THE FOURTH OF NOVEMBER, 1796.
BY THE REV. G. L. SCHOEN, LL. D.
THE moments have flown so unheeded along,
Since I offer'd my last slender tribute of song,
That the day's festive rites urged their claim to my care,
Ere the Bard, or, what's worse, ere his Muse was
For swift glide the moments, unmark'd in their flight,
When menacing labour is changed to delight;
When anxiety feels all her terrors depart,
And hope gilds the favourite wish of the heart.
As musing I sit, and reflect on the day +
Which shall bear the loved fruits of my labours away,
Daughter of John Barker Church, Efq. late M. P. for Wendover.
The author was tutor to the lady's two brothers-The family were at that time preparing to remove to America, where they have since settled.
I think how those moments, scarce mark'd as they pass'd,
Shall teem with regret and with sorrow at last,
When Reflection and Taste, in the dawn of their power, Shed mingled delight o'er the classical hour.
Ah, where shall I look for the zeal and the truth, For the glow or the blush of ingenuous youth? For spirits all wild, and elastic as air,
Yet subdued to attention, and chasten'd to care?
For sincerity, spurning the mazes of art?
For liberal manners, which wind round the heart,
And candour undoubting, with confidence crown'd,
And honour, which felt a reproach like a wound?
Ah! where shall I seek, through the world as I roam,
That roof which fond habit hath render'd my home
Where, in polish'd society's elegant seat,
The gods of my household had sought their retreat?
But whither has Fancy seduced me away,
From a theme so respected and honour'd to stray?
-Ah! did I not know that the sacrifice due
To those whom you love, were more grateful to you;
That it yielded an incense, more dear to your heart
Than all that the zeal of the Muse could impart ;
I would tell how profuse all the blossoms appear,
Which the Sybil who prompts me developed last year;
I would tell of attentions which nobly disdain
All feeling for self, while a friend is in pain;
Of pity, which flies at humanity's call,
Still anxious and ardent and active for all;
Of meekness, the richest of feminine powers,
Bestow'd on your sex for the blessing of ours:
Of the Graces, which love on your labours to smile,
And the chaste Attic humour which laughs in your
SLEEP is on Man, and darkness all things hides, And Night's last hour the distant clocks repeat !The doors unfold!-dead JULIA'S Image glides, Silent and slow, and stands at GREVILLE's feet!
Her face like April morus when winds are loud,
And wintry clouds deform the dubious day.
See, from her feet she lifts the folding shroud
With snow-pale hands, cold as the weltering clay!
When youth is flown, and all that decks thee now,
Ah, royal CIPARISSIS! such thy doom;
Then DEATH shall strike the diadem from thy brow,
The shroud thy robe, the lightless tomb thy home.
The fine touches of pathos and of horror, added by the late Vincent Bourne in his Latin Poem, THIRSIS AND CHLOE, built upon Mallet's English Ballad, WILLIAM AND MARGARET, induced the Author of the above stanzas to re-paraphrase from the former, this aweful Vision; to adopt, instead of the short verse of the English Ballad, the more solemn measure of the ten feet elegiacs, and to translate Bourne with the same freedom with which he translated Mallet. Hence, she has interwoven a few circumstances which, though growing out of the subject, will not be found in the sweet Original, or in the sublimer Latin Paraphrase.
Her form, when peace and hope were hers, was fair As rising flowers beneath the gleams of May;
And her lips smil'd and blush'd, and Morn's bright star Stood in her eyes, with soft effusive ray.
But slow Disease the kindling blush consum'd,
And Grief eclips'd the gay and ready smile;
No more the naked lip or laugh'd, or bloom'd;
DEATH call'd his worm-and gave the faded spoil.
"Awake! thy JULIA calls thee!-Fate severe
Sends her pale Corse to wander from the Grave.-
At length, O! now at length, let Pity hear
Whom chang'd and faithless Love refus'd to save!
These dark, waste hours allow the restless Ghost
To burst the cearments of the festering Dead ;
Terror of him, who long to mercy lost,
In late and vain remorse may vengeance dread.
Thy oath thy pledge!-remember them, and fear!
Now, if thou canst, thy barbarous crime atone!
Lo! thy once faithful Maid, a Spectre drear,
Gives back thy vows, and sternly claims her own!
This face, once gaz'd on with ecstatic eyes,
Once prais'd so fondly, why did'st thou desert ?
Why, with thy tender looks, thy pleading sighs,
Win, but to wound, my soft, believing heart?
Thy promise, ah, false Promiser of joys!
How coud'st thou break, to crush my rising years?
Why flatter, cruel Flatterer! these eyes,
Yet leave them fading in unpitied tears?
How coud'st thou say my lips, in early bloom,
Sham'd the first crimson of the Summer's rose!
Why said'st thou so?-and why did I presume,
Rash Maid! to credit thy deluding vows?
This alter'd face!—now does it bloom?-behold !—
This lip, this naked lip, no smile retains ;
Death is in these sunk eyes, and on this cold
And livid cheek, no lingering charm remains.
The hungry Worm my wasting form devours,
Feeds on these limbs, insatiate with her prey,
A cold, a long,-a tedious night is ours
Till the late rising of the nightless Day!
Hark! the Cock crows!--the warning note he gave! Hark! yet again!-A long-a last farewell!
Come PERJUR'D, view thy gift, the deep, dark Grave Where thy lost JULIA's dismal relics dwell!"
Now sing the Birds, and from the purpling East,
The San prepares to give the golden day!-
Pale Greville, every horror in his breast,
Leaps from his couch, and frantic speeds away.
And to the tomb, the fatal tomb, is flown,
Where, cold in death, his injur'd JULIA lay.
A moment stands by the rais'd turf!-then down,
Headlong he falls on the dissolving Clay.
Thrice calls he JULIA, in a piercing sound;
Thrice does he weep, and thrice, with groans, complain;
Then, clasping wild the swell'd and hallow'd ground,
Nor weeps, nor groans, nor speaks,-nor moves
again.
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