TO JAMES BOSWELL, Eſq
[]IF Adam Fitzadam preſumed to inſcribe a volume of the WORLD to MR MOORE, I can ſee no rea⯑ſon why I, a Gentleman of Scotland, may not take much the ſame liberty with MR BOSWELL.
Do not imagine, Sir, becauſe this addreſs comes in the form of a dedication, that I have been invo⯑king the goddeſs of Flattery. Indeed I have no in⯑tention to pay your compliments: not that your diſ⯑cernment is ſo nice as to reject them with indignation; but becauſe it is my ſincere opinion that they would do you harm. To entertain agreeable notions of one's own character, is a great incentive to act with propri⯑ety and ſpirit. But I ſhould be ſorry to contribute in any degree, to your acquiring an exceſs of ſelf-ſuffi⯑ciency.
To talk thus freely, is certainly a proof that I wiſh [3] you well: and I make no doubt, Sir, but you conſi⯑der me as your very good friend; although ſome peo⯑ple, —and thoſe too not deſtitute of wiſdom,—will not ſcruple to inſinuate the contrary.
Be that as it may, give me leave to thank you for your particular kindneſs to me; and chiefly for the profound reſpect with which you have always treated me.
I own indeed, that when I have boaſted of a glimpſe of regard from the fineſt eyes, and moſt amiable heart in the world; or, to diſplay my extenſive erudition, have quoted Greek, Latin, and French ſentences, one after another with aſtoniſhing celerity; or have got in⯑to my Old-hock humour, and fallen a-raving about prin⯑ces and lords, knights and geniuſes, ladies of quality and harpſichords;—you, with a peculiar comic ſmile, have gently reminded me of the importance of a man to himſelf, and ſlily left the room, with the witty DEAN lying open at [...] P. P. clerk of this pariſh.
The following ODE which courts your acceptance, is on a ſubject grave and ſolemn; and therefore may be conſidered by many people, as not ſo well ſuited to [4] your volatile diſpoſition. But I, Sir, who enjoy the pleaſure of your intimate acquaintance, know that many of your hours of retirement are devoted to thought; and that you can as ſtrongly reliſh the pro⯑ductions of a ſerious Muſe, as the moſt brilliant ſal⯑lies of ſportive Fancy.
As to my merit as a poet, I ſhall only ſay, that while I am certain of YOUR approbation, I ſhall be entirely ſatisfied: and if I can any how improve the noble feelings of that honeſt open heart of yours, I ſhall reckon myſelf infinitely happy.
I muſt now bid you farewell, with an aſſurance, that while you continue the man that you are, you ſhall ever find me, with the greateſt ſincerity and af⯑fection,
ODE TO TRAGEDY.
[]I.
GODDESS ſupreme! whoſe power divine
The yielding Paſſions all obey,
On me, O! with thy influence ſhine!
O! ſend a ſpark to fire each lay!
A ſoul by nature form'd to feel
Grief ſharper than the tyrants ſteel,
And boſom big with ſwelling thought,
From ancient lore's remembrance brought,
Prompt me with pinions bold my way to wing,
And like the ſky-lark at heaven's gate to ſing.
II.
Come, miſtreſs of ſuperior grace,
Daughter in hour ſublime of Jove!
O'er the ſtrong features of whoſe face
With air of diſtant awe we rove:
While mingling ſoftneſs to the eye
Seems o'er each lineament to fly;
As when the ſun's reſplendent rays
In ſummer glow with redd'ning blaze,
A floating blue-ting'd cloud does interveen,
And thro' a veil the ſire of light is ſeen.
[6]III.
Come, Muſe! while Terror's ghaſtly form,
And Pity, gentle maid, appear,
Or to aſſault the ſoul by ſtorm,
Or ſteal the generous heart-ſprung tear:
While they attendant on thy ſtate,
Submiſſive thy beheſts await,
Dread as a hideous lion chain'd,
And Pity's looks with crying ſtain'd,
O in thy dazzling majeſty advance,
Thou who thro' nature ſhoot'ſt with eagle glance.
IV.
'Tis thine the ſoul to humanize
By fancied wo;—Goddeſs! 'tis thine
To bid compaſſion melt the eyes,
And all the feelings ſoft refine.
'Tis thine, with great Apollo's ſkill,
The inmoſt ſprings of life to thrill;
'Tis thine to move a breaſt of ſtone,
And make a brazen heart to own,
That ſolemn tragic numbers are of force,
To ſtop a villain in his bloody courſe.
[7]V.
Behold the buſkin'd bard of Greece!
Th' inchantment of whoſe tuneful ſhell
Could ſooth the mind to gentle peace,
Or rouſe to fury ſprung from hell!
See in his kindling look, the fire
Bright flaming from his golden lyre!
Hark how he ſweeps the ſtrings!—ſuch tones
Nature deſign'd affliction's groans.
I feel, when now he wakes another ſtrain,
The love of glory panting in each vein!
VI.
Unhappy Oedipus! thy fate—
—Gods! for one mortal how ſevere!—
While Sophocles deigns to relate,
In pomp of ſadneſs ſhall appear.
The direful oracle we dread,
While on thy bare dejected head,
We ſee the black tempeſt'ous ſhower
Of Fortune's wrath inceſſant pour:
We ſee a wretch o'er boiling eddies toſt,
Till in a gulf of wo the victim's loſt!
[8]VII.
O ſay, thou arbitreſs of mind,
What ſympathy unites our race,
That even in ſavages we find
This wondrous tender, human grace?
How is the heart of man ſo ſoft?
—Which I, alas! have felt too oft.—
How are we mov'd with others wo?
How do the ſtreams of pity flow?
How does the breaſt with throbs ſpontaneous beat?
How is compaſſion found ſo ſtrangely ſweet?
VIII.
Hail! father of the Britiſh ſtage!
Shakeſpear! to whom ſhall ſtill belong
Thro' each ſucceſſive wond'ring age,
The glories of immortal ſong!
Melpomene, with aſpect mild,
With joyful hope exulting ſmil'd,
What time on Avon's banks ſhe ſaw
Thee young thy firſt rude ſketches draw
Of richeſt poeſy, whoſe ſtrains ſublime
Already aim'd th' empyreum's height to climb.
[9]IX.
Genius unbounded as the ſky,
That ſpreads itſelf from pole to pole,
Diſdains a formal courſe to fly,
Or ſweep the ground with lazy ſtole.
The Stagyrite may preach in vain,
And taſteleſs critics cold complain
That thou all rules of art haſt broke,
And flung away the ſtated yoke;
To the kind heart alone thou doſt appeal,
And bidſt th' ingenuous there conviction feel.
X.
Say thou! th' illuſtrious poet's ſhade!
Whether old Weſtminſter's fam'd dome
Thou haunt'ſt, or where his childhood ſtray'd,
And where his bones have fix'd their home;
O ſay from whence ſuch powers he drew,
By which the univerſe he knew:
Ye ghoſts, and beings of the brain!
Witches, and all the magic train!
You he could lively paint with pencil nice,
And ſcourge, by force infernal, blaſted vice!
[10]XI.
Greateſt of bards! O hear my prayer!
Gleam on my ſoul with chearing view:
Yet think not that I raſhly dare
One of thy footſteps to purſue.
How have I, in my youthful age,
Ador'd to ſee the paſſions rage!
As when her ſwain with Juliet ſtrove,
Who felt the anguiſh moſt of love;
Or when Old England's annals were diſplay'd,
And Piercy ſtorm'd in martial fire array'd.
XII.
Forgive, tho' I forbear to tell
Of you, ye other bards who ſhine,
Forgive tho' I forbear to ſwell
With croud of names the ſounding line.
When Oroonoko's godlike ſoul,
By miſery diſtracted, roll
In gloomy blood-ſtreak'd eyes we ſee,
Can any boſom ruthleſs be?
Will not a hapleſs orphan make us weep?
Or Randolph's lady plung'd in ſorrows deep?
[11]XIII.
Auguſta's theatres!—with pride
How often have I witneſs'd there,
The lucid pearls of pity glide
From lovely eyes of Britiſh fair!
How often have I raptur'd ſeen
The paſſion of the preſent queen
With uncontroll'd applauſes loud
Burn in each feature of the croud!
Lo! boundleſs liberty ſubmiſſive deigns—
Triumph how great! to wear the actor's chains!
XIV.
See Garrick in poor Lear rave,
Borne down the tide of ſore diſtreſs!
He ſeems 'gainſt each o'erwhelming wave
With hoary majeſty to preſs!
See Sheridan in Denmark's heir!—
Wide ſpreads the proſpect of deſpair!
With duſky clouds the ſky is hung!
Pale horror falters on his tongue!
Torn is his wretched mind! ev'n now I view
Cold, pain-wrought drops his mournful face bedew!
[12]XV.
O why by Cam's delightful ſtreams,
Does
* he who ſung
Elfrida's wo,
Indulge his warm, poetic dreams,
But to the private eye to ſhow?
Why does the moralizing train
†Him from the world's juſt glaſs detain?
Beams not bright beauty brighter ſtill,
From the high ſummit of yon hill?
Drive him, Ambition, from th' inglorious ſeat,
Tho' Hurd approve his indolent retreat.
XVI.
Goddeſs ſupreme! my vows attend.
O let the honour'd taſk be mine,
Thy temple trembling to aſcend;
Trembling to offer at thy ſhrine.
While idle Folly's glitt'ring train
Baſk in the ſunſhine, ever vain;
Like Juno's bird ſo pert and gay,
Their gaudy plumage ſtill diſplay;
O! let me viſit oft thy ſacred ſtore,
And in ecſtatic heat intranc'd adore!
FINIS.
