SWEET Pity, pensive maid, who oft unseen
By vulgar eye, to loftier visions led
Thy fav'rite son! Celestial visitant!
Now weave the laurel, raise the votive song,
And fondly feeling for his doom, unmeet
For such a tender heart, ah! gently weep,
And dew with holiest tear thy HOWARD'S grave.
For HE, unconscious of his high desert,
Spread his kind blessings over every land,
And ev'ry weeping country oft receiv'd
The general patriot. Then his praise be sung
By every 'bard who feels for modest worth
Untimely blasted! oh, let not his urn,
By haughty insolence and vice profan'd,
Remain a long memorial of disgrace
To climes ungrateful: let his sacred dust
Receive the meed of some melodious tear!
Goddess begin; and let the faded form
Of woe-worn Misery attend the plaint,
And soothe her anguish with the sorrowing strain.
Such men as he are not the common growth
Of common ages; Virtue rears their youth,
Hoar Wisdom leads them to her oliv'd shades,
And sweet Compassion charms their tender breasts
To godlike pity, that their riper years
May raise Dejection from her iron couch,
Pluck the sharp thorn from Mis'ry's rankled heart,
And glad a drooping country, while the earth,
Proud of their virtues, propagates their fame.
Such men as he are not the haughty slaves
That brave their masters, ply the subtle wile,
To dash the goblet from Affliction's lip,
And swelling with the praise of flatt'rers vile,
Outspend profusion. on their menial train :
He was too gentle for such practices;
His eye ne'er glanc'd upon a son of woe,
But his heart shudder'd at the suff'rer's tale;
Gaunt Poverty ne'er look'd him in the face,
But the full tear impearl'd his manly cheek
With softest sympathy for alien pain.
How often has he pierc'd the cavern-gloom,
Where want, and sickness on his scanty bed,
Expiring fainted, and with farewell sigh
Look'd long misfortunes to his infant-train!
His ready hand supply'd their wants unwept
By sterner tyrants; from his moist'ning eye,
Bland Comfort smil'd, and when their Howard came,
Hope, Charity, and Pity, lead his step!
How often, nobly prodigal of life,
Has the dank dungeon echoed to his moan,
And his blest presence gilt the cave of night!
While, grown regardless of his galling chains,
The captive view'd the stranger's nobler mien
In silent rapture, paus'd at ev'ry word,
And hail'd the harbinger of better fate?
How has the tongue of cherub Innocence
Lisp'd thy fond praise in nature's genuine strain,
And bless'd thy bounty for a father sav'd!
Nor only gen'rous to a few select,
Nor bias'd by the country of the wretch
That claim'd thy bounty. The poor black that toils
From morn to eve, and with a heavy heart
Perceives the bondage of that day undone,
Ah! doom'd to linger out the night in chains,
And starting frantic from his moody dreams,
Feel the rough iron fester in his soul!
He felt thy bounty too; thy gen'rous heart
Repaid his sorrows, and thy plaintive groan
Bemoan'd that he was born to be a slave !
Ah, sad refinement! can a fairer skin
Bear less tormenting than the negro-train ?
Have not their bosoms felt some kindred pang
For wives, and dearest children left behind,
To the rude mercy of the planter's soul!
Then why not Britain heave the gen'rous sigh,
At Indian slav'ry! ah! that she would weep
At their long woes, and make the ruffian train
That pamper lux'ry with the negro's toil,
In dire atonement pay with tears of blood!
Then would th' oppress'd uprear their drooping head,
And India's Genius, on his crystal car,
Proclaim his long, long suff'ring sons were free.
Such meed, by mild-repenting Britain paid,
Would fill the land with long-lost ecstacy,
And soothe the sorrows of her Howard's ghost!
Who now, perchance, for human grief distress'd,
Seeks the gray twilight of th' elysian shade,
And solitary mourns worth's swift decay,
And the long tenor of his life undone :
A life of goodness! spent to bless mankind,
And make wan Mis'ry's train forlorn rejoice!
To smooth the frown of arbitrary sway,
And rank th' aspiring monarch with the man
In social compact? What are kings, that they,
Despight of justice, equity, and right,
And all the poignant feelings of the soul,
Should wrest the thunderbolt from wrath divine,
And on their brothers hurl the ruin down?
They too must die, unpity'd, and the wreath
Of vaunting glory wither o'er their tomb.
The news that told an emperor was dead,
Whose frown could ruin, and whose smile could bless,
Affected people, and congeal'd their hearts,
To think ambition had so small a bound!
But the sad tale that told a Howard died,
Was half rever'd for speaking on such themes,
And half accus'd for telling so much woe!
Nations were silent at the dol'rous tale,
And cloud-rob'd Horror, to each murky cell,
In deeper accents, swell'd the piteous dirge,
And mourn'd the patriot-Pale-cheek'd Pity sigh'd,
Confusion listen'd, with her horrent hair;
And Madness, starting at the fatal sound,
Iler senses wilder'd by excess of grief,
Clanks her huge chains-Now she is calm awhile;
Silent sad sorrow trickles from her eye;
But now again, by madding fancy work'd,
She raves and shudders-then she weeps again!
Ah, see yon scene! congenial to the heart
Of sternest sorrow! There the father lies;
His hoar head tells an age of varying woes!
The clotted tear that furrows down his cheek,
Ah! fretted often by the hand of Care!
|