TO THE Author of CLARISSA

If, 'mid their round of pleasure, to convey An useful Lesson to the Young and Gay; To swell their eyes with pearly drops, and share, With Cards and Dress, the converse of the Fair; If, with the boasted Bards of Classic Age, Th' attention of the Learned to engage, And in the bosom of the Rake to raise A tender, social Feeling—merit praise; The Gay, the Fair, the Learn'd, ev'n Rakes, agree To give that praise to Nature, Truth, and Thee.

Transported now to Harlowe-Place, we view Thy matchless Maid her godlike tasks pursue; Visit the Sick or Needy, and bestow Drugs to relieve, or words to soften woe; Or, with the pious Lewen, hear her soar Heights unattain'd by female minds before. Then to her Ivy-Bow'r she pleas'd retires, And with light touch the trembling keys inspires; While wakeful Philomel no more complains, But, raptur'd, listens to her sweeter strains.

Now (direful contrast!) in each gloomy shade Behold a pitying Swain, or weeping Maid And, hark! with sullen swing, the tolling bell Proclaims that loss which language fails to tell. In awful silence soon a sight appears, That points their sorrows, and renews their tears: For, lo! far-black'ning all the verdant meads, With slow parade, the fun'ral pomp proceeds: Methinks ev'n now I hear th' encumber'd ground, And pavement, echo with a rumbling sound; And see the servants tearful eyes declare With speaking look, The herse, the herse, is here!

But, O thou Sister of Clarissa's heart, Can I the anguish of thy soul impart, When, from your chariot flown with breathless haste, Her clay-cold form, yet beauteous, you embrac'd; And cry'd with heaving sobs, and broken strains, Are these —are these — my much-lov'd Friend's Remains? Then view each Harlowe-Face; remorse, despair, And self-condemning grief, are pictur'd there. Now first the Brother feels, with guilty sighs, Fraternal passions in his bosom rise: By shame and sorrow equally opprest, The Sister wrings her hands, and beats her breast. With streaming eyes, too late, the Mother blames Her tame submission to the tyrant James: Ev'n he, the gloomy Father, o'er the herse Laments his Rashnesse, and recalls his Curse. And thus each Parent, who, with haughty sway, Expects his child to tremble and obey; Who hopes his pow'r by rigour to maintain, And meanly worships at the shrine of gain; Shall mourn his error, and, repenting, own, That Bliss can ne'er depend on wealth alone. Riches may charm, and Pageantry invite: But what are these, unless the minds unite? Drive then insatiate Av'rice from your breast, Nor think a Solmes can make Clarissa blest.

And you, ye Fair, the wish of ev'ry heart, Tho' grac'd by Nature, and adorn'd by Art, Tho' sprightly Youth its vernal bloom bestow, And on your cheeks the blush of Beauty glow, Here see how soon those roses of a day, Nipt by a frost, fade, wither, and decay! Nor Youth nor Beauty could Clarissa save, Snatch'd to an early, not untimely grave. But still her own unshaken Innocence, Spotless and pure, unconscious of offence, In the dread hour of death her bosom warm'd With more than manly courage, and disarm'd The griesly king: In vain the tyrant try'd His awful terrors—for she smil'd, and dy'd.

You too, ye Libertines, who idly jest With Virtue wrong'd, and Innocence distrest; Who vainly boast of what should be your shame, And triumph in the wreck of female fame; Be warn'd, like Belford, and behold, with dread, The Hand of Vengeance hov'ring o'er your head If not, in Belton's Agonies you view What dying horrors are reserv'd for you.

In vain ev'n Lovelace, healthy, young, and gay, By Nature form'd to please, and to betray, Try'd from himself, by change of place, to run; For that intruder, Thought, he could not shun. Tasteless were all the pleasures that he view'd In foreign courts; for CONSCIENCE still pursu'd: The lost Clarissa, each succeeding night, In starry garment, swims before his sight; Nor ease by day her shrill complaints afford, But far more deeply wound than Morden's sword.

O if a Sage had thus on Attic plains Improv'd at once and charm'd the list'ning swains; Had he, with matchless energy of thought, Great Truths like these in antient Athens taught; On fam'd Ilyssus' banks in Parian stone His breathing Bust conspicuous would have shone; Ev'n Plato, in Lyceum's awful shade, Th' instructive page with transport had survey'd; And own'd its author to have well supply'd The place his Laws to Homer's self deny'd .