LYRIC POEMS. 2B3 TO MITIO, MY FRIEND. AnEpistle. " FORGIVE me, Mitio, that there should be any mortifying lines in the following Poems inscribed to you, so soon after your entrance into that state which was designed for the completest happiness on earth But you will quickly discover, that the muse in the first poem only represents the shades and dark colours that melancholy throws upon love, and the social life. I n the second, perhaps, she indulges her own bright ideas a little. Yet if the accounts are but well balanced at last, and things set in a due light, I hope there is no ground for censure. Here you will find an attempt made to talk of one of the most importantconcerns of human nature in verse, and that with a solemnity becoming the argument. I have banished grimace and ridicule, that persons of the most serious character may read without offence. What was written several years ago to yourself is now permitted to entertain the world ; hut you may assume it to yourself as a private entertainment still, while you lie concealed behind a fbigned name. The Mourning-Piece. LIFE's a long tragedy : This globe the stage, Well fix'd and well adorn'd with strong machines, Gay fields, and skies, and seas : The actors many : The plot immense ; A flight of deemons sit On every fatal cloud with fatal purpose? And shoot across the scenes ten thousand arrows Perpetual and unseen, headed with pain, With sorrow, infamy, disease, and death. The pointed plagues fly silent thro' the air, Nor twangs toe bow, yet sure and deep the wóund. Dianthe acts her little part alone, Nor wishes an associate. So she glides Single thro' all the storm, and more secure ; ' Less are her dangers and her breast receives The fewest darts. "'But, O my loved Marella,. My sister, once my friend, Dianthe cries, How-much art thou exposed ! Thy growing soul Dóubled in wedlock, multiply'd in children, Stands but the broader mark for all the mischiefs That rove promiscuous o'er the mortal stage: Children, those dear young limbs, those tenderest pieces Of your own flesh, those other little selves, ' How they dilate the heart to wide dimensions, And soften every fibre to improve The mother's sad capacity of pain ! I mourn Fidelio too ; Tho' heaven has chose A favourite mate for him, dell her sex The pride and flower : How blest the lovely pair, Beyond expression, if well .mingled loves And woes well - mingled could improve our bliss! Amidst the rugg'd cares of life behold The father and the husband ; flatt'ring names, That spread his title, and enlarge his share Of common wretchedness. He fondly hopes To multiply his joys, but every hour Renews the disappointment and the smart.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTcyMjk=