Verses

WRITTEN ON A FOREIGNER’S VISITING THE GRAVE OF A SWISS GENTLEMAN, BURIED AMONG THE DESCENDENTS OF SIR WILLIAM WALLACE, GUARDIAN OF SCOTLAND IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.

Our regal seat to Edward fallen a prey, Our Chief’s insulted corse his victim lay; Our ruin’d land no monument could raise; Yet grateful bards still sung his heart-felt praise. Long ages hence her hero still she’ll mourn; Still her brave sons with emulation burn. His spirit guarding still our native place, Proclaims this mandate to his latest race: “Let sacred truth bid living fame be thine; “Ne’er trust for honour to a sculptur’d shrine. “Those modest merits marbles ne’er impart, “Love writes them deepest on the human heart.”

Thus mid thy race did their lov’d Henry dwell, Whose dust shall mix thy memory with Tell: Truth, honour, spirit, animate that form, Which beauty, grace, and symmetry adorn. Here that rich blossom dropp’d, scarce fairly blown; The friend, the husband, father we bemoan! Wail by the grave a mother’s cheerless throes, And share a widow’s agonizing woes!

Dear youth, thy name to latest time descends, Where gentle virtues made mankind thy friends. From no vain marble need you borrow fame; Truth, love and friendship, here embalm thy name. A parent’s silver hairs bestrew thy shrine; Her griefs were mortal, but her joys sublime: In tears we mourn the body laid to rest; She hails thy spotless soul ’mid angels blest.

A famous Swiss chief

FROM PHILANDER TO EUMENES.

With pleasure I your welcome letter read, While Cupid for a little from me fled. With freedom write, dispel your trivial fears; There’s nought presumptuous in your song appears; Tho’ strange th’ ideas which you now convey, While you our lovely females thus portray.

No doubt, there are, in the promiscuous crowd, The worthless fair, the virtuous and the good; The haughty nymph, the maid of humble mind; Th’ imperious, yea, the gentle and the kind; Such as an adamantine heart could charm, And furious tygers of their rage disarm. In all vicissitudes of human life, Man’s greatest blessing is a virtuous wife: Her smiles can’t fail to sooth his anxious breast, Diffusing joy, while various cares molest: Her prudent counsel swift relief can bring, As Abigail appeased Isr’el’s king.

Nor need I thus the sacred annals trace, In Britain’s Isle they claim the highest place; When dire oppression, with uplifted hand, His yoke extended o’er our native land, Our sires to abject slavery were doom’d, Our mothers all their ancient claims resum’d: You’ll say my speeches do me partial prove, And so ascribe the cruel cause to love. Are you alone exempt from such a guest? Are you of every antidote possess’d T’ effect a cure, or mitigate the pain? Then may the archer cast his shafts in vain.

Of late dear friend I did such valour boast; But by one fatal glance the field was lost. While you are free of dangers, still beware; Be warn’d by me, and shun th’ alluring snare. It is by some deem’d cowardice to fly, But sure it more ignoble is to die: To die, I’m frantic, sir; what did I say? Reason once more resume thy wonted sway; Kind heaven defend us from such dire alarms; Who would a victim fall to female charms? I find I’m better while your lines I read, I’m almost from my Gallic fetters free’d. As you alone were partner of my grief, Pray now congratulate my quick relief. I would not by prolixity offend; Both bound and free, Philander is your friend.