Posts tagged ‘1788’

Friday, 29 March 2019

Air III – Ismene by Richard Bentley

The heart which love has wounded,
By fear and death surrounded,
One only thought alarms;
It mocks the raging ocean,
The stormy winds commotion,
Or din of hostile arms:

Its wonted cares are banish’d,
Its early terrors vanish’d,
It pants with fears unknown,
Throbs with too fierce pulsation,
To mark the dull vibration,
That trembles with its own.

From: Bentley, R., The airs, duetts, trios and chorusses, &c. in The prophet: a comic opera, in three acts; performed at the Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden, 1788, T. Cadell: London, p. 9.
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/004795687.0001.000)

Date: 1788

By: Richard Bentley (1708-1782)

Saturday, 22 April 2017

The Gathering from “The Triumph of Infidelity” by Timothy Dwight IV

And now the morn arose; when o’er the plain
Gather’d, from every side, a numerous train;
To quell those fears, that rankled still within,
And gain new strength, and confidence, to sin.
There the half putrid Epicure was seen,
His cheeks of port, and lips with turtle green,
Who hop’d a long eternity was given,
To spread good tables, in some eating heaven.
The leacher there his lurid visage shew’d,
The imp of darkness, and the foe of good;
Who fled his lovely wife’s most pure embrace,
To sate on hags, and breed a mongrel race;
A high-fed horse, for others wives who neigh’d;
A cur, who prowl’d around each quiet bed;
A snake, far spreading his impoison’d breath,
And charming innocence to guilt, and death.
Here stood Hypocrisy, in sober brown,
His sabbath face all sorrow’d with a frown.
A dismal tale he told of dismal times,
And this sad world brimful of saddest crimes,
Furrow’d his cheeks with tears for others sin,
But clos’d his eyelids on the hell within.

There smil’d the smooth Divine, unus’d to wound
The sinners heart, with hell’s alarming sound.
No terrors on his gentle tongue attend;
No grating truths the nicest ear offend.
That strange new-birth, that methodistic grace,
Nor in his heart, nor sermons, found a place.
Plato’s fine tales he clumsily retold,
Trite, fireside, moral seasaws, dull as old;
His Christ, and bible, plac’d at good remove,
Guilt hell-deserving, and forgiving love.
‘Twas best, he said, mankind should cease to sin;
Good fame requir’d it; so did peace within:
Their honours, well he knew, would ne’er be driven;
But hop’d they still would please to go to heaven.
Each week, he paid his visitation dues;
Coax’d, jested, laugh’d; rehears’d the private news;
But hoped they still would please to go to heaven.
Smoak’d with each goody, thought her cheese excell’d;
Her pipe he lighted, and her baby held.
Or plac’d in some great town, with lacquer’d shoes,
Trim wig, and trimmer gown, and glistening hose,
He bow’d, talk’d politics, learn’d manners mild;
Most meekly questioned, and most smoothly smil’d;
At rich mens jests laugh’d loud their stories prais’d;
Their wives new patterns gaz’d, and gaz’d and gaz’d;
Most daintily on pamper’d turkies din’d;
Nor shrunk with fasting, nor with study pin’d:
Yet from their churches saw his brethren driven,
Who thunder’d truth, and spoke the voice of heaven,
Chill’d trembling guilt, in Satan’s headlong path;
Charm’d the feet back, and rous’d the ear of death.
“Let fools,” he cried, “starve on, while prudent I
Snug in my nest shall live, and snug shall die.

There stood the infidel of modern breed,
Blest vegetation of infernal seed,
Alike no Deist, and no Christian, he;
But from all principle, all virtue, free.
To him all things the same, as good or evil;
Jehovah, Jove, the Lama, or the Devil;
Mohammed’s braying, or Isaiah’s lays;
The Indian’s powaws, or the Christian’s praise,
With him all natural desires are good;
His thirst for stews; the Mohawk’s thirst for blood:
Made, not to know, or love, the all beauteous mind;
Or wing thro’ heaven his path to bliss resin’d:
But his dear self, choice Dagon! to adore;
To dress, to game, to swear, to drink, to whore;
To race his steeds; or cheat, when others run;
Pit tortur’d cocks, and swear ’tis glorious fun:
His soul not cloath’d with attributes divine;
But a nice watch-spring to that grand machine,
That work more nice than Rittenhouse can plan,
The body; man’s chief part; himself, the man;
Man, that illustrious brute of noblest shape,
A swine unbristled, and an untail’d ape:
To couple, eat, and die—his glorious doom—
The oyster’s church-yard, and the capon’s tomb.

From: Dwight, Timothy, The Triumph of Infidelity: A Poem, 2007, Text Creation Partnership: Ann Arbor, Michigan, pp. 29-32.
(http://name.umdl.umich.edu/N16405.0001.001)

Date: 1788

By: Timothy Dwight IV (1752-1817)

Thursday, 25 June 2015

Slavery, A Poem by Hannah More

If Heaven has into being deign’d to call
Thy light, O LIBERTY! to shine on all;
Bright intellectual Sun! why does thy ray
To earth distribute only partial day?
Since no resisting cause from spirit flows
Thy penetrating essence to oppose;
No obstacles by Nature’s hand imprest,
Thy subtle and ethereal beams arrest;
Nor motion’s laws can speed thy active course,
Nor strong repulsion’s pow’rs obstruct thy force;
Since there is no convexity in MIND,
Why are thy genial beams to parts confin’d?

While the chill North with thy bright ray is blest,
Why should fell darkness half the South invest?
Was it decreed, fair Freedom! at thy birth,
That thou shou’d’st ne’er irradiate all the earth?
While Britain basks in thy full blaze of light,
Why lies sad Afric quench’d in total night?

Thee only, sober Goddess! I attest,
In smiles chastis’d, and decent graces drest.
Not that unlicens’d monster of the crowd,
Whose roar terrific bursts in peals so loud,
Deaf’ning the ear of Peace: fierce Faction’s tool;
Of rash Sedition born, and mad Misrule;
Whose stubborn mouth, rejecting Reason’s rein,
No strength can govern, and no skill restrain;
Whose magic cries the frantic vulgar draw
To spurn at Order, and to outrage Law;
To tread on grave Authority and Pow’r,
And shake the work of ages in an hour:
Convuls’d her voice, and pestilent her breath,
She raves of mercy, while she deals out death:
Each blast is fate; she darts from either hand
Red conflagration o’er th’ astonish’d land;
Clamouring for peace, she rends the air with noise,
And to reform a part, the whole destroys.

O, plaintive Southerne! whose impassion’d strain
So oft has wak’d my languid Muse in vain!
Now, when congenial themes her cares engage,
She burns to emulate thy glowing page;
Her failing efforts mock her fond desires,
She shares thy feelings, not partakes thy fires.
Strange pow’r of song! the strain that warms the heart
Seems the same inspiration to impart;
Touch’d by the kindling energy alone,
We think the flame which melts us is our own;
Deceiv’d, for genius we mistake delight,
Charm’d as we read, we fancy we can write.

Tho’ not to me, sweet Bard, thy pow’rs belong,
Fair Truth, a hallow’d guide! inspires my song.
Here Art wou’d weave her gayest flow’rs in vain,
For Truth the bright invention wou’d disdain.
For no fictitious ills these numbers flow,
But living anguish, and substantial woe;
No individual griefs my bosom melt,
For millions feel what Oronoko felt:
Fir’d by no single wrongs, the countless host
I mourn, by rapine dragg’d from Afric’s coast.

Perish th’ illiberal thought which wou’d debase
The native genius of the sable race!
Perish the proud philosophy, which sought
To rob them of the pow’rs of equal thought!
Does then th’ immortal principle within
Change with the casual colour of a skin?
Does matter govern spirit? or is mind
Degraded by the form to which ’tis join’d?

No: they have heads to think, and hearts to feel,
And souls to act, with firm, tho’ erring zeal;
For they have keen affections, kind desires,
Love strong as death, and active patriot fires;
All the rude energy, the fervid flame,
Of high-soul’d passion, and ingenuous shame:
Strong, but luxuriant virtues boldly shoot
From the wild vigour of a savage root.

Nor weak their sense of honour’s proud control,
For pride is virtue in a Pagan soul;
A sense of worth, a conscience of desert,
A high, unbroken haughtiness of heart;
That self-same stuff which erst proud empires sway’d,
Of which the conquerors of the world were made.
Capricious fate of man! that very pride
In Afric scourg’d, in Rome was deify’d.

No Muse, O Qua-shi! shall thy deeds relate,
No statue snatch thee from oblivious fate!
For thou wast born where never gentle Muse
On Valour’s grave the flow’rs of Genius strews;
And thou wast born where no recording page
Plucks the fair deed from Time’s devouring rage.
Had Fortune plac’d thee on some happier coast,
Where polish’d souls heroic virtue boast,
To thee, who sought’st a voluntary grave,
Th’ uninjur’d honours of thy name to save,
Whose generous arm thy barbarous Master spar’d,
Altars had smok’d, and temples had been rear’d.

Whene’er to Afric’s shores I turn my eyes,
Horrors of deepest, deadliest guilt arise;
I see, by more than Fancy’s mirror shewn,
The burning village, and the blazing town:
See the dire victim torn from social life,
The shrieking babe, the agonizing wife!
She, wretch forlorn! is dragg’d by hostile hands,
To distant tyrants sold, in distant lands!
Transmitted miseries, and successive chains,
The sole sad heritage her child obtains!
Ev’n this last wretched boon their foes deny,
To weep together, or together die.
By felon hands, by one relentless stroke,
See the fond links of feeling Nature broke!
The fibres twisting round a parent’s heart,
Torn from their grasp, and bleeding as they part.

Hold, murderers, hold! nor aggravate distress;
Respect the passions you yourselves possess;
Ev’n you, of ruffian heart, and ruthless hand,
Love your own offspring, love your native land.
Ah! leave them holy Freedom’s cheering smile,
The heav’n-taught fondness for the parent soil;
Revere affections mingled with our frame,
In every nature, every clime the same;
In all, these feelings equal sway maintain;
In all the love of HOME and FREEDOM reign:
And Tempe’s vale, and parch’d Angola’s sand,
One equal fondness of their sons command.
Th’ unconquer’d Savage laughs at pain and toil,
Basking in Freedom’s beams which gild his native soil.

Does thirst of empire, does desire of fame,
(For these are specious crimes) our rage inflame?
No: sordid lust of gold their fate controls,
The basest appetite of basest souls;
Gold, better gain’d, by what their ripening sky,
Their fertile fields, their arts and mines supply.

What wrongs, what injuries does Oppression plead
To smooth the horror of th’ unnatural deed?
What strange offence, what aggravated sin?
They stand convicted—of a darker skin!
Barbarians, hold! th’ opprobrious commerce spare,
Respect his sacred image which they bear:
Tho’ dark and savage, ignorant and blind,
They claim the common privilege of kind;
Let Malice strip them of each other plea,
They still are men, and men shou’d still be free.
Insulted Reason loaths th’ inverted trade—
Dire change! the agent is the purchase made!
Perplex’d, the baffled Muse involves the tale;
Nature confounded, well may language fail!
The outrag’d Goddess with abhorrent eyes
Sees MAN the traffic, SOULS the merchandize!

Plead not, in reason’s palpable abuse,
Their sense of feeling callous and obtuse:
From heads to hearts lies Nature’s plain appeal,
Tho’ few can reason, all mankind can feel.
Tho’ wit may boast a livelier dread of shame,
A loftier sense of wrong refinement claim;
Tho’ polish’d manners may fresh wants invent,
And nice distinctions nicer souls torment;
Tho’ these on finer spirits heavier fall,
Yet natural evils are the same to all.
Tho’ wounds there are which reason’s force may heal,
There needs no logic sure to make us feel.
The nerve, howe’er untutor’d, can sustain
A sharp, unutterable sense of pain;
As exquisitely fashion’d in a slave,
As where unequal fate a sceptre gave.
Sense is as keen where Congo’s sons preside,
As where proud Tiber rolls his classic tide.
Rhetoric or verse may point the feeling line,
They do not whet sensation, but define.
Did ever slave less feel the galling chain,
When Zeno prov’d there was no ill in pain?
Their miseries philosophic quirks deride,
Slaves groan in pangs disown’d by Stoic pride.

When the fierce Sun darts vertical his beams,
And thirst and hunger mix their wild extremes;
When the sharp iron wounds his inmost soul,
And his strain’d eyes in burning anguish roll;
Will the parch’d negro find, ere he expire,
No pain in hunger, and no heat in fire?

For him, when fate his tortur’d frame destroys,
What hope of present fame, or future joys?
For this, have heroes shorten’d nature’s date;
For that, have martyrs gladly met their fate;
But him, forlorn, no hero’s pride sustains,
No martyr’s blissful visions sooth his pains;
Sullen, he mingles with his kindred dust,
For he has learn’d to dread the Christian’s trust;
To him what mercy can that Pow’r display,
Whose servants murder, and whose sons betray?
Savage! thy venial error I deplore,
They are not Christians who infest thy shore.

O thou sad spirit, whose preposterous yoke
The great deliverer Death, at length, has broke!
Releas’d from misery, and escap’d from care,
Go, meet that mercy man deny’d thee here.
In thy dark home, sure refuge of th’ oppress’d,
The wicked vex not, and the weary rest.
And, if some notions, vague and undefin’d,
Of future terrors have assail’d thy mind;
If such thy masters have presum’d to teach,
As terrors only they are prone to preach;
(For shou’d they paint eternal Mercy’s reign,
Where were th’ oppressor’s rod, the captive’s chain?)
If, then, thy troubled soul has learn’d to dread
The dark unknown thy trembling footsteps tread;
On HIM, who made thee what thou art, depend;
HE, who withholds the means, accepts the end.
Not thine the reckoning dire of LIGHT abus’d,
KNOWLEDGE disgrac’d, and LIBERTY misus’d;
On thee no awful judge incens’d shall sit
For parts perverted, and dishonour’d wit.
Where ignorance will be found the surest plea,
How many learn’d and wise shall envy thee!

And thou, WHITE SAVAGE! whether lust of gold,
Or lust of conquest, rule thee uncontrol’d!
Hero, or robber!—by whatever name
Thou plead thy impious claim to wealth or fame;
Whether inferior mischiefs be thy boast,
A petty tyrant rifling Gambia’s coast:
Or bolder carnage track thy crimson way,
Kings dispossess’d, and Provinces thy prey;
Panting to tame wide earth’s remotest bound;
All Cortez murder’d, all Columbus found;
O’er plunder’d realms to reign, detested Lord,
Make millions wretched, and thyself abhorr’d;—
In Reason’s eye, in Wisdom’s fair account,
Your sum of glory boasts a like amount;
The means may differ, but the end’s the same;
Conquest is pillage with a nobler name.
Who makes the sum of human blessings less,
Or sinks the stock of general happiness,
No solid same shall grace, no true renown,
His life shall blazon, or his memory crown.

Had those advent’rous spirits who explore
Thro’ ocean’s trackless wastes, the far-sought shore;
Whether of wealth insatiate, or of pow’r,
Conquerors who waste, or ruffians who devour:
Had these possess’d, O COOK! thy gentle mind,
Thy love of arts, thy love of humankind;
Had these pursued thy mild and liberal plan,
DISCOVERERS had not been a curse to man!
Then, bless’d Philanthropy! thy social hands
Had link’d dissever’d worlds in brothers bands;
Careless, if colour, or if clime divide;
Then, lov’d, and loving, man had liv’d, and died.

The purest wreaths which hang on glory’s shrine,
For empires founded, peaceful PENN! are thine;
No blood-stain’d laurels crown’d thy virtuous toil,
No slaughter’d natives drench’d thy fair-earn’d soil.
Still thy meek spirit in thy flock survives,
Consistent still, their doctrines rule their lives;
Thy followers only have effac’d the shame
Inscrib’d by SLAVERY on the Christian name.

Shall Britain, where the soul of Freedom reigns,
Forge chains for others she herself disdains?
Forbid it, Heaven! O let the nations know
The liberty she loves she will bestow;
Not to herself the glorious gift confin’d,
She spreads the blessing wide as humankind;
And, scorning narrow views of time and place,
Bids all be free in earth’s extended space.

What page of human annals can record
A deed so bright as human rights restor’d?
O may that god-like deed, that shining page,
Redeem OUR fame, and consecrate OUR age!

And see, the cherub Mercy from above,
Descending softly, quits the sphere of love!
On feeling hearts she sheds celestial dew,
And breathes her spirit o’er th’ enlighten’d few;
From soul to soul the spreading influence steals,
Till every breast the soft contagion feels.
She bears, exulting, to the burning shore
The loveliest office Angel ever bore;
To vindicate the pow’r in Heaven ador’d,
To still the clank of chains, and sheathe the sword;
To cheer the mourner, and with soothing hands
From bursting hearts unbind th’ Oppressor’s bands;
To raise the lustre of the Christian name,
And clear the foulest blot that dims its fame.

As the mild Spirit hovers o’er the coast,
A fresher hue the wither’d landscapes boast;
Her healing smiles the ruin’d scenes repair,
And blasted Nature wears a joyous air.
She spreads her blest commission from above,
Stamp’d with the sacred characters of love;
She tears the banner stain’d with blood and tears,
And, LIBERTY! thy shining standard rears!
As the bright ensign’s glory she displays,
See pale OPPRESSION faints beneath the blaze!
The giant dies! no more his frown appals,
The chain untouch’d, drops off; the fetter falls.
Astonish’d echo tells the vocal shore,
Oppression’s fall’n, and Slavery is no more!
The dusky myriads crowd the sultry plain,
And hail that mercy long invok’d in vain.
Victorious Pow’r! she bursts their two-fold bands,
And FAITH and FREEDOM spring from Mercy’s hands.

From: More, Hannah, Slavery, A Poem, 1788, T. Cadell: London, pp. 1-20.
(http://quod.lib.umich.edu/e/ecco/004901991.0001.000/1:4?rgn=div1;view=fulltext)

Date: 1788

By: Hannah More (1745-1833)

Thursday, 13 June 2013

The Lady and the Doctor by Helen Leigh

A physician of eminence, some years ago,
Was called in, to attend on a lady of fashion,
Who had long been admired — and the toast of each beau,
Tho’ now, her sunk features excited compassion.

The doctor no sooner the lady had eyed,
Than he begged, ‘She for once would his freedom forgive
If he stepped from the rules of good breeding aside,
To mention the terms on which she might live.’

‘By all means,’ cried the lady, ‘for surely no word
A physician may utter, should e’er give offence;
Punctilio, in illness, is always absurd,
And shows either doctor, or patient wants sense.’

‘Why then, my dear lady, I cannot resist
Pronouncing this truth, like a plain honest man;
That if, in the use of white paint you persist
No medicine will save you, do all that I can.’

‘You astonish me, Doctor! but, such is my case,
That I may as well die, as leave painting alone;
For, should I appear with my natural face
   Amongst my acquaintance — I should not be known.’

From: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182496

Date: 1788

By: Helen Leigh (?-c1795)