The Triumphs of Temper (11th ed.)/Canto 4

by William Hayley

CANTO IV.

 

HAIL, thou enlighten'd globe of human joy!
Where social cares the soften'd heart employ:
What cheering rays of vital comfort roll
In thy bright regions o'er the rescued soul,
Which, 'scaping from the dark domain of Spleen,
Springs with new warmth to thy attractive scene!
Once more I bless thy pleasure-breathing gale,
And gaze enchanted on thy flowery vale,
Where smiling innocence, and ardent youth,
Sport hand in hand with beauty and with truth.
Sport on, sweet revellers! in rosy bowers,
Safe from th' intrusion of all evil powers!
Ah fruitless wish of the benignant Muse,
Which to this chequer'd world the Fates refuse!
For round its precincts many an ugly sprite
Speeds undiscern'd to poison pure delight:
Amidst the foremost of this haggard band.
Unwearied poster of the sea and land,
Wrapt in dark mists, malignant Scandal flies,
While Envy's poison'd breath the buoyant gale supplies.
Tho' Sheridan, with shafts of comic wit,
Pierc'd, and expos'd her to the laughing pit,
Th' immortal hag still wears her paper crown,
The dreaded empress of the idle town:
O'erleaping her prerogative of old,
To sink the noble, to defame the bold;—
In chase of worth to slip the dogs of strife,
Thro' all the ample range of public life;—
The tyrant now, the sanctuary burst
Where happiness by privacy is nurst,
Her fury rising as her powers increase,
O'erturns the altars of domestic peace.
Pleas'd in her dark and gall-distilling cloud,
The sportive form of innocence to shroud,
Beauty's young train her baleful eyes survey,
To mark the fairest, as her favourite prey.
Hence, sweet Serena, while thy spirit stray'd
Round the deep realms of subterranean shade,
This keenest agent of th' infernal powers
On earth was busied, in those tranquil hours,
To blast thy peace, and poison'd darts to aim
Against the honour of thy spotless name:
For Scandal, restless fiend, who never knows
The balmy blessing of an hour's repose,
Worn, yet unsated with her daily toil,
In her base work consumes the midnight oil.
O'er fiercer fiends when heavy slumbers creep,
When wearied avarice and ambition sleep,
Scandal is vigilant, and keen to spread
The plagues that spring from her prolific head.
On truth's fair basis she her falsehood builds,
With tinsel sentiment its surface gilds;
To nightly labour from their dark abodes
The demons of the groaning press she goads,
And smiles to see their rapid art supply
Ten thousand wings to every infant lie.
 In triumph now behold the hag applaud
Her keen and fav'rite imp, ingenious Fraud,
Her quick compositor, whose flying hand
Has clos'd the paragraph she keenly plann'd.
No nymph she nam'd, yet mark'd her vile intent,
That dulness could not miss the name she meant:
In satire's tints the injur'd fair she drew,
In form an angel, but in soul a Jew.
 It chanc'd her sire among his friends inroll'd
A wealthy senator, infirm and old;
Who, dup'd too early by a generous heart,
Rashly assum'd a misanthropic part:
Tho' peevish fancies would his mind incrust,
Good-nature's image lurk'd beneath their rust;
And gay Serena, with that sportive wit
Which heals the folly that it deigns to hit,
Would oft the sickness of his soul beguile,
And teach the sullen humourist to smile;
Pleas'd by her virtuous frolics to assuage
The mental anguish of distemper'd age,
This ancient friend, in a sarcastic sketch,
Was mark'd by Scandal as a monied wretch,
For whom the young, yet mercenary fair
Had subtly spread a matrimonial snare.
With such base matter, more diffusely wrought,
The spirit-piercing paragraph was fraught,
O'er which with glee the eye of Scandal glar'd,
Which for the opening press herself prepar'd;
She on the types her inky wad let fall,
And smear'd each letter with her bitterest gall;
The press, whose ready gripe the charge receives,
Stamps it successive on ten thousand leaves,
Which pil'd in heaps impatient seem to lie,
They only wait the dawn of day to fly.
 Now, as the child, in lonely chamber laid,
Mute in the dark, and of itself afraid,
When, haply conscious of the pain it feels,
The watchful mother to its pillow steals,
Springs to her breast, and {hakes off all alarms,
Feeling its safety in her fostering arms:
With such quick joy, in innocence as young,
The soft Serena from her pillow sprung,
Pleas'd to awake from her terrific dream,
And feel the cheerful sun's returning beam.
Eager she rose, in busy thought, nor staid
The wonted summons of her punctual maid,
And as her own fair hands adjust her vest,
The guardian cincture flutters on her breast;
For fondly, when she wak'd, or when she slept,
Still round her heart th' important zone she kept.
Thou happy girdle! to thy charge be just!
Firm be thy threads, and faithful to their trust;
For hours approach, when all the stores they hide
Of magic virtue, must be strongly tried!—
Now, while her kind domestic heart intends
To please her early sire, the nymph descends;
But sleep, who left the fair with sudden flight,
With late wings hover'd o'er the good old knight;
And the chill circle of the lone saloon
Informs the shiv'ring maid she rose too soon.
'Tis true, attentive John's unfailing care
Began the rites of breakfast to prepare;
But yet no fires on the cold altar burn,
No smoke arises from the silver urn,
And the blank tea-board, where no viands lay,
Only supplied the paper of the day.
 Tho' mild Serena's peace-devoted mind
The keen debate of politics declin'd,
And heard with cold contempt, or generous hate,
The frauds of party and the lies of state;
Nor car'd much more for fashion's loose intrigues,
Than factious bickerings or foreign leagues;
Yet, while she saunters idle and alone,
Her careless eyes are on the paper thrown.
 As some gay youth, whom sportive friends engage
To view the furious ourang in his cage,
If while amus'd he sees the monster grin,
And trusts too careless to the bolts within,
If the sly beast, as near the grate he draws,
Tear him unguarded with projected paws,

London, Published Sept^r. 1^st. 1788, by T. Cadell, Strand.

Starts at the wound, and feels his bosom thrill
With pain and wonder at the sudden ill:
So did Serena start, so wildly gaze,
In such mixt pangs of anguish and amaze,
Feeling the wound which Scandal had design'd
To lacerate her mild and modest mind.
Startled, as one who from electric wire
Unheeding catches unsuspected fire,
She reads, then almost doubts that she has read,
And thinks some vision hovers round her head;
Now, her fixt eye some striking words confine,
And now she darts it thrice thro' every line;
Nor could amazement more her senses shake,
Had every letter been a gorgon's snake.
Now risin indignation takes its turn,
And her flush'd cheeks with tingling blushes burn,
With restless motion and with many a frown,
Thro' the wide room she paces up and down:
Now, musing, makes a momentary stand,
The fatal paper fluttering in her hand.
So the shy bird, by cruel sportsmen sprung,
And by their random fire severely stung,
Scar'd, not disabled, by the distant wound,
Now trembling flies, now skims along the ground,
Now vainly tries, in some sequester'd spot,
From her gor'd breast to shake the galling shot.
 Ye tender nymphs! whose kindling souls would flame,
Touch'd, like Serena's, by injurious blame,
O let your quick and kindred spirits form
A vivid picture of the mental storm
In which she labour'd, and whose force to paint
The Muse's strongest tints appear too faint!
In sympathetic thought her suffering see!
But O, for ever from such wrongs be free!
 Her faithful girdle try'd its power to save,
And oft a monitory impulse gave;
Still unregarded, still unfelt, it prest
With useless energy her heaving breast,
Her mind, forgetful of the magic zone,
Full of the burning shaft by Scandal thrown,
With blended notes of sorrow and disdain,
Thus in disorder'd language vents its pain: —
"Had Malice dar'd my honour to defame,
The self-refuted lie had lost its aim:
But here the world, deceiv'd by sland'rous art,
Must think Serena has a venal heart."
A venal heart! at that detested sound,
In swelling anguish her sunk voice was drown'd.
Now was a fearful crisis of her fate:
Distended now by passion's growing weight,
And for its mistress fill'd with conscious dread,
The magic girdle crack'd thro' every thread,
And snapp'd perchance by Scandal's force accurst,
From her full heart the guardian zone had burst,
And, spite of all the virtues of the fair,
The spell of happiness had sunk in air,
But that Sophrosyne, whose friendly fear
Timely foresaw this trial too severe,
An early succour gain'd from secret Love,
From the fell kite to snatch the falling dove.
 As Nature studies, in her wide domain,
To blend some antidote with every bane;
Thus her kind aid the friendly power contriv'd,
That, from the quarter whence the wound arrived,
There flow'd, the anguish of that wound to calm,
A soothing, soft, and medicinal balm.
As in her agitated hand the fair
Wav'd the loose paper with disorder'd air,
In capitals she saw Serena flame:
She blush'd, she shudder'd, as she viewed the name;
Her ready fears subside in new surprise,
And eager thus she reads with lighten'd eyes:

"Go, faithful sonnet, to Serena say
 What charms peculiar in her features reign:
A stranger, whom her glance may ne'er survey,
 Pays her this tribute in no flattering strain.

London, Published Sept^r. 1^st. 1788, by T. Cadell, Strand.

Tell her, the bard, in beauty's wide domain,
 Has seen a virgin cheek as richly glow,
A bosom, where the blue meandering vein
 Sheds as soft lustre thro' the lucid snow,
Eyes, that as brightly flash with joy and youth,
 And locks, that like her own luxuriant flow:
Then say, for then she cannot doubt thy truth,
 That the wide earth no female form can show
Where Nature's legend so distinctly tells,
 In this fair shrine a fairer spirit dwells."

With curious wonder the reviving maid
View'd this fond homage to her beauty paid;
A second glance o'er every line she cast,
And half pronounc'd and half suppress'd the last
While modest pleasure, and ingenuous pride,
Her burning cheek with deeper crimson dy'd.
 O Praise! thy language was by Heaven design'd
As manna to the faint bewilder'd mind:
Beauty and Diffidence, whose hearts rejoice
In the kind comfort of thy cheering voice,
In this wild wood of life, wert thou not nigh,
Must, like the wandering babes, lie down and die;
But thy sweet accents wake new vital powers,
And make this thorny path a path of flowers:
As oil on ocean's troubled waters spread,
Smooths the rough billow to a level bed,
The soothing rhyme thus soften'd into rest
The painful tumult of Serena's breast.
 Now, to herself restor'd, the conscious maid
The lurking fiend's insidious snare survey'd;
Her nerves, with grateful trepidation, own
A slighter pressure from the faithful zone;
And in fond thought she breathes a thankful prayer
For her ætherial guardian's constant care;
Yet with a keen desire her bosom glow'd
To hear from whom the gentle sonnet flow'd;
But kind Sophrosyne, who watch'd unseen,
To shield her votary from the wiles of Spleen,
As friendly Love had fixt a future time,
When to reveal the secret of the rhyme,
Strove till that hour her fancy to restrain,
Nor let her anxious wishes rise to pain.
 As gaiety's fresh tide began to roll,
Fast in the swelling channel of her soul,
The good old knight descends, tho' eager, slow,
The gout still tingling in his tender toe;
And now, paternal salutations past,
His eyes he keenly on the paper cast,
While his sweet daughter, with attentive grace,
Before him flies his ready cup to place;
For tea and politics alternate share,
In friendly rivalship, his morning care.
Tho' smooth as oil the knight's good-humour flows,
When the mild breeze of pleasant fortune blows,
Yet, quick to catch the casual sparks of ire,
Like oil it kindles into mounting fire;
And fiercely now his flaming spirit blaz'd,
While on those galling words he wildly gaz'd,
Whose force had almost work'd into a storm
The gentler elements in Beauty's form.
As the sarcastic sentence caught his view,
Back from the board his elbow-chair he drew,
And, by sharp stings of sudden fury prick'd,
Far from his foot his gouty stool he kick'd.
Fierce as Achilles, by Atrides stung,
He pour'd the stream of vengeance from his tongue.
But ah, those angry threats he deign'd to speak,
Had sounds, alas! far differing from the Greek.
Rage from his lips in legal language broke;
Of juries and of damages he spoke,
And on the printer's law-devoted head
He threatened deep revenge in terms most dread;
Terms that with pain the ear of Beauty pierce,
And oaths too rough to harmonize in verse.
 While thus the good old knight, with passion hot,
His toast neglected, and his tea forgot,
The discord of the drama to increase,
Now prim Penelope assails her niece;
For, as Sir Gilbert now, with choler dumb,
Points her the period with his angry thumb,
"Ah! brother," cries the stiff, malignant crone,
(Her sharp eye swiftly thro' the sentence thrown)
"Scandal could never rise to heights like this,
But from the manners of each modern Miss;
Had but my niece, less giddy and more grave,
Observ'd the prudent hints I often gave———"
 The honest knight her vile conclusion saw,
And quick curtail'd it with a testy "Pshaw!"
Meanwhile the gentle maid, who heard the taunt,
Survey'd without a frown her prudish aunt:
Far other thoughts employed her softer mind,
To one sweet purpose all her soul inclin'd;
How she might close th' unpleasant scene, how best
Restore good humour to her father's breast.
Her airy guardian with delight survey'd
These tender wishes in the lovely maid,
And, to accomplish what her heart desir'd,
Trains of new thought above her age inspir'd.
 As Venus on her son's enlighen'd face,
Shed richer charms, and more attractive grace,
When issuing forth from the dissolving cloud,
His bright form burst on the admiring crowd:
So kind Sophrosyne, unseen, supplies
A livelier radiance to Serena's eyes;
And, ere she speaks, to captivate her sire,
Touches her lips with patriotic fire.
 It chanc'd, that toss'd upon a vacant chair,
A volume of that wit lay near the fair,
Whose value, try'd by Fashion's varying touch,
Once rose too high, and now is sunk too much;
The book, which Fortune plac'd within her reach,
Contain'd, O Chesterfield, the liberal speech
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$In which thy spirit, like an Attic sage,
Strove to defend the violated stage
From fetters basely forg'd by ministerial rage.
From this the nymph her useful lesson took,
And thus began, reclining on the book:—
"If on this noble lord we may rely,
Scandal is but a speck on Freedom's eye;
And public spirit, then, will rather bear
The casual pain it gives by growing there,
Than, by a rash attempt to move it thence,
Hazard the safety of a precious sense,
And, by the efforts of a vain desire,
Rob this life-darting eye of all its fire.
Tho' the pure breast of Innocence may smart,
By cruel Calumny's corroding dart,
Yet would she rather ache in every nerve,
And bear those pangs she knows not to deserve,
Much rather than be made a senseless tool,
To aid the frenzy of tyrannic rule,
Or forge one dangerous bolt for Power to aim
At sacred Liberty's superior frame."———
 As ancient chiefs were wont of old to gaze,
With eyes of tender awe, and fond amaze
On the fair priestess of the Delphic fane,
When first she utter'd her prophetic strain,
Entranc'd in wonder, thus Sir Gilbert view'd
His child, yet more inspir'd, who thus pursu'd:
"For me, I own, these lines, with gall replete,
Shot thro' my simple heart a sudden heat;
But happier thoughts my rising rage represt,
And turn'd the pointless insult to a jest:
And oh! should Slander full new wrath awake,
Still may my father, for his daughter's sake,
Disdain the vengeance of litigious strife,
And let Serena's answer be—her life!"
 She ended with a smile, whose magic flame
Shot youthful vigour thro' her father's frame:
His age, his anger, and his gout, are fled;
"Enchanting girl!" with tears of joy, he said,
"Enchanting girl!" twice echoed from his tongue,
As, speaking, from his elbow-chair he sprung,
"Come to thy father's arms!—By Heaven, thou art
His own true offspring, and a Whig in heart."
 He spoke; and his fond arms around her curl'd
With proud grasp, seeming to infold the world.
Her conscious heart she feels with triumph beat,
And joys to find that triumph is complete;
For stiff Penelope, who near them stood,
"Albeit unused to the melting mood,"
Squeez'd from her eye-lid one reluctant tear,
And soften'd with a smile her brow severe:
But 'twas a smile of such a gloomy grace,
As lighten'd once upon Alecto's face.
When Orpheus past her, leading back to life,
From Pluto's regions, his recover'd wife,
When love connubial, join'd to music's spell,
Moisten'd with tender joy the eyes of hell.
Far other smiles, with pleasure's sofest air,
Gild the gay features of the youthful fair:
She looks like sportive Spring, when her young charms
Wind round her hoary fire's reluftant arms,
And, by a frolic infantine embrace,
Banish the rugged frown from Winter's face.
 Thro' the long day she felt the glowing tide
Of exultation thro' her bosom glide;
And oft she wish'd for slow-approaching night,
To hold sweet converse with her guardian sprite.
At length the hour approach'd her heart desir'd,
And, in her lonely chamber now retir'd,
Her tender fancy gave the fondest scope
To ardent gratitude and eager hope.
"Dear airy being!" (the soft nymph exclaim'd)
"Whose power can break the spell that Spleen has fram'd,
Can, by the waving of thy viewless wing,
O'er darkest forms a golden radiance fling,
And make, in minds by sorriest thoughts perplext,
This moment's grief the triumph of the next;
I bless thy succour in each trial past;
Be present still, and save me in the last!"
 Thus, with her lovely eyes devoutly fixt,
Where rays of hope, and fear, and reverence mixt,
The tender fair her faithful guard addrest,
Then with her cheek her downy pillow prest;
But long her wakeful lids refuse to close,
For curiosity dispels repose.
Her busy mind the mystic veil would pierce,
That hides the author of the pleasing verse;
Her lips involuntary catch the chime,
And half articulate the soothing rhyme,
Till weary thought no longer watch can keep,
But sinks reluctant in the folds of sleep.

 

END OF THE FOURTH CANTO.