And mow thro' infancy and age; Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears. Veiling from the eye of day, Penance dreams her life away; In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs, Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire. III. 3. Lord of each pang the nerves can feel, Hence with the rack and reeking wheel. Faith lifts the soul above this little ball! While gleams of glory open round, And circling choirs of angels call, Can'st thou, with all thy terrors crowned, Hope to obscure that latent spark, Destined to shine when suns are dark? Thy triumphs cease! thro' every land, Hark! Truth proclaims, thy triumphs cease! Her heavenly form, with glowing hand, Benignly points to piety and peace. Flushed with youth her looks impart Her voice the echo of her heart, Pure as the mountain-snows: Celestial transports round her play, She smiles! and where is now the cloud Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud, Shrinking from her glance in vain. Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, And lo! it visits man with beams of light and love. YES, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain; I wake, I breathe, and am myself again. *After a Tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane, April 27, 1795. H -To drop all metaphor, that little bell No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone; Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, Ah, no! she scorns the trappings of her Art; Is here no other actress? let me ask. Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, First, how her little breast with triumph swells, Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour, Now here, now there-in noise and mischief ever! A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapours; Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances; Playful at church, and serious when she dances; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Her prudence dictates what her pride disdained, And now she sues to slaves herself had chained! |