Address to the Literary Fund, Recited By the Author, at Freemason's Hall, April 24, 1800, An
RECITED BY THE AUTHOR, AT FREEMASON'S HALL, APRIL 24, 1800.
When barb'rous nations nations sack'd imperial Rome,
And the world's mistress yielded to her doom;
Oblivion o'er that land her poppies flung,
Where patriot sages taught, and poets sung!
Science deplor'd her Tully's prostrate bust,
And genius dropp'd a tear on Maro's dust;
O'er Europe's face a gloomy darkness spread,
And learning deep in cloisters veil'd her head.
A Gothic age no patrons could afford,
Where ev'ry man was vassal or was lord;
Fierce was the temper, barren was the mind,
And war the only business of mankind:
Till Leo rose, to foster every art
That charms the fancy, and delights the heart;
On him each Muse was eager to attend,
And learning found a patron and a friend:
So, when stern winter reigns, all nature sighs,
The cheerful green of vegetation dies;
One dreary waste the eyes of man behold,
Deluged with rain, or blasted with the cold!
But when the glorious sun relumes the sphere,
The trees bud forth, the tender plants appear,
Nature no longer feels the winter's storm,
Cheer'd by the rays that ripen while they warm.
Enlighten'd science soon her radiance bore,
From fair Italia to our Northern shore;
Where genius breath'd his soul in Shakspeare's page!
And Milton shone the Homer of his age!
Yet in this soil, where all the virtues grow,
And, ere the poor can ask, the rich bestow!
Authors have often mourn'd their hapless lot,
Their works still cherish'd, but themselves forgot!
Hard is his task who writes for daily bread,
And pillows on a couch of cares his head.
Can fancy charm the poet's fever'd brain,
Where thought serves only to engender pain?
Can passion animate his torpid breast,
By hope deserted, and by want oppress'd!
And yet, though wretched, envy's constant aim,
The sport of fortune, and the slave of fame!
If he a patron seeks in time of need,
With giant's weight he leans upon a reed —
What can his Muse from pride of wealth expect,
But ostentatious aid, or cold neglect;
Tow'ring ambition scarce can look so low,
And selfish pleasure shuns the face of woe.
In life's more private scenes those virtues shine,
Where human nature proves her source divine;
'Tis there the great to suff'ring worth attend,
And man's misfortune finds in man a friend!
Your plan, which princes might be proud to own,
Long bless'd in silence, and was little known;
Early you saw, beneath your fost'ring care,
Genius and learning rescued from despair:
At first, 'tis true, you could but just bestow
A dew of comfort upon letter'd woe;
Yet did that dew a ling'ring life sustain,
Cheer the last pang, and smooth the bed of pain!
Gradual, but sure, your purpose works its way,
And ample bounty consecrates this day:
The streamlet thus obscurely glides along,
Till made, by tributary waters, strong,
Each drooping plant, refresh'd, new vigour shews,
To grace the living river as it flows;
Onward it rolls to meet the ocean's tide,
And spreads a gen'ral blessing far and wide.
Though other climes more genial suns supply,
A purer atmosphere, and clearer sky!
Amidst our gloomy days, and wint'ry storms,
Bounty protects, and godlike pity warms!
Though stern in war, and oft by factions cross'd,
The nation's character is never lost;
Humane, and manly, liberal, brave, and free,
Contending parties in this point agree,
To feel the pathos of misfortune's sighs,
And wipe the tears from pallid misery's eyes!
Illustrious isle! fair freedom's last retreat!
The throne of honour! pure religion's seat!
Object of Europe's envy, and her hate!
Still shalt thou stand amidst the nations great;
Still shall the persecuted stranger find,
Thy happy shores the refuge of mankind!
And the last prince of Darnley's house shall own,
His debt of gratitude to Brunswick's throne!
Still shall thy naval arm thy foes repel,
Though leagu'd against thee all the powers of hell!
Thus Calpe's rock, high tow'ring from the main,
The pride of England, and reproach of Spain!
While at its base contending waters roar,
Indignant spurns the billows from the shore:
In vain the tempest low'rs, the winds arise,
And vivid lightnings fork the lurid skies;
By Heaven decreed 'gainst all assaults to stand,
It braves alike the ocean and the land!
When barb'rous nations nations sack'd imperial Rome,
And the world's mistress yielded to her doom;
Oblivion o'er that land her poppies flung,
Where patriot sages taught, and poets sung!
Science deplor'd her Tully's prostrate bust,
And genius dropp'd a tear on Maro's dust;
O'er Europe's face a gloomy darkness spread,
And learning deep in cloisters veil'd her head.
A Gothic age no patrons could afford,
Where ev'ry man was vassal or was lord;
Fierce was the temper, barren was the mind,
And war the only business of mankind:
Till Leo rose, to foster every art
That charms the fancy, and delights the heart;
On him each Muse was eager to attend,
And learning found a patron and a friend:
So, when stern winter reigns, all nature sighs,
The cheerful green of vegetation dies;
One dreary waste the eyes of man behold,
Deluged with rain, or blasted with the cold!
But when the glorious sun relumes the sphere,
The trees bud forth, the tender plants appear,
Nature no longer feels the winter's storm,
Cheer'd by the rays that ripen while they warm.
Enlighten'd science soon her radiance bore,
From fair Italia to our Northern shore;
Where genius breath'd his soul in Shakspeare's page!
And Milton shone the Homer of his age!
Yet in this soil, where all the virtues grow,
And, ere the poor can ask, the rich bestow!
Authors have often mourn'd their hapless lot,
Their works still cherish'd, but themselves forgot!
Hard is his task who writes for daily bread,
And pillows on a couch of cares his head.
Can fancy charm the poet's fever'd brain,
Where thought serves only to engender pain?
Can passion animate his torpid breast,
By hope deserted, and by want oppress'd!
And yet, though wretched, envy's constant aim,
The sport of fortune, and the slave of fame!
If he a patron seeks in time of need,
With giant's weight he leans upon a reed —
What can his Muse from pride of wealth expect,
But ostentatious aid, or cold neglect;
Tow'ring ambition scarce can look so low,
And selfish pleasure shuns the face of woe.
In life's more private scenes those virtues shine,
Where human nature proves her source divine;
'Tis there the great to suff'ring worth attend,
And man's misfortune finds in man a friend!
Your plan, which princes might be proud to own,
Long bless'd in silence, and was little known;
Early you saw, beneath your fost'ring care,
Genius and learning rescued from despair:
At first, 'tis true, you could but just bestow
A dew of comfort upon letter'd woe;
Yet did that dew a ling'ring life sustain,
Cheer the last pang, and smooth the bed of pain!
Gradual, but sure, your purpose works its way,
And ample bounty consecrates this day:
The streamlet thus obscurely glides along,
Till made, by tributary waters, strong,
Each drooping plant, refresh'd, new vigour shews,
To grace the living river as it flows;
Onward it rolls to meet the ocean's tide,
And spreads a gen'ral blessing far and wide.
Though other climes more genial suns supply,
A purer atmosphere, and clearer sky!
Amidst our gloomy days, and wint'ry storms,
Bounty protects, and godlike pity warms!
Though stern in war, and oft by factions cross'd,
The nation's character is never lost;
Humane, and manly, liberal, brave, and free,
Contending parties in this point agree,
To feel the pathos of misfortune's sighs,
And wipe the tears from pallid misery's eyes!
Illustrious isle! fair freedom's last retreat!
The throne of honour! pure religion's seat!
Object of Europe's envy, and her hate!
Still shalt thou stand amidst the nations great;
Still shall the persecuted stranger find,
Thy happy shores the refuge of mankind!
And the last prince of Darnley's house shall own,
His debt of gratitude to Brunswick's throne!
Still shall thy naval arm thy foes repel,
Though leagu'd against thee all the powers of hell!
Thus Calpe's rock, high tow'ring from the main,
The pride of England, and reproach of Spain!
While at its base contending waters roar,
Indignant spurns the billows from the shore:
In vain the tempest low'rs, the winds arise,
And vivid lightnings fork the lurid skies;
By Heaven decreed 'gainst all assaults to stand,
It braves alike the ocean and the land!
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