The beauties of English poesy: Selected by Oliver Goldsmith. In two volumes. ... [pt.2]

THE BASTARD.

Almost all things written from the heart, as this certainly was, have some merit. The poet here describes sorrows and misfortunes which were by no means imaginary; and, thus, there runs a truth of thinking through this poem, without which it would be of little value, as Savage is, in other respects, but an indifferent poet.

IN gayer hours, when high my fancy ran, The muse, exulting, thus her lay began: Blest be the Bastard's birth! thro' wond'rous ways He shines, eccentric, like a comet's blaze; No sickly fruit of faint compliance he! He! stampt in Nature's mint of Extacy! He lives to build, not boast a generous race: No tenth transmitter of a foolish face. His daring hope no sire's example bounds: His first-born lights no prejudice confounds. He, kindling from within, requires no flame: He glories in a bastard's glowing name. Born to himself, by no possession led, In Freedom foster'd, and by Fortune fed; Nor guides, nor rules, his sov'reign choice controul, His body independent, as his soul.

Loos'd to the world's wide range,—enjoin'd no aim; Prescrib'd no duty, and assign'd no name: Nature's unbounded son, he stands alone, His heart unbiass'd, and his mind his own. O Mother, yet no Mother—'tis to you, My thanks for such distinguish'd claims are due. You, unenslav'd to Nature's narrow laws, Warm championess for Freedom's sacred cause, From all the dry devoirs of blood and line, From ties maternal, moral, and divine, Discharg'd my grasping soul; push'd me from shore, And launch'd me into life without an oar. What had I lost, if, conjugally kind, By nature hating, yet by vows confin'd, Untaught the matrimonial bounds to slight, And coldly conscious of a husband's right, You had faint-drawn me with a form alone, A lawful lump of life, by force your own! Then, while your backward will retrench'd desire, And unconcurring spirits lent no fire, I had been born your dull, domestic heir; Load of your life, and motive of your care; Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great; The slave of pomp, a cypher in the state; Lordly neglectful of a worth unknown, And slumbering in a seat, by chance my own. Far nobler blessings wait the bastard's lot; Conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot! Strong as necessity, he starts away, Climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.

Thus unprophetic, lately misinspir'd, I sung: gay flutt'ring Hope my fancy fir'd; Inly secure, thro' conscious scorn of ill, Nor taught by wisdom how to ballance will, Rashly deceiv'd, I saw no pits to shun; But thought to purpose, and to act, were one; Heedless what pointed cares pervert his way, Whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray; But now, expos'd, and shrinking from distress, I fly to shelter, while the tempests press; My muse to grief resigns the varying tone, The raptures languish, and the numbers groan. O Memory! thou soul of joy and pain! Thou actor of our passions o'er again! Why dost thou aggravate the wretches woe? Why add continuous smart to ev'ry blow? Few are my joys; alas! how soon forgot! On that kind quarter thou invad'st me not, While sharp and numberless my sorrows fall; Yet thou repeat'st, and multiply'st 'em all! Is chance a guilt, that my disastrous heart, For mischief never meant, must ever smart? Can self-defence be sin?—Ah, plead no more! What tho' no purpos'd malice stain'd thee o'er? Had Heav'n befriended thy unhappy side, Thou had'st not been provok'd—or Thou had'st dy'd, Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all, On whom, unsought, embroiling dangers fall! Still the pale Dead revives, and lives to me, To me! thro' Pity's eye condemn'd to see.

Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate; Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late. Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day, What ripening virtues might have made their way! He might have liv'd, till Folly died in Shame, Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame. He might, perhaps, his country's friend have prov'd; Both happy, gen'rous, candid, and belov'd. He might have sav'd some worth, now doom'd to fall; And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all. O fate of late repentance! always vain: Thy remedies but lull undying pain. Where shall my hope find rest?—No mother's care Shielded my infant innocence with prayer: No father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd, Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd. Is it not thine to snatch some pow'rful arm, First to advance, then screen from future harm? I am return'd from death, to live in pain! Or wou'd Imperial Pity save in vain? Distrust it not—What blame can Mercy find, Which gives, at once, a life, and rears a mind? Mother, miscall'd, farewell—of soul severe, This sad reflection yet may force one tear: All I was wretched by to you I ow'd, Alone from strangers ev'ry comfort flow'd! Lost to the life you gave, your son no more, And now adopted, who was doom'd before; New-born, I may a nobler mother claim, But dare not whisper her immortal name;

Supremely lovely, and serenely great! Majestic mother of a kneeling state! Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er, before, Agreed—Yet now, with one consent, adore! One contest yet remains in this desire, Who most shall give applause, where all admire,