Thus unprophetic, lately mifinfpir'd,
I fung: gay flutt'ring Hope my fancy fir'd;
Inly fecure, thro' confcious fcorn of ill,
Nor taught by wifdom how to ballance will,
Rafhly deceiv'd, I law no pits to fhun;
But thought to purpose, and to act, were one;
Heedlefs what pointed cares pervert his way,
Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray;
But now, expos'd, and shrinking from distress,
I fly to fhelter, while the tempefts prefs;
My mufe to grief refigns the varying tone,
The raptures languish, and the numbers groan.
O Memory! thou foul of joy and pain!
Thou actor of our paffions o'er again!
Why dost thou aggravate the wretches woe?
Why add continuous smart to ev'ry blow ?
Few are my joys; alas! how foon forgot!
On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not,
While sharp and numberless my sorrows fall
Yet thou repeat'ft, and multiply'ft 'em all!
Is chance a guilt, that my difaftrous heart,
For mischief never meant, must ever fmart?
Can felf-defence be fin ?-Ah, plead no more!
What tho' no purpos'd malice stain'd thee o'er ?
Had Heav'n befriended thy unhappy fide,
Thou had❜ft not been provok'd-or Thou had'ft dy'd,
Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all,
On whom, unfought, embroiling dangers fall!
Still the pale Dead revives, and lives to me,
To me! thro' Pity's eye condemn'd to fee.
Remembrance veils his rage, but fwells his fate;
Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late.
Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day,
What ripening virtues might have made their way!
He might have liv'd, till Folly died in Shame,
Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame.
He might, perhaps, his country's friend have prov'd ;
Both happy, gen'rous, candid, and belov'd.
He might have fav'd some worth, now doom'd to fall;
And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all.
O fate of late repentance! always vain :
Thy remedies but lull undying pain.
Where shall my hope find reft ?—No mother's care
Shielded my infant innocence with
prayer:
No father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
Is it not thine to fnatch some pow'rful arm,
First to advance, then screen from future harm ?
I am return'd from death, to live in pain!
Or wou'd Imperial Pity fave in vain ?
Diftruft it not-What blame can Mercy find,
Which gives, at once, a life, and rears a mind?
Mother, mifcall'd, farewell-of foul fevere,
This fad reflection yet may force one tear:
All I was wretched by to you I ow'd,
Alone from ftrangers ev'ry comfort flow'd!
Loft to the life you gave, your fon no more,
And now adopted, who was doom❜d before;
New-born, I may a nobler mother claim,
But dare not whisper her immortal name;
Supremely lovely, and ferenely great!
Majestic mother of a kneeling state!
Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er, before,
Agreed-Yet now, with one confent, adore!
One contest yet remains in this defire,
Who most shall give applaufe, where all admire.
Mr. More was a poet that never had justice done him while living; there are few of the moderns have a more correct tafte, or a more pleasing manner of expreffing their thoughts. It was upon these fables he chiefly founded his reputation; yet they are, by no means, his best production.
HY, Celia, is your spreading waist
So loose, so negligently lac'd?
Why must the wrapping bed-gown hide
Your fnowy bofom's fwelling pride?
How ill that drefs adorns your head,
Diftain'd, and rumpled, from the bed!
Those clouds, that fhade your blooming face,
A little water might displace,
As Nature, ev'ry morn, bestows
The cryftal dew, to cleanfe the rofe:
Thofe treffes, as the raven black,
That way'd in ringlets down
Uncomb'd, and injur'd by neglect,
Destroy the face which once they deckt.
Whence this forgetfulness of dress?
Pray, madam, are you marry'd? Yes.
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