Classic Poem

A TRAGEDY .

PERFORMED AT COVENT GARDEN, MAY 5, 1790.

SPOKEN BY MR. HOLMAN .

I N climes remote where Ganges rolls his wave,
At once the Indian's idol, and his grave;
Where sultry suns in ardent minds infuse
The richest subjects for the tragic muse,
A custom reigns which harrows up the soul,
And bends e'en nature to its stern controul! —
When fate cuts short the Hindoo's thread of life,
One tomb ingulphs the husband and the wife;
The widow, warm in youth must yield, her breath,
And, self-devoted, seek her lord in death,
In gay attire she mounts the awful pile,
Nor dares with tears the horrid rights defile;
Her heaving bosom must repress the sigh,
And learn with stoic apathy to die!
For should she yield to nature's pow'rful sway,
And not, with smiles, this Brahmin law obey;
Should she with horror shun the scorching flame,
Eternal infamy awaits her name!
Driv'n from her cast she wanders on the earth,
Disown'd by those to whom she owes her birth;
Life grows a burthen which she cannot bear,
And death the only refuge from despair!
Unhappy race! by double chains confin'd,
Oppress'd in body, and enslav'd in mind;
For ever doom'd some tyrant to obey!
The priest's, the despot's, or the stranger's prey; —
How bless'd the natives of this happier land!
Where freedom long has made her glorious stand!
Where neighb'ring kingdoms may with envy see
The monarch great, because the subject's free!
A nation fam'd for arts, in arms renown'd,
By laws themselves created only bound;
Who boast, what History can seldom prove,
A prince enthron'd upon his people's love!
Would Europe's sons, who visit Asia's shore!
Where plunder'd millions can afford no more,
To nobler ends direct their future aim,
And wipe from India's annals Europe's shame!
Let them with reason's pow'r subdue the breast,
Inform the erring, and relieve th' oppress'd;
By laws benign a gen'ral bliss impart,
And fix an empire in the grateful heart.
These are pursuits, more worthy of them far!
Than realms obtain'd by all-destroying war.
And now our author bade me plead the cause
Of one whose proudest hope is your applause.
On your support the trembling bard depends,
You, who to merit prove the constant friends;
Who love the Muse's offspring to sustain,
Who judge with candour, and condemn with pain.