Poems (Sewell)/Lines addressed to the Earl of Bute
LINESADDRESSED TO
THE EARL OF BUTE,ON HIS RECOVERY FROM A DANGEROUS ACCIDENT, AT HIGH CLIFF, IN HAMPSHIRE.March, 1791.
THE EARL OF BUTE,ON HIS RECOVERY FROM A DANGEROUS ACCIDENT, AT HIGH CLIFF, IN HAMPSHIRE.March, 1791.
High o'er the summit of th' impetuous main,
Where billows beat, and tempests rage in vain,
A tow'ring structure rears its princely form,
And mocks the vengeance of the angry storm!—
No festive bow'rs shall Luxury here produce,
No gay resorts for Folly's trivial use;
No voice of Riot here shall shake the dome,
Nor wild Intemp'rance mocks the midnight gloom:
But Virtue mild, benignant, and sincere,
In sacred silence, keeps her empire here.
—Escap'd from toils, from grandeur, and from strife,
And calmly shelter'd from the storms of life,
A gen'rous spirit, tranquil and serene,
With pure Devotion gilds the solemn scene;
Compos'd and fearless in the awful steep,
It marks the tumults of the foaming deep;
It hears that voice, which pierc'd the depths below,
And said "Proud Waves! no further shall ye go!"—
When gentle Cynthia, with her silver light,
Gleams o'er the cliff, and gilds the mountain's height;
A beauteous emblem, seems her tranquil form,
Of heav'nly Mercy smiling thro' the storm!
Nor rugged cliff, nor dawn, nor glowing day,
Nor dashing wave, nor ev'ning's modest ray,
Religion views in vain—but most, the hour
Of poignant suff'ring feels her gentle pow'r.
O'er the pale couch, she hangs with fervent care,
Prompts the faint smile, and forms the feeble prayer!
For thee, oh Bute, the lenient balm she brings,
And guards thy slumbers with her angel wings,
Till Heaven, with pity, lends its gracious ear,
And spares to Gratitude a life so dear!
Where billows beat, and tempests rage in vain,
A tow'ring structure rears its princely form,
And mocks the vengeance of the angry storm!—
No festive bow'rs shall Luxury here produce,
No gay resorts for Folly's trivial use;
No voice of Riot here shall shake the dome,
Nor wild Intemp'rance mocks the midnight gloom:
But Virtue mild, benignant, and sincere,
In sacred silence, keeps her empire here.
—Escap'd from toils, from grandeur, and from strife,
And calmly shelter'd from the storms of life,
A gen'rous spirit, tranquil and serene,
With pure Devotion gilds the solemn scene;
Compos'd and fearless in the awful steep,
It marks the tumults of the foaming deep;
It hears that voice, which pierc'd the depths below,
And said "Proud Waves! no further shall ye go!"—
When gentle Cynthia, with her silver light,
Gleams o'er the cliff, and gilds the mountain's height;
A beauteous emblem, seems her tranquil form,
Of heav'nly Mercy smiling thro' the storm!
Nor rugged cliff, nor dawn, nor glowing day,
Nor dashing wave, nor ev'ning's modest ray,
Religion views in vain—but most, the hour
Of poignant suff'ring feels her gentle pow'r.
O'er the pale couch, she hangs with fervent care,
Prompts the faint smile, and forms the feeble prayer!
For thee, oh Bute, the lenient balm she brings,
And guards thy slumbers with her angel wings,
Till Heaven, with pity, lends its gracious ear,
And spares to Gratitude a life so dear!
Oh thou! whose virtues, noble and sublime,
Shall meekly triumph o'er the wrecks of Time;
Whose heav'n—born worth, a Jackson shall reveal,
Who best can paint it, and who best can feel!
Tho' boundless truth thy active soul explores,
And sacred Science open'd all her stores,
Tho' fervent Genius forms its bold design,
And lib'ral task has made its treasure thine;
A nobler praise than Genius can inspire,
Warms the cold heart, and tunes the feeble lyre;
For Charity prepares her dulcet notes,
And soft in air etherial music floats.
Deep in the vale, where Mis'ry's mansion bare,
"Feels the keen question of the searching air,"
Where patient Sickness, or where cold Decay,
Steals the last pulse of trembling Life away!
Where care paternal spends its strength in vain,
The helpless crew of Sorrow to sustain;
Where gen'rous Love, still faithful and sincere,
Divides the morsel which it earn'd so dear!
In such a scene, where Flatt'ry never came,
Unenvy'd, Bute may glory in his fame.
Soft as the sigh that Pity shall impart,
His name shall vibrate on the poor man's heart,
And dove-like Mercy, with an eagle's flight,
Shall bear its blessings to the Realms of Light.
Shall meekly triumph o'er the wrecks of Time;
Whose heav'n—born worth, a Jackson shall reveal,
Who best can paint it, and who best can feel!
Tho' boundless truth thy active soul explores,
And sacred Science open'd all her stores,
Tho' fervent Genius forms its bold design,
And lib'ral task has made its treasure thine;
A nobler praise than Genius can inspire,
Warms the cold heart, and tunes the feeble lyre;
For Charity prepares her dulcet notes,
And soft in air etherial music floats.
Deep in the vale, where Mis'ry's mansion bare,
"Feels the keen question of the searching air,"
Where patient Sickness, or where cold Decay,
Steals the last pulse of trembling Life away!
Where care paternal spends its strength in vain,
The helpless crew of Sorrow to sustain;
Where gen'rous Love, still faithful and sincere,
Divides the morsel which it earn'd so dear!
In such a scene, where Flatt'ry never came,
Unenvy'd, Bute may glory in his fame.
Soft as the sigh that Pity shall impart,
His name shall vibrate on the poor man's heart,
And dove-like Mercy, with an eagle's flight,
Shall bear its blessings to the Realms of Light.