Curs'd be their verse, and blasted all their bays, |
Whose sensual lure th' unconscious ear betrays;
Wounds the young breast, ere Virtue spreads her
shield,

And takes, not wins, the scarce disputed field.
Though specious rhet'ric each loose thought refine,
Though music charm in every labour'd line,
The dangerous verse, to full perfection grown,
Bavius might blush, and Quarles disdain to own.
Should some Machaon, whose sagacious soul
Trac'd blushing Nature to her inmost goal,
Skill'd in each drug the varying world provides,
All earth embosoms, and all ocean hides,
Nor cooling herb, nor healing balm supply,
Ease the swoln breast, or close the languid eye;
But, exquisitely ill, awake disease,
And arm with poisons every baleful breeze:
What racks, what tortures must his crimes demand,
The more than Borgia of a bleeding land!
And is less guilty he, whose shameless page
Not to the present bounds its subtle rage,

But spreads contagion wide, and stains a future age?
Forgive me, sir, that thus the moral strain,
With indignation warm'd, rejects the rein;
Not think I rove regardless of my theme,
'Tis hence new dangers clog the paths to fame,
Not to themselves alone such bards confine
Fame's just reproach for virtue's injur'd shrine;
Profan'd by them, the Muse's laurels fade,
Her voice neglected, and her flame decay'd.
And the son's son must feel the father's crime,
A curse entail'd on all the race that rhyme.

New cares appear, new terrours swell the train,
And must we paint them ere we close the scene?
Say, must the Muse th' unwilling task pursue,
Aud, to complete her dangers, mention you?
Yes you, my friend, ev'n you whose kind regard
With partial fondness views this humble bard:
Ev'n you he dreads.-Ah! kindly cease to raise
Unwilling censure, by exacting praise.
Just to itself the jealous world will claim
A right to judge; to give, or cancel fame.

And, if th' officious zeal unbounded flows,
The friend too partial is the worst of foes.

Infelix! Nati funus crudele videbis.
Hi nostri reditus, expectatique triumphi!
Hæc mea magna fides!—
Virg.

In ancient times, o'er Lydia's fertile land
The warrior Croesus held supreme command.
Vast was his wealth, for conquest swell'd his store;
Nor what enrich'd the prince, had left the people poor.
Two sons he had, alike in outward mien,
The tender pledges of a dying queen.
But speechless one ne'er taught his sire to melt
With lisping eloquence by parents felt;
And mimic art in vain expedients sought
To form the tongue, and free th' imprison'd thought.
Yet blooming Atys well that loss supply'd,
Atys the people's hope, and monarch's pride.
His beauteous soul through every feature glow'd;
And from his lips such soft persuasion flow'd,
As Nature had withheld the brother's share,
Only to pour a double portion there.

But vain those graces, since conceal'd from view
They droop in shades, and wither where they grew.
For one dread night, when o'er the weary king
The drowsy god had stretch'd his leaden wing,
He seem'd, he knew not where, in wars engag'd,
And, while around the doubtful battle rag'd,
Saw from some hostile hand unerring part
A fatal spear, which pierc'd his Atys' heart.
He starts, he wakes-'tis night, and silence all!
Yet, scarce confirm'd, he still beholds him fall;
Still bleeds in fancy's eye the gaping wound,
On fancy's ear the dying groans resound.
Again he sleeps; the same sad scenes return--

Behold th' Athenian sage, whose piercing mind Restless he rolls, and waits the ling'ring morn.

Had trac'd the wily lab'rinths of mankind,
When now condemn'd, he leaves his infant care
To all those evils man is born to bear.
Not to his friends alone the charge he yields,
But nobler hopes on juster motives builds;
Bids ev'n his foes their future steps attend,
And dare to censure, if they dar'd offend.
Would thus the poet trust his offspring forth,
Or bloom'd our Britain with Athenian worth:
Would the brave foe th' imperfect work engage
With honest freedom, not with partial rage,
What just productions might the world surprise!
What other Popes, what other Maros rise!

But since by foes or friends alike deceiv'd,
Too little those, and these too much believ'd;
Since the same fate pursues by diff'rent ways,
Undone by censure, or undone by praise;
Since bards themselves submit to vice's rule,
And party-feuds grow high, and patrons cool:
Since, still uunam'd, unnumber'd ills behind
Rise black in air, and only wait the wind:
Let me, O let me, ere the tempest roar,
Catch the first gale, and make the nearest shore;

s Platonis Apologia,

What can he do, or how prevent a doom,
Which Heav'n foretels, and Fate has said shall come?
"And yet perhaps the gods these dreams inspire,
To save the guiltless son, and warn the sire.
Too fond of arms I wander'd far astray,
While youth and blind ambition led the way.
And ravag'd countries may at length demand
This bleeding sacrifice at Croesus hand.
Then hear me, gods, propitious, while I swear,
Peace, only peace, shall be my future care.
O, would your powers but save my darling boy,
No more this breast shall glow, this arm destroy!
Nor ere shall Atys the dire sport pursue,
Still in my court, and seldom from my view,
In ease inglorious shall he pass his days,
Untaught to feel th' insatiate lust of praise."

He spake, and cautious far away remov'd
From Atys, what next Atys most he lov'd,
The pomp of war: no falchions guard the gate,
And chiefs unarm'd around his palace wait.

This story is related in the first book of Herodotus's History. For the additions made to it, and the manner of telling it, the author of the following poem is to answer.

Nay further still extends a parent's fear,
Ev'n arms themselves he dreads, and most the What earthly bliss, and who the happy man.

"A mighty boar, the curse of angry Heav'n,
Had from their homes the wretched suff'rers driv'n.
Waste were their viny groves, their rising grain,
Their herds, their flocks, th' attendant shepherds
And scarce themselves survive.

[slain,

O would but Atys lead the hunter train,
Again their viny groves, their waving grain
Might rise secure, their herds, their flocks increase,
And fair Idalia's country rest in peace."

The youth assents, th' exulting crowds retire;
When thus impatient speaks the trembling sire:
"What means my son? preserv'd, alas! in vain,
From hostile squadrons, and the tented plain;
You rush on death-recall your rash design,
Mine be the blame, and be the danger mine;
Myself will lead the band." The youth return'd,
While his flush'd cheek with mild resentment burn'd:
"Will Croesus lead the band, a hunter now,
Skill'd in the fight, and laurels on his brow?
Alas! such mockeries of war become
The loit'rer Atys, fearful of his doom.
To him at least these triumphs be resign'd,
That not entirely useless to mankind

His days may pass; these triumphs all his aim,
These humble triumphs scarce allied to fame.
And yet, dread sir, if you command his stay,
(O force of duty!) Atys, must obey.
Alas! on you whatever blame shall fall,
A father's fondness can excuse it all,
But me, of me, if still your power withstands,
What must the Lydian, what the Mysian bands,
What must Idalia think?" Adrastus here
Soft interpos'd. "Great king, dismiss your fear,
Nor longer Atys' first request oppose;
War was your dream, no war this region knows:
For humbler prey the hunters range the wood,
Their spears fly innocent of human blood.
Had in the sportive chase some phantom boar
Dug deep the wound, and drank the vital gore,
That dreadful vision had excus'd your care,
Nor Atys offer'd an unheeded prayer.
I love the prince, and, but I think his life
Safe as my own, would urge him from the strife.
Permit him, sire--this arm shall guard him there;
And safely may you trust Adrastus' care,
For, should he fall, this arm would surely prove
My bosom feels a more than father's love."

As, when impetuous through th' autumnal sky
Urg'd by the winds the clouds disparting fly,
O'er the broad wave, or wide extended mead,
Shifts the quick beam, alternate light and shade;
So glanc'd the monarch's mind from thought to
thought,

So in his varying face the passions wrought.
Oft on his son he turn'd a doubtful eye,
Afraid to grant, nor willing to deny.
Oft rais'd it, tearful, to the blest abodes,
And sought in vain the unregarding gods.
Then look'd consent. But added, with a groan,
"From thee, Adrastus, I expect my son."

Why should I tell, impatient for the fight,
How Atys chid the ling'ring hours of night?
Or how the roseate morn with early ray
Streak'd the glad east, and gradual spread the day,
When forth he issued like the Lycian god?
Loose to the breeze his hov'ring mantle flow'd,
Wav'd the light plume above, behind him hung
His rat❜ling quiver, and his bow unstrung.
He mounts his steed, the steed obey'd the rein,
Arch'd his high neck, and graceful paw'd the plain.

Ev'n Crœsus' self forgot awhile his fear
Of future ills, and gaz'd with transport there.
Or why relate, when now the train withdrew,
How fair Idalia sigh'd a soft adieu;
How Croesus follow'd with his voice and eyes,
Fond to behold, but fonder to advise,
And oft repeated, as they journey'd on,
"From thee, Adrastus, I expect my son."

Suffice it us, they leave the waves which flow
O'er beds of gold, and Tmolus' fragrant brow,
They pass Magnesia's plains, Caïcus' stream
The Mysian bound, which chang'd its ancient name,
And reach Olympus' verge:

There Desolation spread her ghastly reign
O'er trampled vines, and dissipated grain.
And saw with joy revolving seasons smile
To swell her pomp, and mock the lab'rers toil.
Led by her baleful steps, the youth explore
The dark retreats, and rouse the foaming boar.
Hard is the strife: his horny sides repel
Unting'd the plumy shaft, and blunted steel.
The dogs lie mangled o'er the bleeding plain,
And many a steed, and many a youth was slain.
When now his well-aim'd bow Adrastus drew,
Twang'd the stretch'd string, the feather'd ven-
geance flew,

And ras'd the monster's neck: he roars, he flies,
The crowd pursues, the hills resound their cries.
Full in the centre of a vale, embrown'd
With arching shades, they close the savage round.
He wheels, he glares, he meditates his prey,
Resolv'd to strike, resolv'd to force his way;
But Atys timely stop'd his fierce career,
And through his eye-ball sent the whizzing spear,
And joyful saw him reel; with eager speed
He bares the shining blade, he quits his steed;
"Ah stop, rash youth, not conquest you pursue,
Death lies in ambush there, the victim you;
You rush on fate"-in vain-he reach'd the beast,
He rais'd his arm, and now had pierc'd his breast,
When in that moment from the adverse side
His too adventurous prince Adrastus spied,
And lanch'd with nervous haste his eager spear,
Alarm'd, and trembling for a life so dear.
Glanc'd o'er the falling beast the fated wood,
And fix'd in Atys' breast drank deep the vital flood.
The struggling prince impatient of the wound
Writh'd on the spear, the crowds enclose him round,
Then sunk in death unknowing whence it came,
Yet, ev'n in death, he call'd Adrastus' name,
"Where flies Adrastus from his dying friend?
O bear me near." Poor prince! thy life must end
Not in thy murderer's arms, he hears thee not;
Like some sad wretch fix'd to the fatal spot
Where fell the bolt of Jove, nor ear, nor eye,
Nor arm to help, nor language to reply,
Nor thought itself is his. Oblig'd to move
As they direct his steed, he leaves the grove,
As they direct, to Sardis' towers again
In silence follows the returning train.

There too we turn, for there the pensive sire
Now hopes, now fears, and pines with vain desire.
In every dust before the wind that flies,
In every distant cloud which stains the skies,
He sees his son return: till, oft deceiv'd,
No more his eye the flattering scene believ'd,
Yet still he wander'd, and with looks intent,
The fatal road his darling Atys went.
There to averted Heav'n he tells his pain,
And slaughter'd hecatombs decrees in vain,

ANN BOLEYN TO
Yet still I write, still breathe a fruitless prayer,
The last fond effort of extreme despair:

As some poor shipwreck'd wretch, for ever lost,
In strong delusion grasps the less'ning coast,
Thinks it still near, howe'er the billows drive,
And but with life resigns the hopes to live.

HENRY THE EIGHTH.

You bid me live; but oh, how dire the means!
Virtue starts back, and conscious pride disdains.
Confess my crime?-what crime shall I confess?
In what strange terms the hideous falsehood dress?
A vile adultress! Heav'n defend my fame!
Condemn'd for acting what I fear'd to name. [dare
Blast the foul wretch, whose impious tongue could
With sounds like those to wound the royal ear.
To wound?-alas! they only pleas'd too well,
And cruel Henry smil'd when Anna fell.

Why was I rais'd, why bade to shine on high
A pageant queen, an earthly deity?
This flower of beauty, small, and void of art,
Too weak to fix a mighty sovereign' heart,
In life's low vale its humbler charms had spread,
While storms roll'd harmless o'er its shelter'd head:
Had found, perhaps, a kinder gath'rer's hand,
Grown to his breast, and, by his care sustain'd,
Had bloom'd awhile, then, gradual in decay,
Grac'd with a tear, had calmly pass'd away.
Yet, when thus rais'd, I taught my chaste desires
To know their lord, and burn with equal fires.
Why then these bonds? is this that regal state
The fair expects whom Henry bids be great?
Are these lone walls and never-varied scenes
The envied mansion of Britannia's queens?
Where distant sounds in hollow murmurs die,
Where moss-grown tow'rs obstruct the trav'ling eye,
Where o'er dim suns eternal damps prevail,
And health ne'er enters wafted by the gale.
How curs'd the wretch, to such sad scenes confin'd,
If guilt's dread scorpions lash his tortur'd mind,
When injur'd innocence is taught to fear,
And coward virtue weeps and trembles here!

Nay ev'n when sleep should ev'ry care allay
And softly steal th' imprison'd soul away,
Quick to my thoughts excursive fancy brings
Long visionary trains of martyr'd kings.
There pious Henry 2 recent from the blow,
There ill-starr'd Edward 2 lifts his infant brow.
Unhappy prince! thy weak defenceless age
Might soften rocks, or soothe the tiger's rage;
But not on these thy harder fates depend,
Man, man pursues, and murder is his end.

Such may my child 3, such dire protectors find,
Through av'rice cruel, through ambition blind.
No kind condolance in her utmost need,
Her friends all banish'd, and her parent dead!
O hear me, Henry, husband, father, hear,
If e'er those names were gracious in thy ear,
Since I must die (and so thy ease requires,
For love admits not of divided fires)
O to thy babe thy tend'rest cares extend,
As parent cherish, and as king defend !
Transfer'd to her, with transport I resign
Thy faithless heart-if e'er that heart was mine.
Nor may remorse thy guilty cheek inflame,
When the fond prattler lisps her mother's name;
No tear start conscious when she meets your eye,
No heartfelt pang extort th' unwilling sigh,

2

Henry VI. and Edward V. both murdered in the Tower.

39 Afterward queen Elizabeth.

205

Lest she should find, and strong is Nature's call,
I fell untimely, and lament my fall;
Forget that duty which high Heav'n commands,
And meet strict justice from a father's hands.
No, rather say what malice can invent,
My crimes enormous, small my punishment.
Pleas'd will I view from yon securer shore
Life, virtue, love too lost, and weep no more,
If in your breasts the bonds of union grow,
And undisturb'd the streams of duty flow.

-Yet can I tamely court the lifted steel,
Nor honour's wounds with strong resentment feel?
Ye powers! that thought improves ev'n terrour's
king,

Adds horrours to his brow, and torments to his sting.
No, try me, prince; each word, each action weigh,
My rage could dictate, or my fears betray;
Each sigh, each smile, each distant hint that hung
On broken sounds of an unmeaning tongue.
Recount each glance of these unguarded eyes,
The seats where passion void of reason lies;
In those clear mirrors every thought appears;
Tell all their frailties-oh explain their tears.

Yes, try me, prince; but ah! let truth prevail,
And justice only hold the equal scale.
Ah! let not those the fatal sentence give,
Whom brothels blush to own, yet courts receive;
Base, vulgar souls-and shall such wretches raise
A queen's concern? to fear them, were to praise.

Yet oh! (dread thought!) oh, must I, must I say,
Henry commands, and these constrain'd obey?
Too well I know his faithless bosom pants
For charms, alas! which hapless Anna wants.
Yet once those charms this faded face could boast,
Too cheaply yielded, and too quickly lost.
Will she 4, O think, whom now your snares pursue,
Will she for ever please, be ever new?
Or must she, meteor like, awhile be great,
Then weeping fall, and share thy Anna's fate?

Misguided maid! who now perhaps has form'd,
In transport melting, with ambition warm'd,
Long future greatness in ecstatic schemes,
Loose plans of wild delight, and golden dreams!
Alas! she knows not with how swift decay
Those visionary glories fleet away.

Alas! she knows not the sad time will come,
When Henry's eyes to other nymphs shall roam:
When she shall vainly sigh, plead, tremble, rave,
Aud drop, perhaps, a tear on Anna's grave.
Else would she sooner trust the wintry sea,
Rocks, deserts, monsters-any thing than thee:
Thee, whom deceit inspires, whose every breath
Sooths to despair, and every smile is death.

Fool that I was! I saw my rising fame
Gild the sad ruins of a nobler name 5.
For me the force of sacred ties disown'd,
A realm insulted, and a queen dethron'd.
Yet, fondly wild, by love, by fortune led,
Excus'd the crime, and shar'd the guilty bed.
With specious reason lull'd each rising care,
And hugg'd destruction in a form so fair.

'Tis just, ye powers; no longer I complain,
Vain be my tears, my boasted virtues vain ;
Let rage, let flames, this destin'd wretch pursue,
Who begs to die-but begs that death from you.
Ah! why must Henry the dread mandate seal?
Why must his hand uninjur'd point the steel?

4 Lady Jane Seymour.
s Catharine of Arragon.