The BASTARD. A POEM.
BY Mr.
RICHARD SAVAGE.
THE BASTARD. A POEM, Inscribed with all due Reverence to Mrs.
BRET,
once
Countess
of MACCLESFIELD.
By RICHARD SAVAGE,
Son of the late Earl RIVERS
Decet,
haec
dare dona Novercam.
OV. MET.
DUBLIN:
Printed by S. POWELL, for T. BENSON, at
Shakespear
's
Head,
in
Castle-street,
and P. CRAMPTON, at
Addison
's
Head,
opposite to the
Horse-guard
in
Dame
's
-street,
1728.
The PREFACE.
THE Reader will easily perceive these Verses were begun, when my Heart was gayer, than it has been of late; and finish'd in Hours of the deepest Melancholy.
I hope the World will do me the Justice to believe, that no part of this flows from any
real Anger
against the
Lady,
to whom it is inscrib'd. Whatever undeserv'd Severities I may have receiv'd at her Hands, wou'd she deal so candidly as to acknowledge Truth, she very well knows, by an Experience of many Years, that I have ever behaved myself towards her, like one, who thought it his Duty to support with Patience all Afflictions from that Quarter. Indeed if I had not been capable of
forgiving
a
Mother,
I must have blush'd to receive Pardon
myself
at the Hands of my
Sovereign.
Neither to say Truth, were the manner of my Birth
All,
shou'd I have any Reason from complaint—when I am a little disposed to a gay turn of Thinking, I consider, as I was a
De-relict
from my Cradle, I have the Honour of a
lawful Claim
to the best Protection in
Europe.
For being a
Spot
of
Earth,
to which no body
pretends
a
Title,
I devolve naturally upon the
KING,
as one of the
Rights
of his
Royalty.
While I presume to name
his MAJESTY,
I look back, with Confusion, upon the
Mercy
I have lately experienc'd, because it is impossible to
remember
it, but
with
something I would fain
forget;
for the sake of my future Peace, and Alleviation of my past Misfortune.
I owe my Life to the
Royal Pity,
if a Wretch can, with Propriety, be said to
live,
whose Days are fewer than his Sorrows; and to whom
Death
had been but a
Redemption
from
Misery.
But I will
suffer
my
Pardon,
as my
Punishment,
till that Life, which has so graciously been given me, shall become considerable enough
not to be useless
in his Service, to whom it was forfeited.
Under Influence of these Sentiments, with which his
MAJESTY's
great Goodness has inspired me, I consider my Loss of Fortune, and Dignity, as my Happiness; to which, as I was born without Ambition, I am thrown from them without repining.—Possessing those Advantages, my Care had been, perhaps, but how to
enjoy
Life; by the want of them I am taught this nobler Lesson, to study how to
deserve
it.
R. Savage.
The BASTARD. A POEM.
IN Gayer Hours, when high my Fancy run,
The Muse, exulting, thus her Lay begun.
BLEST be the
Bastard
's Birth! thro' wond'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!
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 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 Choic
controul,
His Body independent, as his Soul.
Loos'd to the World's wide Range,—enjoyn'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.
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 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;
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
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!
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 restrain'd.
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,
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.
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