NATURE in PERFECTION; OR, The MOTHER unveiled.
[3]LET hireling Poets ply their venal Lays,
The Great, the Pow'rful, and the Rich, to praiſe;
Let Male-contents with Satire tickled be,
And Love-ſick Coxcombs ſink in Simile:
A diff'rent Theme my Verſes ſhall employ,
A Mother's Anguiſh, and a Mother's Joy.
And thou, O Bret! the ſofteſt of thy Kind,
Accept this Picture of a Parent's Mind;
If ever am'rous Plaint your Ear could pleaſe,
Or Love, or Pity, on your Boſom ſeize,
With fav'ring Smiles a well-meant Song regard,
And, Oh, forgive an unexperienc'd Bard,
If faintly he deſcribe the Bliſs, or Woe,
Which only you, who feel it, truly know.
From that ſad Hour, when your unhappy Son
Struck thro the Life that forfeited his own,
What Doubts, what Fears, your anxious Soul poſſes'd,
And tore the ſoft Aſylum of your Breaſt?
Oh, where for Shelter ſhall the Afflicted fly?
Or where expect a ſweeter Sanctuary?
[4] Accus'd, forlorn, the much-lov'd Youth behold,
Depriv'd of Freedom, deſtitute of Gold;
Gold, that, from Dungeons, Criminals can free,
And ev'n in Newgate offers Liberty:
Prophets of Fate, where rav'nous Vulturs ply'd,
Cruel as Death, as Death unſatisfied;
Where Felons, Murd'rers, Traytors are ſecur'd,
And, if not guiltleſs, uncondemn'd immur'd;
Where thick built Walls th'impriſon'd Wretch deprive
Almoſt of vital Air, while yet alive;
A Place, which ſcarce the Grave to which it leads,
In Damps, in Darkneſs, or in Stench exceeds.
How did your Kindneſs eaſe this Lot ſevere,
Your Fondneſs tend him, and your Bounty chear?
No Glympſe of Joy your Pleaſures then convey'd,
Nor Midnight Ball, nor Morning Maſquerade.
In vain to crouded Drawing Rooms you run:
The Court a Deſart ſeems without your Son.
If ſportive Youth with ſparkling Vigour come,
You ſee with ſecret Pain their opening Bloom.
Why was my Son (thus to yourſelf you ſay)
As young, and not ſo fortunate as they?
Nor ſight of Age your Paſſion can endure:
—And muſt my Son then leave me immature?
Still others' Joys you view'd, and taſted none,
Still others' Griefs were lighter than your own;
And ſtill whate'er you hear, whate'er you ſee,
Is cauſe for Plaint, and Food for Miſery.
[5]
Your ſoft Diſtreſs, your Tenderneſs of Pain,
Can never be deſcrib'd, or felt by Man;
Your Anna dear, taught by your matchleſs Mind,
Copies that glorious Frailty of her kind;
The Siſter's Love, in Time of Danger ſhown,
Can only be tranſcended by your own.
In his Defence mov'd your perſuaſive Tongue,
Excus'd the Raſh, and pleaded for the Young.
You, Heav'n, and Earth ſollicite on his Side,
No Friend unſpoke to, and no Art untried.
Your Art, your Importunity is weak,
You move reſiſtleſs, if the Mother ſpeak.
How vainly I recall my num'rous Fears,
The Pains he coſt me in his Infant Years!
Was it for this I bore him on my Knees?
Was all my Foreſight, were my Throes for this?
Each pleaſing Hope, that with his Life began,
All daſh'd, preſerv'd the Boy, but loſt the Man.
Strike me, and ſpare my Child! Oh, let me ſave
The Life by Friendſhip, I by Nature gave!
So Birds, by Inſtinct taught, ſupply with Food,
And chear, with genial Warmth, their callow Brood,
And oft their kind, maternal Breaſts expoſe,
To guard their helpleſs Young from threat'ning Foes,
Fearleſs, and fierce, unequal Fight maintain,
And dye themſelves, e'er ſee their Offspring ſlain.
The Doom once paſt o'er his devoted Head,
The Sword hangs, threat'ning, by a ſingle Thread.
[6] While, bent with Chains, the Weight he ſcarcely bore,
Which gall'd the Wearer much, the Mother more,
Who can the Tortures of your Soul declare,
Your Noon-tide Labours, and your Mid-night Prayer?
Let meaner Friends to view the Priſ'ner go,
Whoſe ſlighter Love can bear that Sight of Woe;
A Sight too ſhocking for a Mother's Eye,
Which yet your utmoſt Caution cannot flye:
Still to your Mind the darling Youth appears,
And racks your Boſom with tormenting Fears!
Preſent, where-e'er you move, the Phantom ſeems,
And haunts, with ghaſtly Shapes, your Morning Dreams!
The Scene of Juſtice, to your ſleeping Eyes,
Stands terribly diſplay'd—and now he dies!
Thick to your Heart the vital Currents run,
You ſtart, and waking cry—My Son! My Son!
Let none object you no Concern reveal'd,
Fire oft glows fierceſt, that is moſt conceal'd:
Great Griefs are ſpeechleſs, petty Sorrow ſpeaks,
The Heart, which vents its Anguiſh never breaks;
Your Woes the old poetic Tales revive,
And Credit to their wildeſt Fables give.
So Niobe, when, in her Preſence fell
The boaſted Offspring ſhe had lov'd too well,
Thro Horror ſtiff, beheld, with ſtupid Eye,
The laſt fair Rival of th' Immortals die;
While mightier Grief, than e'er by Words was ſhown,
Transform'd the ſilent Mourner to a Stone.
[7]
By Nature touch'd, his Pardon all deſire,
And imitate the Virtue they admire,
Unite, his dire Misfortune to bemoan,
And join in Crowds to ſupplicate the Throne;
Who e'er the Mother view'd, her Offspring lov'd,
His Hundreds He, but She her Thouſands mov'd;
From Breaſt to Breaſt contagious Mercy crept,
And Fops and Stateſmen wonder'd why they wept!
Hearts hard before, unwonted Yearning know,
Ev'n Jaylers melted at a Mother's Woe.
But ſee! he lives, whoſe Death you late deplor'd!
And angry Juſtice ſheaths her awful Sword;
Unhop'd-for Joy th' Imperial Mercy brings,
Mercy, the beſt Prerogative of Kings.
With Triumph now you ſee the Tempeſt o'er,
With Raptures mighty, as your Grief before.
Not ſo TYRCONNEL welcom'd the Relief,
Inferior in his Joy, as in his Grief;
Stranger to Motions of a Mother's Mind,
In Manners diff'rent, as in Kindred join'd.
Since for your Seed ſuch Kindneſs you expreſs,
Oh, may each Child give equal Happineſs!
With boundleſs Gratitude your Boſom burns,
Your Taſte for Pleaſures, and for Court returns!
To Minds tranſported ev'ry Thing is gay,
And January's ſelf appears like May,
Each Change of Time in Extacy is loſt,
Nor Age feels Winter, nor December Froſt.
[8] Of bright, now brighter ſhine your lovely Eyes,
And, wing'd with Joy, th' exalted Spirits riſe;
New Warmth, new Vigour to your Veins impart,
And dance tumultuous to your beating Heart.
But Oh, beware, and curb th' o'erflowing Tide,
For oft the Over-fortunate have died,
Whom Grief, in vain, had labour'd to deſtroy,
Surpris'd, unequal to Exceſs of Joy.
And ah! too far th' unwieldy Joy prevails,
For Life, itſelf, may ſink when Reaſon fails!
Since oft ſo high your Extacies have grown,
You ſeem'd the Ties of Nature to diſown;
Loſt for a While to Mem'ry, you diſclaim
A Child ſo dearly lov'd, and Mother's Name!
What dang'rous Tranſport parent Hearts may feel,
Let Ovid ſoft, the Lady's Poet, tell.
Thus old Agave, mad, denies her Boy,
Poſſeſs'd with frantic, Bacchanalian Joy,
Knows not his Form, but with diſtracted Roar,
Miſtakes her Offspring for a Foreſt-Boar,
Runs to compleat his Death, exulting on,
And ſlays a Monſter, while She kills her Son.
Soon as the ſhort Delirium paſt you find,
And Senſe regains it's Empire o'er the Mind,
You bleſs the Hand that eas'd your anxious Cares,
And pour for Brunſwick's Houſe inceſſant Prayers!
Let the King live! (thus ſpeaks your ardent Zeal!)
Long live, a Parent's Happineſs to feel
[9] May Peace for ever bleſs the ſacred Line,
That ev'ry Son may live, as well as mine!
Not equal Gladneſs o'er your Boſom ſpread;
When firſt the Infant bleſs'd your genial Bed.
Not half the Mother's Tranſport did you find,
For what is Body's Eaſe to Eaſe of Mind?
Nor when his Prattling did your Ears engage,
And promiſed Wonders in his riper Age;
Nor when the Race of Youth he gayly ran,
And roſe thro' various Hazards up to Man,
As when Great Caeſar ſpoke the Royal Word,
Which him to Life, and you to Peace reſtor'd,
Both by their Sov'reign's Favour born anew,
He twice a Son, and twice a Mother you.
FINIS.