Classic Poem

WRITTEN FOR A PRIVATE THEATRE .

Sure love a blessing, or a curse was given,
The favour'd boon, or dreadful scourge of Heaven!
Well plac'd, it softens all the woes of life,
And makes the mistress dearer in the wife!
But when no virtues kindle Hymen's fires,
The torch may blaze, but suddenly expires.
The wretch who's dazzled with deceitful charms,
And takes polluted beauty to his arms,
Will find, like Somerset, his joys decay,
Swifter than passing shadows fleet away!
To night our Author draws an angel's form,
Without those virtues beauty should adorn;
Though ev'ry female cheek will blush to find,
So fair a frame conceal so foul a mind:
Blame not the poet, for the picture's true,
Though no resemblance can be drawn from you.
But when, with horror chill'd, you turn aside
From Somerset's unnatural, guilty bride,
View Isabella, bless'd with ev'ry grace,
Her mind a pattern of her lovely face!
Where sense and sweetness happily unite,
To charm the soul, and fascinate the sight:
And if some breast a kindred grief should move,
To feel the pang of disappointed love!
If vows have pass'd between some hapless pair,
The youth as constant, and the maid as fair,
If fate, with cruel hand, their fortunes cross'd,
The lover banish'd! or the maiden loss'd,
(For they who ever lov'd must know the pain
Of parting, though with hopes to meet again.)
Then judge the pang, the agonizing sigh,
When Isabella sees her lover die!
Just when she thought the storms of fate were o'er,
Her hopes are shipwreck'd in the sight of shore:
The tear of sympathy will surely flow,
And sad remembrance realize the woe.
Nor you, whose autumn'd age has dull'd the fires
Which beauty kindles, and which love inspires,
Refuse the tribute of a tear to shed,
For pity melts the heart when passion's dead:
And sure none here, their feelings will disguise,
Nor check the soft emotions as they rise.

A titled writer has disgrac'd his page
With maxims hostile to a lib'ral age;
Has taught ingenuous youth to veil with art,
The noblest workings of the human heart;
Forbids the fair their smiles, or tears to shew
At harmless humour, or at useful woe;
Though mirth invites, to laugh they must not dare,
Too coarse a pleasure for the British fair!
Nor at the tale of sorrow heave a sigh,
Though beauty, innocence, and virtue die!
Oh monstrous fashion! all such rules despise,
And let your feelings glisten in your eyes;
For beauty never with such grace appears,
As beaming through a show'r of virtuous tears!