Though Fashion’s minions scorn thy pow’r,
And slight thee, ’cause in russet drest,
Yet Joy frequents thy peaceful bow’r,
And sorrow flies to thee for rest.
The echoing laugh, the rapturous tear,
The smile of friendship, gay and free,
Delight but when they are sincere,
And given, lovely nymph, by thee.
When my Rosina reads a tale,
Though sweet the tuneful accents flow,
No studied pathos does prevail
To bid the hearer’s bosom glow;
Her voice to sympathy resign’d,
Each different feeling can impart.
And, tell me not, we e’er can find
A modulator, like the heart!
And Mary’s locks of glossy brown,
That fall in waves, with graceful swell,
In ever-varying ringlets thrown,
The fairest curls of art excel.
Still rob’d in innocence and ease,
Daughter of Truth, shall thou prevail,
When Affectation cannot please,
And all the spells of Fashion fail.
NOV. 17, 1795.
THE TERRORS OF GUILT.
Yon coward, with the streaming hair,
And visage, madden’d to despair,
With step convuls’d, unsettled eye,
And bosom lab’ring with a sigh,
Is Guilt!—Behold, he hears the name,
And starts with horror, fear, and shame!
See! slow Suspicion by his side,
With winking, microscopic eye!
And Mystery, his muffled guide,
With fearful speech, and head awry.
See! scowling Malice there attend,
Bold Falsehood, an apparent friend;
Avarice, repining o’er his pelf,
Mean Cunning, lover of himself;
Hatred, the son of conscious Fear,
Impatient Envy, with a fiend-like sneer,
And shades of blasted Hopes, which still are hovering near!
All other woes will find relief,
And time alleviate every grief;
Memory, though slowly, will decay,
And Sorrow’s empire pass away.
Awhile Misfortune may controul,
And Fain oppress the virtuous soul,
Yet Innocence can still beguile
The patient sufferer of a smile,
The beams of Hope may still dispense
A grateful feeling to the sense;
Friendship may cast her arms around,
And with fond tears embalm the wound,
Or Piety’s soft incense rise,
And waft reflection to the skies;
But those fell pangs which he endures,
Nor Time forgets, nor Kindness cures;
Like Ocean’s waves, they still return,
Like Etna’s fires, forever burn.
Hound him no genial zephyrs fly,
No fair horizon glads his eye,
No joys to him does Nature yield,
The solemn grove, or laughing field;
Though both with loud rejoicings ring,
No pleasure does the echo bring,
Not bubbling waters as they roll,
Can tranquillize his bursting soul,
For Conscience still, with tingling smart,
Asserts his empire o’er his heart,
And even when his eye-lids close,
With clamourous scream affrights repose.