A humble weed transplanted from the waste,
Formed the proud chapiter of Grecian taste.
Chance dropped the weight its yielding foliage twined,
And drooped, with graceful negligence inclined.
Sculpture a model saw, to Art unknown,
Copied the form, and turned the plant to stone!
The chiselled weed adorned the Temple's head,
And gods were worshipped, where its branches spread !
If in our Norval, candid judges find
Some kindred flower, to grace the stage designed;
If, to the pressure, Fortune has imposed,
You owe those talents, Art had ne'er disclosed;
If, like the graced Acanthus he appear,
Be you Callymachus, be Corinth here!
TO THE SOLDIER'S DAughter.
[Spoken by Mrs. Stanley, in the character of the Widow Cheerly.]
BEFORE the fatal knot is fairly tied;
Before I change the widow for the bride;
Once more at this tribunal I appear,
A Soldier's Daughter and a volunteer.
Such am I now, though not by martial laws,
I volunteer it, in my sex's cause.
Ladies, I one proposal fain would make,
And trust you'll hear it for your country's sake.
While glory animates each manly nerve,
Shall gentle woman from the contest swerve?
No!
We'll form a female army-of reserve;
And class them thus: Young romps, are pioneers;
Widows, sharp-shooters; wives, are fusileers;
Maids, are battalion, that's-all under twenty;
And as for light troops, we have those in plenty!
Our smart, gay milliners, all decked with feather,
Are corps of infantry for summer weather!
Our belles, who, clad in cap and pantaloons
Shoot as they fly, shall be our light dragoons.
Old maids are spies; still fond of war's alarms,
They love the camp, although they don't bear arms!
Flirts are our van; for they, provoking elves!
Draw on a battle; but ne'er fight themselves,
Our prudes shall sap and mine; well versed to feign,
They fear no danger, though in ambush ta'en;
For who'd suspect a prude, could lay a train?
Gossips, who talk by rote, and kill by prattle,
Shall serve for bulletins to every battle.
Vixens the trumpet blow; scolds beat the drum;
When thus prepared, what enemy dare come?
Those eyes, that even freemen could enslave,
Will light a race of vassals, to their grave;
So shall the artillery of female charms
Repel invaders, without force of arms.
If this succeeds, as I the scheme have planned,
I hope, at least, the honour of command.
Trained on this field, and disciplined by you,
I'm doomed to pass your critical review;
For all recruits are, by the law's direction,
Women, or soldiers, subject to inspection.
In love, or arms, which claims the greater skill,
Eyes that can rifle, or carbines that kill?
Which best displays the tacticks of the art,
To storm a city, or subdue a heart?
Yet one distinction woman's fate obtains;
When towns capitulate the victor reigns;
The vassal prisoner bows him to the stroke,
And owns the master, that imposed the yoke.
But woman, vanquished, still pursues the strife,
She yields her freedom, to become a wife,
And thus surrenders, but to rule for life!
A Carthian war she wages with her eyes;
Routed, she triumphs, and, triumphant, flies;
For new campaigns, she deigns to be outdone,
And grounds her arms to slaves, her eyes have won.
Not so the band, who till Columbia's soil,
Disdaining peril, and inured to toil,
A firm, proud phalanx, whose undaunted hand
A bulwark rears to guard their native land;
And teach invading foes, that host to fear,
Which boast the name of patriot volunteer.
What say ye now? If you approve my plans,
Receive your general, with "presented fans!"
Now, brother soldiers, dare I sisters join?
If you, this night, your efforts should combine,
To save our corps from anxious Hope and Fear,
And send out Mercy as a volunteer,
To whose white banner should the criticks flock,
Our rallying, numbers might sustain the shock;
The sword shall drop, then cease impending slaughter,
If Mercy's shield protect-the Soldier's Daughter.
The following lines were spoken as a Valedictory Address, by Miss Fos, a child about five years old, at her benefit in May 1807.
FAREWELL, a long farewell! dear patrons, friends!
This parting scene my infant bosom rends,
For spite of all my joy to see you here,
My heart will throb, and gush the frequent tear.
In you, my foster parents I behold;
Your kindness bade my tender mind unfold;
Warmed by your smiles, you saw me sportive run,
A little insect, fluttering in the sun;
Urchin I am, but me you've always loved,
My faults you pardoned, and my tricks approved;
My heart will break to be removed from you,
And oh my mother-she has loved you too.
Full well you knew the faults of childish years;
The bud must blossom, e'er the fruit appears;
And oft, by smiling, you have seemed to say,
I'd grow a woman on some future day.
And then, some beau gallant my face might charm,
"Heaven save the mark," these eyes may do some harm.
Oh! how I've longed, that I might older grow,
To join this mimick world of joy and woe;
And teach some future scene, with graceful ease,
To charm like Stanley, or like Powell please;
But, oh those fairy prospects now are o'er;
Farewell! perhaps we part to meet no more;
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