnight’s velvet Vest,

And dart thy pearly Lustre o’er my pensive Breast.

44 L2v

Sonnet

to the Morning Star.

Bright sparkling Glory of the blue-fac’d Morn,

That gems the rosy Ether’s timid Blush;

See, see the Witch of Night retires forlorn,

As thy pale beauties on the Twilight rush.

So on our Dawn of Life, the Star appears,

With seraph Innocence and splendid Ray;

Till dimm’d by Sorrow’s Clouds, it fades in Tears,

Gleams a pale Light and vanishes from Day.

Ah!—lustrous Emblem of the short liv’d Hour,

Pour on my wounded Soul the transient Glow,

Moist with the Weepings of exulting Woe,

Nor heed the dashing Tempest’s scornful Pow’r:

For Hope still loiters in my feeble Breast,

And bids me look for Heaven’s superior Rest!

45 M1r
The Propriety of the following Ode to Della Crusca, it is presumed, will be readily admitted.— An Elegiac Poem to that distinguished Writer’s Memory was written, in consequence of the Intelligence of his Death, and is inserted in Page 23:—Anna Maria has the pleasure of knowing Mr. Merry still lives.

Ode

Inscribed to Della Crusca.

Triumphant Bard, my Verse inspire,

With bright Apollo’s sparkling Fire;

To Thee, the wild Delirium runs,

Like Comets to their Centre Suns;

I feel the proud impassion’d Glow

Thro’ every trilling Fibre flow;

My Muse, on Rapture’s rosy Wings,

Her Harmony o’er Passion flings:

For Thee, the vivid Fancies dare,

To range the lustrous Orbs of Air;

From Star to Star their Glories trace,

And with them Della Crusca grace.

M 46 M1v 46

Thou liv’st!—my fetter’d Senses seem,

Deluded by some motley Dream,

That on the doubtful Slumbers plays,

Like Fairies in the pale Moon’s Rays:—

Ah!—let me taste thy purer Song,

Where Imagery’s Beauties throng;

And as I scan the polish’d Line,

Steal the rich Fervor from thy Soul divine.—

Induct me through the hallow’d Glade,

Where Learning’s mould’ring Sons are laid;

Where Virgil’s ancient Bust appears,

Gemm’d with mild Ev’ning’s brilliant Tears,

Those Tears, by blue Olympus shed

O’er Rome’s immortal sainted Dead:—

Or where by Midnight’s sparry Gloom,

Fair Sappho bends o’er Phaon’s Tomb;

Or Petrarch’s Shade still loiters nigh,

To lisp his cruel Laura’s Sigh:—

There lead me, thou delightful Muse,

To drink the chaste Olympian Dews;

47 M2r 47

With Thee to tread the classic Ground,

Where Genius first the Laurel found;

To view the sacred tufted Bow’rs,

Adorn’d with gay ambrosial Flow’rs;

Derive from Thee the lucid Ray,

That dignifies the modern Lay;

My Muse with wild Ambition fire,

And bid the burning Thought to Fame aspire.

Or, I will stray by Night’s pale Orb;

Whose Beams the lesser Lights absorb:

Where India’s God in secret roves,

Through the rich consecrated Groves;

Where Brahma pours his pious Pray’r,

To the religious, list’ning Air;

And from the Fervor of his Lays,

I’ll weave a Wreath of magic Praise;

Shall circle round thy crescent Brows,

Proud Token of far distant Vows!—

And should’st Thou e’er my hapless Verse peruse,

Pause on the Line, and own the simple Muse;

48 M2v 48

Say, that in Regions far from laurel’d Fame,

Maria wept o’er Della Crusca’s Name;

Say, as thy Death upon the Ev’ning hung,

Unnerv’d the Sense, and petrified the Tongue,

Maria bound her Lyre with Sprigs of Yew,

And bath’d the Chords in Nightshade’s weeping Dew;

While, as the muffled Sounds attun’d her Ear,

On its bright Threshold stood the Genuine Tear!—

49 N1r

Stanzas

Marie Antionette’s Complaint in Prison.

Slow creeps the Hour to sad Reflection due,

Coy’s the bleak Whisper of the dreary Night;

Where no faint Hope arrests the timid View,

Or soften’d Pity beams her gentle Light.

Why sacred Heav’n permit my throbbing Heart,

Still in its feeble Cell so rude to beat;

Why Death recede the kind consoling Dart,

That soothes the Pulse of Life’s departing Heat?—

Say, am I doom’d by desolating Fate,

The wretched Victim of acute Despair;

Has bright-eyed Mercy shut her chrystal Gate,

With stern Denial of Admission there?—

N 50 N1v 50

Ah no!—my soul yet looks for Joys supreme,

For rosy Bliss that Angels taste on high;

E’en now, the Transports of the golden Dream,

Bear my frail Being through the purple Sky.

Yes—dear Illusion, thou dost kindly throw

A twilight Glory o’er my shatter’d Sense;

I feel the transient momentary Glow,

The tender Solaces of Heav’n dispense.

Hush!—’twas the Murmur of the hurtling Wind,

That nightly rushes on my wounded Ear;

’Twas the deep Sigh, by Echo’s Voice refin’d,

Sped from the pallid Lips of phrenzied Fear.

Cold through the languid Pulse does Terror creep,

The foulest Fiend of Midnight’s torpid Hour;

At thy Approach the drowsy Prince of Sleep,

Starts from his Couch and owns thy freezing Pow’r.

51 N2r 51

O! could I pass these solitary Walls,

I’d seek wild Deserts and enchanted Caves;

Where pale Disorder on her Vot’ries calls,

Where gasping Madness at her Shadow raves.

And, I would tell unto the weeping Moon,

That show’rd her Tears upon my frantic Head;

Yes—I would tell her all my Woes, and soon

This widow’d Form should join its kindred Dead.

Soon should my wearied Spirit take her Flight,

From the keen Agony of mental Pain;

Soon with her Lord enjoy celestial Light,

’Mid the pure Regions of the starry Plain.

Ah!—holy Saint, if from thy lustrous Goal,

Thou view’st me sink beneath Affliction’s Rod;

In Pity waft my trembling, fainting Soul,

To the chaste Presence of her Maker—God!—

52 N2v 52

O’er our sweet Infants may thy partial Care,

Guard them from rude Oppression’s savage Ire;

For this, a Mother’s melancholy Pray’r,

Ascends with Fervor to their murder’d Sire!

53 O1r
The following Ode to Suicide was written in England, in 1790-11November, 1790; and is now first printed.

Ode

to Suicide.

Thou Imp of Horror!—by what Name,

Shall Virtue vaunt thy recreant Fame?—

Pale Demon of the murky Cloud,

Clad in stern Winter’s gloomy Shroud;

Now o’er the bleak infected Air,

Thou weav’st the sable Loom—Despair!—

Curst by November’s venom’d Breath,

Thou shed’st the baleful Dews of Death;

Those Dews the haggard Fiends produce,

From potent Hemlock’s riven Juice;

I trace thy vap’ry Mists afar,

Obscure the sinking Ev’ning Star;

O 54 O1v 54

O’er the gay planetary Train,

Wide horror now delights to reign:—

On thy revengeful morbid Brows,

Deckt with mad Lover’s bleeding Vows,

The scaly Serpents of the Deep,

In hideous Enchantment creep;

While in thy hot Heart’s murd’rous Cell,

The Fiends of Pandemonium dwell;

And see the Terrors round Thee cling,

To hail their pestilential King!

Dread Suicide!—and canst thou bid,

The woe-worn Wretch from Life be rid;

Say canst Thou ease the rankling Pain,

That riots in Distraction’s Vein:

Canst Thou subdue the Pang severe,

That glistens in Affliction’s Tear;

Or, does the Coward’s palsied Mind,

A Requiem in thy Bosom find?—

Ah no!—severer Tortures wait,

The Wretch who madly spurns at Fate;

55 O2r 55

Ten Thousand Scorpions, Adders, rise,

To sting th’ Apostate as he dies!—

And there are Those, who dare to say,

When Mis’ry taunts their feeble Breath;

Come, thou last Friend, and lead the Way

To the oblivious Plains of Death:— Come pond’rous Sleep and veil my Sight In the dark Vacuum of eternal Night; ’Tis thou alone canst give me Rest, ’Tis thou canst soothe my troubled Breast: No Pow’r but thine can cure my Woes, Then let me take the Draught, and sicken to Repose!

Alas!—what lethean Spell can save,

Beyond the melancholy Grave?

The Soul thence flies the narrow Tomb,

And from stern Justice waits her Doom:—

Self murderthere must stand confest,

In all his guilty Terrors drest;

56 O2v 56

No Ray of Hope shall sparkle there,

To cheer him from supreme Despair;

But in an Agony of Woe

The everlasting Years shall round him flow?—

57 P1r

Ode

to Solitude.

Chaste Nymph, thy fav’rite Haunts I’ll stray,

Where the mild Summer Breezes play;

Where sportive Nature round her throws,

The Perfume of the blushing Rose;

The Jessamine and scented Briar,

In mingled od’rous Sweets expire;

Or where the Suckle’s beaut’ous Flow’r,

In wildest Luxury of Fold,

Adorns thy ancient secret Bow’r,

With richest vegitable Gold:—

Or if beneath the Palm Tree’s Shade,

Thou musest, solitary maid;

And to the Stream that murmurs by,

Giv’st the soft sympathizing Sigh;

P 58 P1v 58

Or shouldst Thou, from yon Mountain’s haughty Brow,

Pour on the list’ning Wind some tender Vow;

Thither I’ll climb, responsive to the Tale,

And the same Vow impress upon the Gale:—

Where’er thou art, or known to dwell,

On Hill, or Vale, or Rock, or Dell;

I’ll woo Thee to my gentle Breast,

And court thee, Solitude, for Happiness and Rest.

Yes—I have stray’d, ere Night hath chid

The Slumbers from her sedgy Lid;

Just as the lust’rous Star of Morn

Hath glanc’d upon the blue-eyed Dawn;

And from the Meadows brush’d the Dews,

That twinkled with the Rainbow’s Hues:

While pure Reflection o’er my Wishes stole,

Entranc’d the Sense and vivified the Soul;

There first my simple Muse by Nature taught,

Glow’d with Delight, and nurs’d the infant Thought;

There first in fairy Numbers strove to fling,

Her rude Hand o’er the Lyre’s enchanting String;

59 P2r 59

And, as gay Fancy sped th’ enamel’d Plain,

Or proudly swept the Galaxy’s bright Train,

The conscious Fervor, with a Bliss divine,

Hung on the Lay, and harmoniz’d the Line.

I too have sought the fragrant Bow’r,

At Day’s Meridian burning Hour;

And from the Noontide’s sultry Heat,

Enjoy’d thy tranquil cool Retreat;

There I have dwelt on Pleasures fled,

And dropt the tear o’er worth since dead;

To Love and holy Friendſhip true,

Paid the last feeling Tribute due:—

E’en now these weeping Eyes their Streams impart,

While Sorrow twines her Cypress round my Heart!

O! solitude, thou bid’ſt the latent Pain,

On Mem’ry rush, and riot in the Vein:

’Tis thine to wake the dormant Griefs of Years,

And cause the Fountains to renew their Tears;

Yet, holy Nymph, the soft Emotions flow,

With the mixt Ecstacy of Joy and Woe!

60 P2v 60

Within thy sacred blest Retreat,

Fair Science deigns to fix her Seat;

There Reason holds imperial Sway,

In Lustre of serenest Day;

Philosophy with Genius roves,

Through thy consecrated Groves;

And meek Religion loves to dwell

Within thy antiquated Cell;

There Silence too for ever reigns,

In thy romantic winding Plains;

And nought around her Footsteps’ heard,

Save the sweet Warblings of the Bird;

There solitude the Muse shall weave,

Around thy Brows,—an aromatic wreathe!

61 Q1r

Ode

to Fancy.

O! lead me at the Close of Day,

To view the ruby Orb of Fire,

Beneath Night’s Canopy retire,

As down the West he speeds away:—

To gaze upon the Clouds of Gold,

O’er amber Ev’ning’s Beauties roll’d,

In visionary Forms sublime;

Where mingled with the dappled Skies,

The crimson Blushes proudly rise,

To meliorate departing time!

Now Cynthia throws her spangled Dew,

O’er Night’s enchanting sabling Hue,

Q 62 Q1v 62

And bids the Stars their Glories hide;

While in her Beams are seen to sport,

The tiny Fairies of her Court,

In all their variegated Pride:—

There Fancy thou art known to reign,

Light rob’d among the mystic Train:

Transparent Gossimer doth veil

Thy Graces from the tepid Gale;

And round thy Brows the Ariels twine,

A filmy Wreath of Pow’r divine:—

Then, as the little Moon glides down,

And deeper Shadows dim the Light;

The bashful Stars, a radiant Crown,

Weave for the sable Queen of Night:

While Fancy, thou art seen to stray,

Through the bright constellated Way.

Alike, when rosy-finger’d Morn

Her Glories on the Twilight flings;

The lovely Cherubs of the Dawn,

Wanton on their purple Wings:

63 Q2r 63

And see, the flaky Mists arise,

In spiral Columns to the Skies;

While vestal Health with Joy elate,

Stands tip-toe on the golden Gate,

Where fair Aurora leads the Hours

To carol through their sunny Bow’rs;

There Fancy, with imperial Gaze,

Adores Apollo’s radiant Blaze;

And, with a conscious Bliss, impearls

Her sparkling Diamonds in his golden Curls.

Yes, central Nymph, thou too art seen

To hie across the russet Green;

O’er bending Grass and ripen’d Corn,

Gay with the Freshness of the Morn.

I’ve mark’d Thee loiter down the Glade,

In search of Love’s romantic Maid;

Whom disappointed Paſſion drove,

To seek the Woodbine’s ſhelter’d Grove:

Fancy, ’tis thine, with brilliant Fire,

To sweep the Muse’s trilling Lyre;

64 Q2v 64

From Thee, the sweet Ideas spring,

Which Ida’s Nymphs are heard to sing;

’Tis thine, to bid their Fervors roll,

With melting Transport to the Soul:—

O Fancy, could thy Strains divine

Impress the Minstrel’s chary Line;

I’d crown Thee with such lustrous Rays,

Should rival e’en the God of day’s proud Blaze!

65 R1r

Adieu

to India.

Et vix sustinuit dicere Lingua—vale!

Ocean, I call thee from the sapphire Deep,

Where the young Billows on their pearl-beds sleep;

And the fair Beauties of the boist’rous Main,

Far from the jarring Elements complain:

Where in the coral Groves transparent Court,

The green-hair’d Tritons and their Nymphs resort:

Haste and subdue the Turbulence that laves

The long-drawn Shadows of the mountain Waves;

Still the proud Tempest, whose impetuous Sway,

Heaves into monstrous Forms the watry Way.

Maria asks—nor thou the Boon refuse,

Urg’d by the pensive melancholy Muse!

R 66 R1v 66

Who oft to Thee, when keen Despair hath spread

Her awful Terrors o’er her timid Head,

Has pour’d with fervid Lay the suppliant Pray’r,

And twin’d her Sorrows in thy sedgy Hair:

While Thou attentive to the weeping Tale,

Dispers’d her Fears, and quell’d the ruthless Gale.

Adieu to India’s fertile Plains,

Where Brahma’s holy Doctrine reigns;

Whose virt’ous Principles still bind

The Hindoo’s meek untainted Mind;

Far other Scenes my Thoughts employ,

Source of Anguish, Hope and Joy;

I hasten to my native shore,

Where Art and Science blend their Lore;

There Learning keeps her chosen Seat—

A million Vot’ries at her Feet,

Ambitious of the Laurel Bough,

To wind about their honor’d Brow.

Yet ere I go—a grateful Pain

Involves the Muse’s parting Strain;

67 R2r 67

The sad Regret my Mind imbues,

And fills with Grief—my last Adieus!

For I have felt the subtle Praise,

That cheer’d the Minstrel’s doubtful Lays;

That fed the infant lambent Flame,

And bade me hope for future Fame.

Farewell, ye sacred Haunts, where oft I’ve stray’d

With mild reflection—solitary Maid!—

Ye Streams that swell the winding Hougly’s Tide,

The Seat of Commerce and the Muse’s Pride,

Farewell!—the Mariners unfurl the Sails,

Eager to meet the Pressure of the Gales;

And now the lofty Vessel cleaves the Way,

Dashing th’ impelling Waves with silver Spray.—

Why springs my Heart with many an aching Sigh,

Why stands impearl’d the Trembler on mine eye?—

Alas!—fond Mem’ry weeps the Vision past,

For ever fled, like yonder sweeping Blast:.

Those Hours of Bliss, those Scenes of soft Delight,

Vanish like Mists before the Rays of Light;

68 R2v 68

But still Remembrance holds the Objects dear,

And bathes their Shadows with Regret’s pure Tear;

Nor shall th’ oblivious Pow’r of Time subdue,

The painful Fellings of the laſt—Adieu!

.

Finis.