The Works of Anna Laetitia Barbauld/Volume 1/Characters
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CHARACTERS.
O born to soothe distress and lighten care, Lively as soft, and innocent as fair! Blest with that sweet simplicity of thought So rarely found, and never to be taught; Of winning speech, endearing, artless, kind, The loveliest pattern of a female mind; Like some fair spirit from the realms of rest, With all her native heaven within her breast; So pure, so good, she scarce can guess at sin, But thinks the world without like that within; Such melting tenderness, so fond to bless, Her charity almost becomes excess. Wealth may be courted, Wisdom be revered, And Beauty praised, and brutal Strength be feared;But Goodness only can affection move, And love must owe its origin to love.
Illam quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia flectit, Componit furtim, subsequiturque decor. Tibul.
Of gentle manners, and of taste refined, With all the graces of a polished mind; Clear sense and truth still shone in all she spoke, And from her lips no idle sentence broke. Each nicer elegance of art she knew; Correctly fair, and regularly true. Her ready fingers plied with equal skill The pencil's task, the needle, or the quill; So poised her feelings, so composed her soul, So subject all to reason's calm controul,—
One only passion, strong and unconfined, Disturbed the balance of her even mind: One passion ruled despotic in her breast, In every word, and look, and thought confest:— But that was love; and love delights to bless The generous transports of a fond excess.
Happy old man! who stretched beneath the shade Of large grown trees, or in the rustic porch With woodbine canopied, where linger yet The hospitable virtues, calm enjoy'st Nature s best blessings all;—a healthy age Ruddy and vigorous, native cheerfulness, Plain-hearted friendship, simple piety, The rural manners and the rural joys Friendly to life. O rude of speech, yet rich In genuine worth, not unobserved shall pass
Thy bashful virtues! for the Muse shall mark,Detect thy charities, and call to lightThy secret deeds of mercy; while the poor,The desolate and friendless, at thy gate,A numerous family, with better praiseShall hallow in their hearts thy spotless name.
Such were the dames of old heroic days,Which faithful story yet delights to praise;Who, great in useful works, hung o'er the loom,—The mighty mothers of immortal Rome:Obscure, in sober dignity retired,They more deserved than sought to be admired;The household virtues o'er their honoured headTheir simple grace and modest lustre shed:Chaste their attire, their feet unused to roam,They loved the sacred threshold of their home; Yet true to glory, fanned the generous flame,Bade lovers, brothers, sons aspire to fame;In the young bosom cherished Virtue's seed,The secret springs of many a godlike deed.So the fair stream in some sequestered gladeWith lowly state glides silent through the shade;Yet by the smiling meads her urn is blest,With freshest flowers her rising banks are drest,And groves of laurel, by her sweetness fed,High o'er the forest lift their verdant head.
Is there whom genius and whom taste adornWith rare but happy union; in whose breastCalm, philosophic, thoughtful, largely fraughtWith stores of various knowledge, dwell the powersThat trace out secret causes, and unveilGreat Nature's awful face? Is there whose hours Of still domestic leisure breathe the soulOf friendship, peace, and elegant delightBeneath poetic shades, where leads the MuseThrough walks of fragrance, and the fairy grovesWhere young ideas blossom?—Is there oneWhose tender hand, lenient of human woes,Wards off the dart of death, and smooths the couchOf torturing anguish? On so dear a nameMay blessings dwell, honour, and cordial praise;Nor need he be a brother to be loved.
Champion of Truth, alike through Nature's field,And where in sacred leaves she shines revea'd,—Alike in both, eccentric, piercing, bold,Like his own lightnings, which no chains can hold;Neglecting caution, and disdaining art,He seeks no armour for a naked heart:— Pursue the track thy ardent genius shows,That like the sun illumines where it goes;Travel the various map of Science o'er,Record past wonders, and discover more;Pour thy free spirit o'er the breathing page,And wake the virtue of a careless age.But O forgive, if touched with fond regretFancy recalls the scenes she can't forget,Recalls the vacant smile, the social hoursWhich charmed us once, for once those scenes were ours!And while thy praises through wide realms extend,We sit in shades, and mourn the absent friend.So where the' impetuous river sweeps the plain,Itself a sea, and rushes to the main;While its firm banks repel conflicting tides,And stately on its breast the vessel glides;Admiring much the shepherd stands to gaze,Awe-struck, and mingling wonder with his praise:Yet more he loves its winding path to traceThrough beds of flowers, and Nature's rural face, While yet a stream the silent vale it cheered,By many a recollected scene endeared,Where trembling first beneath the poplar shadeHe tuned his pipe, to suit the wild cascade.