Classic Poem

WRITTEN FOR A PRIVATE THEATRE .

Few bards, like Otway understood the art,
To touch the strings that vibrate through the heart!
Most he excell'd in love's pathetic lays,
And next to Shakspeare claims unrivall'd bays!
The rougher passions when his pencil draws,
He gains alike his tribute of applause;
In Pierre the manly virtues are combin'd,
An open temper with a dauntless mind;
His active temper, never taught to yield,
Restless in peace, and daring in the field,
For private wrongs against the state conspir'd,
And to his purpose Jaffier's bosom fir'd;
But yet their motives challenge no applause,
Revenge made patriots, not their country's cause!
How different British from Italian climes!
Here patriots flourish'd in the worst of times;
When Freedom totter'd on the brink of fate,
Hampden stood forth, and prop'd the reeling state!
Oh! had his followers ne'er been stain'd with blood,
How great their motive, and their cause how good!
There had they paus'd, a wreath their heads had bound,
And the great cause immortal honour crown'd!
But when an hapless Prince his error saw,
He fell a victim to perverted law. —
There, on our annals rests a guilty stain,
Which quite blots out the errors of his reign!
Succeeding times a nobler struggle view'd,
And freedom triumph'd, not with blood imbru'd,
When by misrule, and bigot counsels led,
The crown grew hateful on a Monarch's head,
A gen'rous band, inspir'd by freedom's breath!
To abject chains preferring glorious death,
Conspire . . . . . . . . .
Not in the sleeping breast to plunge the steel,
But from destruction save the public weal!
They knew the rights of kings, but felt their own,
And drove a tyrant from his guilty throne!
And should such dreadful times return again,
Which Heav'n avert! may Britons act like men!
May future Pierres, by nobler motives fir'd,
By love of sacred liberty inspir'd,
Rouse up the slumb'ring virtue of the land,
And 'gainst oppression make a glorious stand!

Now turn your eyes where Otway's strength appears,
See beauteous Belvidera bathed in tears!
Peevish complaints her soul was far above,
Though poor in fortune, she was rich in love;
Her voice could soothe her Jaffier's cares to rest,
For want would smile when pillow'd on her breast!
Let him blame Jaffier, for his trust betray'd,
Who never doated on a lovely maid;
Who never own'd the pow'r of beauty's charms,
Nor clasp'd an angel in his faithful arms!
Who never heard those accents that impart
Or rage, or rapture to the impassion'd heart!
Who never gaz'd upon the speaking eye,
Nor felt the pathos of a woman's sigh!
Let such cold mortals their dull lives pursue,
They cannot pity what they never knew. —
May ev'ry youth, like Jaffier constant prove,
And ev'ry maid, like Belvidera love;
But may their woes be ne'er experienc'd here,
Nor sully beauty's cheek with sorrow's tear.