Ode to the Countess De Genlis. 1784

No more let English pride arraign The Gallic Muse, as light and vain, Whose trifling fingers can but weave The flimsy novel, to deceive

Inaction's languid hour; Where sentiment, from nothing spun, Shines like a garden-cobweb in the sun, Thrown in autumnal nights o'er many a wither'd flower.

Too often, in the giddy fit Of wanton or satiric wit, The rash and frolic sons of France Have sketch'd the frivolous romance;

While reason stood aloof; While modesty the work disclaim'd; And griev'd religion, with disdain inflam'd, On the licentious page pronounc'd her just reproof.

The Genius of the generous land Survey'd the vain fantastic band, And kindling with indignant pride, Athirst for genuine glory, cried:

"Too long have ye disgrac'd "The Gallic name!—ye sophists, hence! "A female hand shall expiate your offence, "The wrongs that ye have done to virtue, truth, and taste.

"Rise, my GENLIS! those ills correct, "That spring from this pernicious sect: "To infancy's important years, "That season of parental fears,

"Devote thy varied page! "Mould and defend the youthful heart "Against the subtle, soul-debasing art "Of the sarcastic wit, and self-intitled sage!"

Illumin'd with angelic zeal, And wishing Nature's general weal, The lovely moralist arose: The flame that from religion flows

Play'd round her pensive head: The tender virtues smiling strove T' enrich the variegated web she wove, Where wisdom's temperate hand the flowers of fancy spread.

The sisters of theatric power, Whose intermingled sun and shower Give to the stage, in friendly strife, Each touching charm of chequer'd life,

Inspir'd the friend of youth: Arts yet unknown to her they taught, To fix and charm quick childhood's rambling thought With unexampled scenes of tenderness and truth.

Her pathos is not proudly built On splendid or impassion'd guilt; The little incidents, that rise As sportive youth's light season flies,

Her simple drama fill; Yet he, the sweet Socratic sage, Who steep'd in tears the wide Athenian stage, Fram'd not his moral scene with more pathetic skill.

In the rich novel's ampler field Her genius rears a radiant shield, With fancy's blazonry imprest; Potent to save the youthful breast

From passion's poison'd dart: Like that which Homer's gods produce, Its high-wrought beauties shine with double use, To charm the curious mind, and guard th' unwary heart.

Ye Fairies! 'twas your boast to bind In sweet amaze the infant mind: But scorning fiction's faded flower, Behold GENLIS in magic power

Your sorcery excells! She, first of childhood's pleasing friends! Arm'd with the force that liberal science lends, From art and nature frames her more attractive spells.

Lovely magician! in return For the sweet tears of fond concern, With moral pleasure's tender thrill Awak'd by thy enchanting skill,

Accept this votive rhyme! Spurn not a wreath of foreign hue, Tho' rudely twin'd of humble flowers, that grew In a sequester'd vale of Albion's wayward clime!

Think, if from Britain's churlish sky This verse to foreign genius fly, Think not our letter'd females raise No titles to melodious praise:—

Keen science cannot find One clime within the earth's wide zone, Whose daughters, Britain! have surpass'd thy own In the career of art, the triumphs of the mind.

This honest boast of English pride, Which meaner merit might deride, Will ne'er the just GENLIS beguile Of one disdainful, envious smile;

For envy ne'er conceal'd From her clear sight a rival's claim; Her voice has swell'd my fair compatriots fame, Pleas'd with their glorious march o'er learning's varied field!

Doubly, GENLIS! may'st thou rejoice, Whene'er impartial glory's voice Ranks with the happiest toils of men The graceful works of woman's pen,

Tho' not of Gallic frame: For O! beneath whatever skies Records of female genius may arise, Those records must enfold thy fair and fav'rite name.

In every clime where arts have smil'd, Where'er the mother loves her child, And pants, with anxious zeal possest, To fortify the tender breast

And the young mind enlarge, From thy chaste page she'll learn the art, Fondly to play the sage preceptor's part, And draw her dearest joys from that important charge:

Wherever youth, with curious view, Instructive pleasure shall pursue, The little lively student there, With rapt attention's keenest air,

Shall o'er thy volumes bend: And while his tears their charm confess, His grateful voice shall in their author bless The spirit-kindling guide, the heart-enchanting friend.