The BASTARD. A POEM.
[]IN Gayer Hours, when high my Fancy run,
The Muſe, exulting, thus her Lay be⯑gun.
BLEST be the Baſtard's Birth! thro' won⯑d'rous Ways,
He ſhines excentric like a Comet's Blaze!
No ſickly Fruit of faint Compliance He!
He! ſtampt in Nature's Mint of Extacy!
[2] He lives to build, not boaſt a generous Rac [...]
No tenth Tranſmitter of a fooliſh Face.
His daring Hope, no Sire's Example bounds:
His firſt-born Lights no Prejudice con⯑founds.
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 Choic [...] controul,
His Body independent, as his Soul.
Loos'd to the World's wide Range,—en⯑joyn'd no Aim;
Preſcrib'd no Duty, and aſſign'd no Name:
Nature's unbounded Son, he ſtands alone,
His Heart unbyaſs'd, and his Mind his own
O Mother, yet no Mother!—'tis to you,
My Thanks for ſuch diſtinguiſh'd Claims are due.
[3] 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 re⯑trench'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;
[4] Perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great;
The Slave of Pomp, a Cypher in the State;
Lordly neglectful of a Worth unknown,
And ſlumb'ring 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 flatt'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;
[5] But now expos'd and ſhrinking from diſtreſs,
I flie 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 diſaſt'rous Heart,
For Miſchief never meant, muſt ever ſmart
[6] 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 died.
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 Vertues might have made their Way!
[7] 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;
Been 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 Vertues, or from Vice re⯑ſtrain'd.
[8] Is it not time to ſnatch ſome pow'rful Arm,
Firſt to advance, then ſcreen from future Harm?
Am I 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, Farewel—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,
[9] New-born, I may a nobler Mother Claim,
But dare not whiſper her Immortal Name?
Supreamly Lovely and Serenely Great!
Majeſtick Mother of a kneeling State!
QUEEN of a People's Hearts, 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.
FINIS.