Classic Poem

TOO long the Muse, attach'd to regal show,
Denies the scene to tales of humbler woe;
Such as were wont, while yet they charm'd the ear,
To steal the plaudit of a silent tear;
When Otway gave domestic grief its part,
And Rowe's familiar sorrows touch'd the heart.

A scepter'd traitor, lash'd by vengeful fate,
A bleeding hero, or a falling state,
Are themes (tho' nobly worth the classic song)
Which feebly claim your sighs, nor claim them long;
Too great for pity, they inspire respect,
Their deeds astonish rather than affect;
Proving how rare the heart that woe can move,
Which reason tells us we can never prove.

Other the scene, where sadly stands confest
The private pang that rends the suff'rer's breast;
When sorrow sits upon a parent's brow,
When fortune mocks the youthful lover's vow,
All feel the tale, for who so mean but knows
What father's sorrows are? what lover's woes?

On kindred ground our bard his fabric built,
And plac'd a mirror there for private guilt;
Where, fatal union! will appear combin'd
An angel's form, and an abandon'd mind;
Honour attempting passion to reprove,
And friendship struggling with unhallow'd love.

Yet view not, critics, with severe regard
The orphan-offspring of an orphan-bard;
Doom'd, while he wrote, unpitied to sustain
More real mis'ries than his pen could feign.
Ill-fated Savage! at whose birth was giv'n
No parent but the Muse, no friend but heav'n!
Whose youth no brother knew, with social care
To soothe his suff'rings, or demand to share;
No wedded partner of his mortal woe,
To win his smile at all that fate could do;
While at his death, nor friend's, nor mother's tear,
Fell on the track of his deserted bier.

So pleads the tale, that gives to future times
The son's misfortunes, and the parent's crimes;
There shall his fame (if own'd to night) survive,
Fix'd by the hand that bids our language live.