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SYMPATHY; OR, A SKETCH OF THE SOCIAL PASSION.
A POEM.
THE THIRD EDITION.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL.
M DCC LXXXI.
INTRODUCTION.
[]THE Reader is requeſted to conſider the following Poem as nothing more than what a part of its title-page expreſſes,—a SKETCH, and only a ſketch, of the Social Paſſion, or Sympathetic Principle, applied, firſt to the Author's particular ſituation, and thence ex⯑tended more generally, as influencing the whole animal creation.
Upon viſiting the Villa of a friend, and finding it deſerted by a family extremely dear to the Author, he experienced preciſely the ſenſations he has endeavoured [vi]to deſcribe. It was natural for him to paſs beyond his own caſe, and contemplate that of others under ſimilar circumſtances. The faireſt productions of animated nature were before him. They occupied the ſame ſpot. He was ſeated in the midſt of them. His heart dilated. If, as ſeems to be admitted, a virtuous enthuſiaſm be neceſſary to the proper enjoyment of ſuch ſcenery, the Critic of Nature will hardly know how to be offended, ſhould he find, that here and there have been indulged effuſions, which, if cloſely examined when the mind is cold, may be ſound not altogether in ſtrict con⯑nection.
It were eaſy to have thrown out from the argumenta⯑tive parts ſome ſentiments not quite in keeping with the theme; but, zealous to prove the powers of Univerſal [vii]Sympathy, the writer felt the ſollicitudes of an author, united with thoſe of a philanthropiſt. Of courſe, the idea of obliterating what had any chance of cementing the ſocial affections was too painful to be adopted.
If, therefore, candour ſhould urge that in ſtepping occaſionally out of his path, his intention has been rather to gather flowers than weeds, he will be forgiven. The poetical licence becomes a matter rather of right than of courteſy, when an author pleads his privi⯑lege in the cauſe of Benevolence. He pretends not to have preſerved an exact correſpondence between the ſeveral members.
Immethodical, however, as the poem confeſſedly is, the lucidus ordo of compoſition has not been by any means [viii]wantonly diſcarded; nor ought the Author to conceal (what it is, indeed, his chief pride to acknowledge) the obligations he is under to ſome of the firſt and greateſt writers in this country, for many valuable hints, of which he has availed himſelf in the courſe of the performance.
SYMPATHY.
[]BOOK I.
OE'R you fair lawn, where oft in various talk
The fav'ring Muſes join'd our evening walk,
Up yonder hill that rears its creſt ſublime,
Where we were wont with gradual ſteps to climb,
To woo the dew-bath'd zephirs on the wing,
And hear the Lark her earlieſt matin ſing;
Faſt by you ſhed, of roots and verdure made,
Where we have paus'd, companions of the ſhade,
[2] In yonder cot juſt ſeated on the brow,
Whence unobſerv'd we view'd the world below;
Whence oft we cull'd fit objects for our ſong,
From land or ocean largely ſtretch'd along,
The morning vapours paſſing through the vale,
The diſtant turret, or the leſſening ſail,
The pointed cliff which overhangs the main,
The breezy upland, or the opening plain;
Or down yon foot-way ſaunter'd by the ſtream,
Whoſe little rills ran tinkling to the theme;
More ſoftly touch'd the woe in Hammond's lay,
Or laps'd reſponſive to the lyre of Gray;
O'er theſe dear bounds like one forlorn I roam,
O'er theſe dear bounds, I fondly call'd my home.
And yet to touch me various powers combine,
Here ſummer revels with a warmth divine;
The bloomy ſeaſon every charm ſupplies,
From earth's rich harveſt crown'd with cloudleſs ſkies,
[3] Or future plenty burſting through the grain,
From golden ſheaves that circle round the ſwain.
Here as I ſtop, beneath Eliza's tree,
Far, oh belov'd aſſociate! far from thee,
Some little CHANGE thy abſence to declare
I pray to find, and friendſhip forms the pray'r:
Leſs bright the ſun-beams, or leſs ſoft the ſhow'rs,
Some eſſence wanting to the fruits or flow'rs:
Thoſe fruits and flow'rs, alas! more ripe appear,
And the lawn ſmiles as though my friend were here;
From the ſoft myrtle brighter bloſſoms ſpring,
In mellower notes the plumy people ſing:
Near yonder church where we retir'd to pray,
The good man's modeſt cottage I ſurvey;
The pious Paſtor, who each ſabbath taught
The liſtening ruſtic's nobleſt reach of thought:
That modeſt cottage and its garden ſtill
Seek the ſoft ſhelter of the friendly hill;
The column'd ſmoke ſtill curls its wreathes around,
And not one leſſen'd beauty marks the bound.
[4]
As near you bow'r with penſive ſteps I go,
To view the ſhrubs your culture taught to grow,
The fair exotics boaſt a happier bloom
Than when their patron ſhar'd the rich perfume:
The orange ſtill its tawny luſtre ſhews
The late roſe reddens and the balſam blows;
While roving o'er the hedge the woodbine fair
Embalms with heaven's own eſſence heaven's own air,
Not ſofter and not ſweeter flew the gale,
When we together trod this blooming vale;
When far beyond the buſy world's controul,
Nature our guide, we open'd all the ſoul.
Whence this neglect? ſay, in thy lov'd domain,
Where all the virtues in thy preſence reign;
Where gathering round thee, youth and age conſpire,
While ſome as brother court thee, ſome as ſire;
Where all the ſocial paſſions ſoftly blend,
To give the ſimiling neighbourhood a friend;
[5] Where ſomewhat of thy gentle heart is ſeen,
A grace, or goodneſs, adding to the green;
Where the babe liſps thy mercies on the knee,
And ſecond childhood leans it's crutch on thee;
Whence this neglect? Ingratitude retreat!
Go: and in ſhades leſs ſacred fix thy ſeat:
Go to the treach'rous world, thy proper ſphere;
But oh! forbear to ſcatter poiſons here:
About this dwelling and theſe harmleſs bounds,
Friendſhip and Love alone ſhould take their rounds,
Fair as the bloſſoms which the walls ſuſtain,
Rich as the fruits, and generous as the grain;
Secure as yonder warblers neſting near,
Like Honour ſteady, and like Faith ſincere.
But ſoft, my friend! tho' ſhrubs and bow'rs remain
The fix'd productions of th' unconſcious plain;
Though theſe no gentle ſympathies can know,
But as the planter bends them learn to grow;
[6] To higher parts as nature lifts her plan,
The kinder creatures, haply, feel for man;
The tame domeſtics, which attend his board,
Haply partake the fortune of their lord,
His preſence hail, his abſence long deplore,
Droop as he droops, and die when he's no more.
Pleas'd at the thought, ſtill onward let me tread
Where flocks and herds diverſify the mead,
Where breathing odours, winnow'd by the gale,
Fan the ſoft boſom of the ſmiling vale;
Behind, the rooks their brawling councils hold,
And the proud peacock trails his train of gold;
Around, the doves their purple plumage ſhew,
And clucking poultry ſaunter, pleas'd, below;
While there the houſedog with accuſtom'd glee,
Fawns on the hind—and ne'er remembers thee.
Theſe crop the food, thoſe preſs the flow'ry bed,
Nor weep the abſent, nor bewail the dead;
[7] Their ſtinted feelings ſeem but half awake,
Dull as you ſteer now ſlumbering in the brake.
Whence then the gloom that gathers in the ſky?
Whence the warm tear now ſtarting to the eye?
Whence then th' apparent change when friends depart?
'Tis FANCY ſtriking on the feeling heart:
'Tis varied Fancy, whoſe aetherial wand
Bids plaſtic nature move to her command:
Oh ſhould I follow where ſhe leads the way,
What magic meteors to her touch would play!
Far, far from thee, this ſun which gilds my brow
In deep eclipſe would darken all below:
The herds, though now plain reaſon ſees them feed,
Smit by her touch would languiſh in the mead;
The breeze which now diſports with yonder ſpray,
The flocks which pant beneath the heats of day,
The pendent copſe in paſſing ſhadows dreſt,
The ſcanty herbage on the mountain's creſt,
[8] The balmy pow'rs that eſſence ev'ry gale,
The glaſſy lakes that fertilize the dale,
Struck by her myſtic ſceptre all would fade,
And ſudden ſadneſs brood along the ſhade:
Thus Chloe weds, but ſhe the garland twines;
Thus Bacchus revels, but ſhe twiſts the vines;
Thus falls a friend, but ſhe around the grave
Bids willows whiſper, and the cypreſs wave.
As poets ſing, thus Fancy takes her range,
Whoſe fairy fables can the ſyſtem change.
Soon as the gen'rous maſter leaves his home,
Behold how thick the alterations come!
Soon as the much-lov'd miſtreſs quits the ſcene,
The earth, be ſure, no longer ſmiles in green;
In ſolemn ſable ev'ry flow'r appears,
And ſkies relent in ſympathizing tears!
Scarce had the Bard of Leaſowes' lov'd domain
Clos'd his dimm'd eye upon the conſcious plain;
[9] Ere birds, and beaſts, and hills, and dales, 'tis ſaid,
Mourn'd his ſad fate, and funeral honours paid;
His gay parterres a ſerious habit wore,
His larks wou'd ſing, his lambs wou'd friſk no more,
A deeper cadence murmur'd from the floods,
And elegiac ſorrow ſhook his woods:
A ſolemn dirge the ſable raven ſung,
The muſes wept, their lyres were all unſtrung;
But chief his bowers their verdant honours ſhed,
And ev'ry laurel knew that he was dead.
Yet ſeparate facts from fairy ſcenes like theſe,
Nature, we find, ſtill keeps her firſt decrees;
The order due which at her birth was giv'n
Still forms th' unchanging law of earth and heav'n,
In one fair tenor, on the circle goes,
And no obſtruction, no confuſion knows.
When Shenſtone, nay, when Shakeſpeare preſs'd the tomb,
The ſhrubs that ſaw their fate maintain'd their bloom;
[10] Clear ran the ſtreams to their accuſtom'd ſhore,
Nor gave one bubble leſs, one murmur more;
Nor did a ſingle leaf, a ſimple flower,
Or fade, or fall, to mark their mortal hour.
But, is it Fancy ALL! what, no reſerve?
From one dull point can nature never ſwerve?
Is change of ſeaſons all the change ſhe knows,
From autumn's ſickly heats to winter ſnows;
From chilling ſpring, to ſummer's dog-ſtar rage;
From boy to man; from man to crawling age?
Theſe her tranſitions, ling'ring, ſad, and ſlow,
Whence then, embrac'd by flowers, my boſom's woe?
Ah! is it fancy, that with ſilent pace,
Impels me thus to range from place to place;
On ev'ry ſide to ſee an harveſt bend,
Yet look on ev'ry ſide to find my friend?
Or is it fancy makes the village train,
For now 'tis evening, ſport around in vain?
[11] That plighted pairs, amidſt the hazel boughs,
To me unſeen, impart their tender vows;
While unſuſpicious of a witneſs near,
They mix with nature's language, nature's tear?
That twilight's gentle grey which now comes on,
To wait, a ſober hand-maid, on the ſun;
To watch his parting tinge, his ſoften'd fires,
Then bluſh with maiden grace as he retires;
The creſcent moon which now aſcended high,
Her ſilver mantle throws acroſs the ſky;
The ſtill ſerene that ſeems to lull the breeze,
Soft in a leafy cradle 'midſt the trees;
The leſſen'd ſound of yonder requiem bell,
With reſignation in each mournful knell;
The dropping dew that ſettles on my cheek,
The frugal lights that from each cottage break;
The juſt-dropp'd latch, the little lattice clos'd,
To ſhield from eve's damp air the babe repos'd,
And note the hour when temperance and health
Give the pale vigils of the night to wealth:
[12]
Say, is it Fancy's viſion works the charm,
When theſe bleſt objects loſe their power to warm?
Ah! no; from other ſources ſprings the ſmart,
Its ſource is here, hard preſſing on my heart.
Yes, 'tis the heart which rules the roving eye,
And turns a gloomy to a cloudleſs ſky;
The ſoft magician governs every ſcene,
Bloſſoms the rock, or deſolates the green;
Along the heath bids fancied roſes blow,
And ſunſhine riſe upon a world of ſnow.
Yes, 'tis the heart endears each ſmiling plain,
Or to his native mountain binds the ſwain;
His native mountain where his cottage ſtands,
More lov'd, more fair, than all the neighb'ring lands;
For though the blaſt be keen, the ſoil be bare,
His friends, his wife, his little ones, are there.
Oh, had the brother of my heart been nigh,
When morning threw her mantle o'er the ſky;
Or when gay noon a gaudier robe diſplay'd,
Or modeſt ev'ning took her ſofteſt ſhade;
[13] Then had each ſhrub breath'd forth its full perfume,
And like the flow'rs the feelings been in bloom:
For ſtill to prove the natal bias right,
The ſenſes with the ſeaſon muſt unite.
The bias SOCIAL, man with men muſt ſhare
The varied benefits of earth and air;
The leading law of life which governs all,
To ſome in large degrees, to ſome in ſmall;
To loweſt inſects, higheſt pow'rs a part,
Wiſely diſpens'd to ev'ry beating heart;
To every creature juſt proportion's giv'n,
From the mole's manſion to the ſeraph's heav'n.
See the wing'd legions which at noon-tide play,
Together cluſt'ring in the ſolar ray,
There ſports the ſocial paſſion; ſee, and own,
That not an atom takes its flight alone.
Th' unwieldy monſters of the pregnant deep;
The ſavage troops that through the foreſt ſweep;
The viewleſs tribes that populate the air;
The milder creatures of domeſtic care;
[14] The rooks which rock their infants on the tree;
The race which dip their pinions in the ſea;
The feather'd train, gay tenants of the buſh,
The gloſſy blackbird, and the echoing thruſh,
The gaudy goldfinch which ſalutes the ſpring,
Winnowing the thiſtle with his burniſh'd wing;
Jove's eagle, ſoaring to you orb of light;
Aurora's lark, and Cynthia's bird of night:
All theſe the laws of Sympathy declare;
And chorus heav'n's firſt maxim, BORN TO SHARE.
Inſtinct, or Sympathy, or what you will,
The ſocial principle is active ſtill;
Of every element it glows the ſoul,
Touches, pervades, and animates the whole;
Floats in the gale, ſurrounds earth's wide domain,
Aſcends with fire, and dives into the main;
Whilſt dull, or bright, the affections know to play,
As full, or feebly, darts this ſocial ray;
Dimly it gleams on inſect, fiſh, and fowl,
But ſpreads broad ſunſhine o'er man's favour'd ſoul.
[15]
Man's favour'd ſoul then trace through every ſtate,
And ſee it fitted for a ſocial fate;
Behold how nature to connection tends,
Each ſeeks from each his relatives and friends.
You ſpacious dome which earth and ſea commands,
Where Titus dreſſes his paternal lands;
Where water guſhes, and where wood extends,
To ſhare each beauty, Titus calls his friends;
A naked waſte, till they adorn his flow'rs,
A deſert ſcene, till they partake his bow'rs:
Nor this, though ſweet, the greateſt bliſs he feels,
That greateſt bliſs his modeſty conceals.
Paſs the green ſlope which bounds his fair domain,
And ſeek the valley dropping from the plain;
There, in a bloſſom'd nook, by pomp unſeen,
An aged couple lead a life ſerene;
And there, behind thoſe elms, a ſickly pair
Exchange their labours for a ſofter care:
'Twas Titus gave to ſickneſs this repoſe,
And plac'd life's ſecond cradle near the roſe;
[16] In his own hall though louder joys prevail,
A dearer tranſport whiſpers from the vale;
Though mirth and frolic echo through the dome:
In thoſe ſmall cots his boſom finds a home.
Fame, fortune, friends, can providence give more?
Go, aſk of heav'n the bleſſings of the poor!
A greater comfort would you ſtill ſupply?
Then wipe the tear from ſorrow's ſtreaming eye;
For ſocial kindneſs to another ſhewn,
Expands the bliſs to make it more your own.
Lo! the rude ſavage, naked and untaught,
Shares with his mate what arts and arms have caught;
When winter darkneſs clouds his long, long night,
See how he ſtrives to find the ſocial light;
His woodland wife, his foreſt children dear,
Smooth the bleak ſtorms that ſadden half his year.
For them he tracks the monſter in the ſnow;
For them he hurls his ſling, and twangs his bow;
[17] Nor ſcorching ſunſhine, nor the driving ſhow'r,
The vollied thunder, nor the light'ning's pow'r,
Nor climes, where ſickneſs pants in every breeze,
Nor worlds of ice, where nature ſeems to freeze,
Checks the fair principle, which burſts away,
Like Sol when clouds attempt his noon-tide ray.
Hence, ever lean the feeble on the ſtrong,
As tender ſires their children lead along;
While, by degrees, as tranſient life declines,
And florid youth to withering age reſigns,
The ſocial paſſion ſhifts with place and time,
And tender ſires are led by ſons in prime;
The guide becomes the guided in his turn,
While child and parent different duties learn.
Not then from fancy only, from the heart,
Pours the keen anguiſh on th' immortal part,
And truth herſelf deſtroys the bloom of May,
When death or fortune tears a friend away;
[18] From virtuous paſſion, virtuous feeling flows,
The grief that dims the lilly and the roſe.
Drops a ſoft ſorrow for a friend in duſt?
There, truth and fancy both may rear the buſt;
While one pours forth the tribute of the heart,
The other plies her viſionary art,
Potent ſhe calls her airy ſpectres round,
And bids them inſtant conſecrate the ground;
In magic circles, lo, the illuſions come,
To ſhroud the earth in monumental gloom;
Fancy preſides as ſov'reign of the ſcene,
And dark is every leaf of every green;
Whilſt reaſon loves to mix with her's the tear,
And the fair mourners form a league ſincere;
Her airy viſions, fancy may impart,
And reaſon liſten to the charmer's art.
In life's fair morn, I knew an aged ſeer,
Who ſad and lonely paſt his joyleſs year;
[19] Betray'd, heart-broken, from the world he ran,
And ſhunn'd, oh dire extreme, the face of man;
Humbly he rear'd his hut within the wood,
Hermit his beard, a hermit's was his food,
Nitch'd in ſome corner where the gelid caves
With chilling drops the rugged rockſtone laves;
Hour after hour, the melancholy ſage,
Drop after drop to reckon, would engage
The ling'ring day, and trickling as they fell,
A tear went with them to the narrow well.
Then thus he moraliz'd as ſlow it paſt,
"This, brings me nearer Lucia than the laſt;
"And this, now ſtreaming from the eye," ſaid he,
"Oh, my lov'd child, will bring me nearer thee."
When firſt he roam'd, his dog with anxious care,
His wandring's watch'd, as emulous to ſhare;
In vain the faithful brute was bid to go,
Vain ſought the ſage a ſolitary woe;
[20] The pilgrim paus'd, th' attendant dog was near,
Slept at his feet, and caught the falling tear;
Up roſe the pilgrim, up the dog would riſe,
And every way to win a maſter tries.
"Then be it ſo. Come, faithful fool," he ſaid;
One pat encourag'd, and they ſought the ſhade;
An unfrequented thicket ſoon they found,
And both repos'd upon the leafy ground;
Mellifluous murm'rings told the fountains nigh,
Fountains, which well a pilgrim's drink ſupply.
And thence, by many a labyrinth it led,
Where ev'ry tree beſtow'd an evening bed;
Skill'd in the chace the faithful creature brought
Whate'er at morn or moon-light courſe he caught;
But ſofteſt pity gave the ſage to all,
Nor ſaw unwept his dumb aſſociates fall.
He was, in ſooth, the gentleſt of his kind,
And though a hermit had a ſocial mind:
"And why, ſaid he, muſt man ſubſiſt by prey,
"Why ſtop you melting muſic on the ſpray?
[21] "Why, when aſſail'd by hounds and hunter's cry,
"Muſt half the harmleſs race in terror fly?
"Why muſt we work of innocence the woe?
"Still ſhall this boſom throb, theſe eyes o'erflow.
"A heart too tender, here from man retires,
"A heart that aches if but a wren expires."
Thus liv'd the maſter good, the ſervant true,
Till to its God the maſter's ſpirit flew;
Beſide a fount which daily water gave,
Stooping to drink, the pilgrim found a grave;
All in the running ſtream his garments ſpread,
And dark, damp verdure ill conceal'd his head;
Crouch'd in the water the ſurvivor ſtood,
Sick'ning with ſorrow, and rejecting food,
The faithful ſervant from that fatal day
Watch'd the lov'd corpſe and piteous pin'd away;
Five nights he fill'd the foreſt with his moan,
Five nights he join'd the paſſing ſpectre's groan;
At length the ſcreech-owl flapping, boded death,
And ſoon the ſervant yielded up his breath:
[22] His head upon his maſter's cheek was found,
While the obſtructed waters mourn'd around.
But ſordid ſouls are ever in diſtreſs,
To bleſs himſelf each muſt a ſecond bleſs;
Then kindle on till he the world embrace,
And in love's Caeſtus gird the human race.
Thus ſocial grief can finer joys impart
Than the dull pleaſures of a miſer heart:
Thus with more force can melancholy warm,
Than wild ambition's ſolitary charm.
And oh, juſt heav'n, what gift canſt thou beſtow,
What gem ſo precious as a tear for woe?
A tear more full of thee, oh power divine,
Than all the droſs that ripens in the mine!
As man with man, with creature creature keeps,
In ſummer feeds in view, in winter creeps
More cloſe; but take the lamb apart
From its lov'd mother, then the ſocial heart
[23] Plains in its voice, while ſad, the dam around
Bleats o'er the theft and leaves uncropt the ground.
In yonder huts, at this profound of night,
The twelfth hour ſtriking as theſe lines I write,
In yonder ſcatt'ring huts, now ev'ry ſwain,
With ev'ry maid and matron of the plain,
In ſleep's ſoft arms on wholſome pallets preſt,
Breathe forth the ſocial paſſion as they reſt:
But ſhould dire fate the father make its prey,
Or ſnatch untimely one lov'd child away;
Should the fair damſel ſicken in her bloom,
Or bear the faithful houſewife to the tomb,
No aid from fancy ſeeks the ſorrowing heart,
But truth with force unborrow'd points the dart.
For me, as weary of myſelf I riſe,
To ſeek the reſt which wakeful thought denies;
O'er the long manſion as I lonely range,
Condemn'd at ev'ry ſtep to feel the change;
[24] Through each apartment, where ſo oft my heart
Hath ſhar'd each grace of nature and of art,
Where mem'ry marks each object that I ſee,
And fills the boſom, oh my friend, with thee;
Through each apartment as I paſs along,
Pauſe for relief, and then purſue my ſong;
For me, who now with midnight taper go,
In ſleep to ſoothe a ſolitary's woe;
No greater good my cloſing thoughts can bleſs,
Ere this remember'd, little couch I preſs,
Than the ſweet hope, that at this ſacred hour
My friend enjoys kind nature's balmy power;
Than the ſoft wiſh that on my bended knee,
I offer up, Eliza, warm for thee!
Wife of my friend; alike my faithful care,
Alike the object of each gentle pray'r;
Far diſtant though thou art, thy worth is near,
And my heart ſeals its bleſſing with a tear.
END OF THE FIRST BOOK.
BOOK II.
[25]AND now again 'tis morn, the orient ſun
Prepares once more his radiant courſe to run;
O'er you tall trees I ſee his glories riſe,
Tinge their green tops, and gain upon the ſkies;
The SOCIAL PRINCIPLE reſumes the ſhade,
Baſks on the banks, or glides along the glade:
See how it pants, my friend, in yonder throng,
Where half a village bear thy ſheaves along;
Low ſtoops the ſwain to dreſs his native ſoil,
And here the houſewife comes to ſoothe his toil;
[26] While heav'n's warm beams upon her boſom dart,
She ſtrains her wedded huſband to her heart;
Or from his brow the labour'd drop removes,
And dares to ſhew with what a force ſhe loves;
Where'er the mother moves her race attend,
And often cull the corn, and often bend;
Or bear the ſcrip, or tug the rake along,
Or catch the burthen of the reaper's ſong;
Or ſhrinking from the ſickle's creſcent blade,
Cling to the gown, half pleas'd, and half afraid;
While he who gave them life looks on the while,
And views his little houſhold with a ſmile;
Imprints the kiſs, then bleſſing ev'ry birth,
Carols his joy, and cultivates the earth.
But not to ſcenes of peaſantry confin'd,
Though haply thoſe more free, and unconfin'd;
Not to this ſpot, the object of thy care,
Nor to the neighb'ring greens that checquer fair,
[27] The views which ſtretch beyond the weſtern main,
And mark the diſtrict of a diff'rent plain;
Not circumſcrib'd to theſe the ſocial plan,
Which more extends, as more purſu'd by man.
Juſt as you path-way, winding through the mead,
Grows broad and broader by perpetual tread,
The ſocial paſſion turns the foot aſide,
And prompts the ſwains to travel ſide by ſide;
Both edge, by turns, upon the bord'ring ſod,
And the path widens as the graſs is trod.
In cities thus, though trade's tumultuous train
Spurn at the homely maxims of the plain,
Not all the toſs of rank, the trick of art,
Can chaſe the ſocial paſſion from the heart:
Nay more, a larger circle it muſt take,
Where men embodying, larger int'reſts make,
And each perforce round each more cloſely twine,
Where thouſands lean their weight upon the line.
[28]
As ſlow to yonder eminence I bend,
Gradual the views of ſocial life extend,
Where benches ſoften the aſcent I ſtray,
And ſtop at each to take a juſt ſurvey;
At ev'ry ſtep, as ſinks the vale behind,
A wider proſpect opens on mankind.
Far to the leſt where thoſe blue hills ariſe,
And bathe their ſwelling boſoms in the ſkies;
The barks of commerce ſet the flapping ſail,
And the dark ſea-boy ſues the buſy gale;
There the deep warehouſe ſhews its native ſtore,
And there flame riches of a foreign ſhore;
Thick ſwarm the ſons of trade on every hand,
And either India breathes along the ſtrand:
Gold, give me gold, each buſtler cries aloud,
As hope or fear alternate ſeize the croud;
To careleſs eyes the love of pelf alone,
Seems to drain off the golden tide for one;
[29] But cloſer view'd a various courſe it takes,
And wide meanderings in its paſſage makes;
Through many a ſocial channel ſee it run,
And carry plenty down from ſire to ſon;
From thence in many a mazy ſtream it flows,
And feels no ebb, nor dull ſtagnation knows;
Gain, pleaſure, paſſion, property, induce
Each ſingle man to ſtudy general uſe.
Thus nature and neceſſity agree
The ſocial chain to ſtretch from land to ſea.
Thus e'en the miſer opes his ſordid ſoul,
Loves but himſelf, and yet befriends the whole.
Aſk you a ſtronger proof? Place wealth alone;
With ſome hard niggard lock up all his own;
Pile bills, and bags, and bonds, upon his ſhelf,
And a cloſe priſoner chain him to his pelf.
Unhappy man! from family and friends,
From all which heav'n in ſoft compaſſion ſends,
From touch of kindred, tune of tender ſpeech,
And exil'd from the ſocial paſſion's reach;
[30] How would he ſigh his ſtation to regain,
And buy a glance at man with half his gain!
How, at ſome chink or crevice would he ply,
And envy each poor beggar limping by!
Far happier he, who breaſting ev'ry wind,
Lives on the common mercy of his kind,
Who roams the world to tell his piteous caſe,
And dies at laſt amidſt the human race.
Ye friends to ſelf, ye worſhippers of gold,
Who deem a paſſion laviſh'd if unſold;
Who farm the principles with ſtateſman's art,
And like a us'rer traffick with the heart:
Who to that idol in its nich confine
The holy incenſe due at nature's ſhrine;
Say, can your ſordid merchandize deny
The ſacred force of heav'n-born Sympathy?
Ah, no! the gen'rous ſpirit takes a part,
As goodneſs, glory, pity, move the heart.
[31] Elſe, why at ev'ry virtue do we glow?
Elſe, why at ſorrow do the eyes o'erflow?
Why with the fabled hero do we bleed,
And ſcorn the baſe, and love the gen'rous deed?
Why ev'ry turn of fortune do we ſhare,
As with old Homer's chiefs we ruſh to war?
Why with the wife of Hector do we mourn,
Weep with poor Priam, with Achilles burn?
Attentive hear Apollo's prieſt complain,
Or join our griefs for good Patroclus ſlain?
Spite of your arts the ſympathies ariſe,
And aid the cauſe of all the brave and wiſe;
Spite of your little ſelves, when virtue charms,
To nature true, the ſocial paſſion warms;
Vain to reſiſt, imperial nature ſtill
Aſſerts her claim, and bends us to her will.
Hence the great principle to all expands,
Thaws Lapland's ice, and glows on India's ſands;
[32] Above, below, its genial ſplendours play,
Where'er an human footſtep marks the way.
"Oh, for one trace of man upon the ſnow,
"The track of ſweet ſociety to ſhew;
"Oh, for one print on ſwarthy Afric's ſhore!"
Thus prays the wanderer ſcap'd from ocean's roar;
In every clime is felt the throb divine,
By land, by water, here, and at the Line.
Nor Climates only, for each Age imparts
The kindly bias to our ſocial hearts;
See the ſwath'd infant cling to the embrance,
And feel inſtinctive fondneſs for its race;
See it, aſcending, ſtrengthen as it grows,
Till ripe and riper the affection glows,
Then view the child, its toys and trinkets ſhare,
With ſome lov'd partner of its little care:
Behold the man a firmer bond requires,
For him the paſſion kindles all its fires;
[33] Next, ſee his numerous offspring twining near,
Now move the ſmile, and now excite the tear;
Terror and tranſport in his boſom reign,
Succeſſion ſweet of pleaſure and of pain.
As Age advances, ſome ſenſations ceaſe,
Some, lingering, leave the heart, while ſome increaſe:
Thus, when life's vigorous paſſions are no more,
Self-love creeps cloſeſt to the ſocial power;
The ſtooping veteran of the ſilver hair
Crawls to the blazing hearth and wicker chair,
There huddled cloſe, he fondly hopes to ſpy
His goodly ſons and daughters ſtanding by,
To the liſp'd tale he bends the greedy ear,
And o'er his children's children drops a tear;
Or, every friend ſurviv'd, himſelf half dead,
Frail nature ſtill demands her board, her bed;
And theſe ſome kindred ſpirit ſhall beſtow,
His wants ſupply, or mitigate his woe;
[34] Still Symphathy ſhall watch his fleeting breath,
And gently lead him to the gates of death.
Yet more; e'en WAR, the ſcourge of human kind,
But ſerves more cloſe the ſocial links to bind;
Confederate courage forms the embattled line,
Firm on each ſide connecting paſſions join;
'Tis ſocial danger either troop inſpires,
'Tis ſocial honour either army fires,
'Tis ſocial glory burniſhes the van,
'Tis ſocial faith ſpreads on from man to man:
Theſe, all combining, agitate the breath,
Stake life on life, and hazard death for death.
As front to front the warring parties meet,
For ſocial ends they dare the martial feat;
As breaſt to breaſt, and eye to eye they fix,
For ſocial ends they ſeparate or mix.
King, country, parents, children, prompt the fight,
For theſe alone they bleed, reſiſt, unite;
And, haply, firſt hoſtilities aroſe
From nice diſtinctions made of friends and foes;
[35] Some ſcornful ſlight where nature moſt can ſmart,
Some ſtinging inſult ſoreſt to the heart,
Some wrong detected, forfeited ſome truſt,
A treaty broken, or a barrier burſt,
Bade Sympathy call Juſtice to her aid
Till laws were faſhion'd, and till wars were made:
Affection ſought from Power the wiſh'd relief
To ſmite the aſſaſſin, and to hang the thief,
And over thoſe who faith's fair league invade
To wield the battle-axe, or lift the blade;
Or from the ſpoiler's hand to fence the flowers
That ſweetly bloſſom round life's private bowers:
'Tis thus, the ſteady eye of Reaſon finds
What ſeems to ſnap the chain more cloſely binds;
And thus each peril like each pleaſure try'd
Unites the roſy bonds on either ſide.
But leſs do arms than ARTS aſſiſt the plan,
If thoſe defend, 'tis theſe embelliſh man;
[36] Theſe ſoftly draw him nearer to his kind,
And mark diſtinct his ſeraph form of mind.
Lo, in firm compact, hand, and head, and heart,
To aid the ſyſtem take a helping part,
Their various powers by various modes they lend,
And ſerve in union as one common friend;
Hence, by conſent, men clear the unthrifty wood,
New model earth, and navigate the flood;
And hamlets grow into the city's pride,
While the ſoul opens like the talents wide.
By ſocial pleaſure, profit, paſſion, ſway'd,
Some ſoar to learning, and ſome ſtoop to trade.
Studious to gain the love of human kind,
The ſocial ſage at midnight ſtores his mind,
Robs weary nature of her juſt repoſe,
Nor drinks the dew that bathes the morning roſe,
Nor when the ſun to Cynthia gives the night,
Eyes the ſoft bleſſing of her tender light,
[37] But o'er the taper leans his penſive head,
And for the Living communes with the Dead.
The duſky artizan, his effort made,
Aſſerts his rights, and leaves the ſickly ſhade;
At eve he quits the ſpot where glooms annoy,
And ſeeks the boſom of domeſtic joy;
The ſocial faggot, and the light repaſt,
Await to chear him when his toils are paſt.
Hence too, each claſs of Elegant and Great,
Art decks the dome, and commerce crouds the ſtreet;
The heav'n-born Muſe impetuous wings her way,
When her lov'd Seward ſeeks the realms of day;
The painter hence his magic pencil plies,
And Reynolds bids a new creation riſe;
Fair Kauffman ſketches life's lov'd forms anew,
And holds the mirror of paſt times to view,
Reſtores each grace that mark'd the Grecian age,
And draws her lovely comment on the page;
[38] And ſtill to chear the ſolitary hour,
For this has * Beach diſplay'd his happieſt power;
When far from thee, I hail his generous art,
And bleſs the hand which thus relieves my heart;
I ſee my friend upon the canvas glow,
And feel the ſmile that lightens every woe.
All, SYMPATHY, is thine; th' Immortal ſtrung
For thee, that more than golden harp the Tongue,
The ſpheres' beſt muſic taught it to impart,
And bade each ſoft vibration ſtrike the heart.
Thine too, the varied fruitage of the fields,
The cluſtering crops which yonder valley yields,
The moſſy down which feeds a thouſand ſheep,
The bowers umbrageous, and the cultur'd ſteep;
The ſtill ſmooth joys that bloom o'er life's ſerene,
And all the buſtle of the public ſcene.
[39] Theſe ſeveral efforts ſlow or rapid riſe,
As men are good, or bad, or weak, or wiſe;
Here quick, there ſlow the impulſe; but the whole
Points to this centre, Sympathy of Soul.
Nor think the dull, cold reaſoner can diſprove
Theſe varied powers of ſympathetic love;
Nor hope, ye cynics, ſedulous to find
From partial ſpots a flaw in human kind;
As well the panther might you charge with ſin,
And call each ſtreak a blemiſh on his ſkin;
Allow to ſelf the broadeſt ſcope you can,
Still breathes the ſocial principle in man.
Oft when pride whiſpers that he ſtands alone,
His ſtrength proceeds from other than his own;
Oft when he ſeems to walk the world apart,
Another's intereſt twines about his heart;
And call his project raſh, his effort vain,
Still ſocial pleaſure is the END to gain;
[40] Or ſay, this builds for pomp, that digs for bread,
This ſhews you pictures, that a pompous bed,
This toils a niggard at his lonely trade,
That rears the bower, but aſks not to its ſhade;
Say, for himſelf this bids the arches bend,
Or that directs the column to aſcend;
This through his grot commands the ſtreams to glide,
As that for Avarice braves the toſſing tide;
That this for Vanity his wealth diſplays,
As that for Pride unravels learning's maze;
Trace but their PURPOSE to one general end,
You ſee it work the good of wife, or friend,
Parent, or child, their privilege ſtill claim,
And ſocial comfort ſprings from what we blame:
Frailty itſelf our ſympathy may ſpare,
A graceful weakneſs when no vice is there.
Who hopes perfection breaks down nature's fence,
And ſpurns the modeſt bounds of ſober ſenſe.
When ſtraw-like errours lean * to virtue's ſide,
Ah, check, ye bigots, check your furious pride;
[41] Some venial faults, like clouds at peep of day,
Bluſh as they paſs, and but a moment ſtay;
Thoſe venial faults from ſordid boſoms ſtart,
And ſpring up only in the generous heart,
As florid weeds elude the labourer's toil,
From too much warmth or richneſs of the ſoil;
While meaner ſouls, like Zembla's hills of ſnow,
Too barren prove for weeds or flowers to grow.
This then is clear, while human kind exiſt,
The ſocial principle muſt ſtill ſubſiſt,
In ſtrict dependency of one on all,
As run the binding links from great to ſmall.
Man born for Man ſome friendly aid requires,
The contract ſtrengthening till the ſoul retires;
Nor then, ev'n then it breaks, for ſtill we pay
A brother's homage to the breathleſs clay,
Jealous of deſtiny the heart would ſave
Its favour'd object from the cloſing grave,
[42] Its favour'd object choſen from the reſt,
In grief, in joy, the monarch of the breaſt;
To earth we truſt what fondneſs would retain,
And leave the corpſe to viſit it again;
Or unconſin'd by partial ties of blood,
Brave ſterneſt peril for a ſtranger's good.
Once, and no ſecond ſtroke of fancy this,
A truth too tender for the heart to miſs,
Once, and not far from theſe lov'd feats ſerene,
Juſt where you white huts peep the copſe between,
A damſel languiſh'd, all her kin were gone,
For God who lent, reſum'd them one by one;
Diſeaſe and penury in cruel ſtrife,
Had raviſh'd all the decent means of life,
E'en the mark'd crown, her lover's gift ſhe gave
In filial duty for a father's grave,
That ſo the honour'd clay which caus'd her birth
Might ſlumber peaceful in the ſacred earth,
[43] Chim'd to its graſs-green home with pious peal,
While hallow'd dirges hymn the laſt farewell;
At length, theſe ſearching woes her ſenſe invade,
And lone and long the hapleſs wanderer ſtray'd
O'er the bleak heath, around th' unmeaſur'd wood,
Up the huge precipice, or near the flood,
Or mount the rock at midnight's awful hour,
Enjoy the gloom, and idly mock the ſhower;
Now ſcorn her fate, now patient bend the knee,
And call on every ſtar to ſet her free,
Then, ſtarting wilder, think thoſe ſtars her foes,
Now ſmite her breaſt, now laugh amidſt her woes;
Or child-like, chace the bee, or braid the graſs,
Or crop the hedge-flower, or diſorder'd paſs;
Elſe, would ſhe loiter in the mid-way mead,
Sing to the birds at rooſt, the lambs at feed;
Or if a neſt ſhe found the brakes among,
No hand of her's deſtroy'd the promis'd young;
And when kind nature brought the balmy ſleep,
Too ſoon ſhe woke to wander and to weep;
[44] Acroſs her breaſt the tangled treſſes flew,
And frenzied glances all around ſhe threw;
Th' unſettled ſoul thoſe frenzied glances ſpeak,
And tears of terror hurry down her cheek;
Yet ſtill that eye was bright, that cheek was fair,
Though pale the roſe, the lilly bloſſom'd there.
A pilgrim ſwain, the beauteous Maniac found,
Her woes wild warbling to the rocks around;
A river roll'd beſide, aghaſt ſhe ran,
Her vain fears ſtarting at the ſight of man;
And, ſave me God! my father's ghoſt! ſhe cry'd,
Then head-long plung'd into the ſparkling tide.
The pilgrim follows, ſtrikes each eager limb,
But theſe, alas! his firſt eſſays to ſwim;
Attempt, how vain! full wild the waters roſe,
And o'er their heads in circling ſurges cloſe,
He graſps the damſel ſtruggling with the wave,
Till both untimely find a wat'ry grave.
And lives the man, oh Nature, tell me where,
Whoſe rebel boſom knows no triumph here;
[45] Whoſe coward cheek no tinge of honour feels,
Fluſh'd with no pride at what the Muſe reveals?
Lives there, who all unconſcious could have ſtood
To ſee the victim buffet with the flood?
If ſuch a man, if ſuch a wretch there be,
Thanks to this aching heart, I am not he.
Hail, lovely griefs, in tender mercy giv'n,
And hail, ye tears, like dew-drops freſh from heav'n;
Hail, balmy breath of unaffected ſighs,
More ſweet than airs that ventilate the ſkies;
Hail, ſacred ſource of ſympathies divine,
Thine ev'ry ſocial pulſe, each fibre thine;
Hail, ſymbols of the God to whom we owe
The nerves that vibrate, and the hearts that glow;
Love's tender tumult, friendſhip's holy fires,
And all which beauty, all which worth inſpires,
The joy that lights the hope-illumin'd eye,
The bliſs ſupreme that melts in pity's ſigh,
Affection's bloom quick ruſhing to the face,
The choice acknowledg'd and the warm embrace:
[46] Oh power of powers, whoſe magic thus can draw
Earth, air, and ocean, by one central law,
Join bird to bird, to inſect inſect link,
From thoſe which grovel up to thoſe which think;
Oh, ever bleſt! whoſe bounties opening wide
Fill the vaſt globe, for mortals to divide,
Whoſe heavenly favours ſtretch from pole to pole,
Encircle earth, and rivet ſoul to ſoul!
Ceaſe then to wonder theſe lov'd ſcenes impart
No more the uſual tranſport to my heart;
Though modeſt Twilight viſit Eve again,
At whoſe ſoft ſummons homeward ſteps the ſwain;
Though from the breath of oxen in the vale,
I catch the ſpirit of the balmy gale,
And from the brakes the anſwering thruſhes ſing,
While the grey owl ſails by on ſolemn wing;
Nor wonder, if when morning blooms again,
In diſcontent I quit the flowery plain.
[47]
Thus the poor mariner, his traffick o'er,
Crouds ev'ry ſail to reach his native ſhore,
With ſmiles he marks the pennons ſtream to port,
And climbs the top-moſt maſt to eye the fort;
Dim through the miſt the diſtant land appears,
And far he ſlopes to hail it with his tears;
From foreign regions, foreign faces, come,
Anxious he ſeeks his much-lov'd friends at home,
Warm, and more warm, the ſocial paſſion glows,
As near and nearer to the place he goes;
Quick beats his heart as preſſing on he ſees
His own fair cottage canopy'd with trees;
For there, in bleſſed health, he hopes to find
His wife and cradled infant left behind;
Panting, he plucks the latch that guards the door,
But finds his wife, his cradled babe, no more!
Like ſome ſad ghoſt he wanders o'er the green,
Droops on the bloſſom'd waſte, and loaths the ſcene.
[48]
Yet haply you, by SYMPATHY, may know
That here a-while I paus'd to paint my woe,
For ſure if ever Silph or Silphid bore
One true friend's meſſage to a diſtant ſhore;
If ever ſpirit whiſper'd gentle deed,
In ſuch an abſence moſt its aid we need.
Perhaps, for now let fancy take her flight,
My friend, like me, may wander through the night,
Amidſt a different ſcenery may roam,
And many a gentle ſigh addreſs to home;
Ev'n now, where moon-beams tremble on the wave,
And circling ſeagulls their long pinions lave,
Where anchor'd veſſels in the harbour ride,
To wait the flux of the returning tide,
Where the ſalt billow beats againſt the ſtrand,
My friend may take his ſolitary ſtand;
Or on the rock projecting to the main
May ſit him down to mark the ſocial ſtrain,
Along the frothing beach may bend his way,
And ſuit, like me, his ſorrows to his lay.
[49]
FAREWELL, my hour approaches with the dawn,
And up I ſpring to leave the flowery lawn;
The pain increaſes as I ſtay to trace
Another ſunſhine riſing o'er the place:
Adieu then, balmy ſhrubs and ſhades, adieu,
This paſſing incenſe o'er your leaves I ſtrew;
Adieu, thou dear and hill-ſcreen'd cottage fair;
Adieu, thou decent dome of Sunday prayer;
To each, to all, adieu; your lonely gueſt
Retires. The SOCIAL PASSION ſpeaks the reſt.
THE END.
Notes
*
A very ingenious and riſing artiſt, who has painted for the author an admirable por⯑trait of the gentleman to whom this poem is inſcribed: Mr. Beach now reſides at Bath, where he is gaining that celebrity which is due to uncommon genius, and which nothing but uncommon modeſty could ſo long have impeded.
*
In the former Edition printed leap, very improperly.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5023 Sympathy or a sketch of the social passion A poem. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5CF2-C