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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=499100" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Nature in Perfection</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mater ait, tacta est dea Nomine Matris. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ovid</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>--- Utinam modo dicere Possem<br>Carmina digna dea, certe est dea carmine digna.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Virgil</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Let hireling Poets ply their venal Lays,<br>The Great, the Pow'rful, and the Rich, to praise;<br>Let Male-contents with Satire tickled be,<br>And Love-sick Coxcombs sink in Simile:<br>A diff'rent Theme my Verses shall employ,<br>A Mother's Anguish and a Mother's Joy.<br>And thou, O Bret! the softest of thy Kind,<br>Accept this Picture of a Parent's Mind;<br>If ever am'rous Plaint your Ear could please,<br>Or Love, or Pity, on your Bosom seize,<br>With fav'ring Smiles a well-meant Song regard,<br>And, Oh, forgive an unexperienc'd Bard,<br>If faintly he describe the Bliss, or Woe,<br>Which only you, who feel it, truly know.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>From that sad Hour, when your unhappy Son<br>Struck thro the Life that forfeited his own,<br>What Doubts, what Fears, your anxious Soul posses'd,<br>And tore the soft Asylum of your Breast?<br>Oh, where for Shelter shall the Afflicted fly?<br>Or where expect a sweeter-Sanctuary?<br>Accus'd, forlorn, the much-lov'd Youth behold,<br>Depriv'd of Freedom, destitute of Gold;<br>Gold, that, from Dungeons, Criminals can free,<br>And ev'n in Newgate offers Liberty:<br>Prophets of Fate, where rav'nous Vulturs ply'd,<br>Cruel as Death, as Death unsatisfied;<br>Where Felons, Murd'rers, Traytors are secur'd,<br>And, if not guiltless, uncondemn'd immur'd;<br>Where thick built Walls th'imprison'd Wretch deprive<br>Almost of vital Air, while yet alive;<br>A Place, which scarce the Grave to which it leads,<br>In Damps, in Darkness, or in Stench exceeds.<br>How did your Kindness ease this Lot severe,<br>Your Fondness tend him, and your Bounty chear?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>No Glympse of Joy your Pleasures then convey'd,<br>Nor Midnight Ball, nor Morning Masquerade.<br>In vain to crouded Drawing Rooms you run:<br>The Court a Desart seems without your Son.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>If sportive Youth with sparkling Vigour come,<br>You see with secret Pain their opening Bloom.<br>Why was my Son (thus to yourself you say)<br>As young, and not so fortunate as they?<br>Nor sight of Age your Passion can endure:<br>-And must my Son then leave me immature?<br>Still others' Joys you view'd, and tasted none,<br>Still others' Griefs were lighter than your own;<br>And still whate'er you hear, whate'er you see,<br>Is cause for Plaint, and Food for Misery.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Your soft Distress, your Tenderness of Pain,<br>Can never be describ'd, or felt by Man;<br>Your Anna dear, taught by your matchless Mind,<br>Copies that glorious Frailty of her kind;<br>The Sister's Love, in Time of Danger shown,<br>Can only be transcended by your own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>In his Defence mov'd your persuasive Tongue,<br>Excus'd the Rash, and pleaded for the Young.<br>You, Heav'n, and Earth sollicite on his Side,<br>No Friend unspoke to, and no Art untried.<br>Your Art, your Importunity is weak,<br>You move resistless, if the Mother speak.<br>How vainly I recall my num'rous Fears,<br>The Pains he cost me in his Infant Years!<br>Was it for this I bore him on my Knees?<br>Was all my Foresight, were my Throes for this?<br>Each pleasing Hope, that with his Life began,<br>All dash'd, preserv'd the Boy, but lost the Man.<br>Strike me, and spare my Child! Oh, let me save<br>The Life by Friendship, I by Nature gave!<br>So Birds, by Instinct taught, supply with Food,<br>And chear, with genial Warmth, their callow Brood,<br>And oft their kind, maternal Breasts expose,<br>To guard their helpless Young from threat'ning Foes,<br>Fearless, and fierce, unequal Fight maintain,<br>And dye themselves, e'er see their Offspring slain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>The Doom once past o'er his devoted Head,<br>The Sword hangs, threat'ning, by a single Thread.<br>While, bent with Chains, the Weight he scarcely bore,<br>Which gall'd the Wearer much, the Mother more,<br>Who can the Tortures of your Soul declare,<br>Your Noon-tide Labours, and your Mid-night Prayer?<br>Let meaner Friends to view the Pris'ner go,<br>Whose slighter Love can bear that Sight of Woe;<br>A Sight too shocking for a Mother's Eye,<br>Which yet your utmost Caution cannot flye:<br>Still to your Mind the darling Youth appears,<br>And racks your Bosom with tormenting Fears!<br>Present, where-e'er you move, the Phantom seems,<br>And haunts, with ghastly Shapes, your Morning Dreams!<br>The Scene of Justice, to your sleeping Eyes,<br>Stands terribly display'd-and now he dies!<br>Thick to your Heart the vital Currents run,<br>You start, and waking cry-My Son! My Son!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Let none object you no Concern reveal'd,<br>Fire oft glows fiercest, that is most conceal'd:<br>Great Griefs are speechless, petty Sorrow speaks,<br>The Heart, which vents its Anguish never breaks;<br>Your Woes the old poetic Tales revive,<br>And Credit to their wildest Fables give.<br>So Niobe, when, in her Presence fell<br>The boasted Offspring she had lov'd too well,<br>Thro Horror stiff, beheld, with stupid Eye,<br>The last fair Rival of th'Immortals die;<br>While mightier Grief, than e'er by Words was shown,<br>Transform'd the silent Mourner to a Stone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>By Nature touch'd, his Pardon all desire,<br>And imitate the Virtue they admire,<br>Unite, his dire Misfortune to bemoan,<br>And join in Crowds to supplicate the Throne;<br>Who-e'er the Mother view'd, her Offspring lov'd,<br>His Hundreds He, but She her Thousands mov'd;<br>From Breast to Breast contagious Mercy crept,<br>And Fops and Statesmen wonder'd why they wept!<br>Hearts hard before, unwonted Yearning know,<br>Ev'n Jaylers melted at a Mother's Woe.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>But see! he lives, whose Death you late deplor'd!<br>And angry Justice sheaths her awful Sword;<br>Unhop'd-for Joy th'Imperial Mercy brings,<br>Mercy, the best Prerogative of Kings.<br>With Triumph now you see the Tempest o'er,<br>With Raptures mighty, as your Grief before.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Not so Tyrconnel welcom'd the Relief,<br>Inferior in his Joy, as in his Grief;<br>Stranger to Motions of a Mother's Mind,<br>In Manners diff'rent, as in Kindred join'd.<br>Since for your Seed such Kindness you express,<br>Oh, may each Child give equal Happiness!<br>With boundless Gratitude your Bosom burns,<br>Your Taste for Pleasures, and for Court returns!<br>To Minds transported ev'ry Thing is gay,<br>And January's self appears like May,<br>Each Change of Time in Extacy is lost,<br>Nor Age feels Winter, nor December Frost.<br>Of bright, now brighter shine your lovely Eyes,<br>And, wing'd with Joy, th'exalted Spirits rise;<br>New Warmth, new Vigour to your Veins impart,<br>And dance tumultuous to your beating Heart.<br>But Oh, beware, and curb th'o'erflowing Tide,<br>For oft the Over-fortunate have died,<br>Whom Grief, in vain, had labour'd to destroy,<br>Surpris'd, unequal to Excess of Joy.<br>And ah! too far th'unwieldy Joy prevails,<br>For Life, itself, may sink when Reason fails!<br>Since oft so high your Extacies have grown,<br>You seem'd the Ties of Nature to disown;<br>Lost for a While to Mem'ry, you disclaim<br>A Child so dearly lov'd, and Mother's Name!<br>What dang'rous Transport parent Hearts may feel,<br>Let Ovid soft, the Lady's Poet, tell.<br>Thus old Agave, mad, denies her Boy,<br>Possess'd with frantic, Bacchanalian Joy,<br>Knows not his Form, but with distracted Roar,<br>Mistakes her Offspring for a Forest-Boar,<br>Runs to compleat his Death, exulting on,<br>And slays a Monster, while She kills her Son.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Soon as the short Delirium past you find,<br>And Sense regains it's Empire o'er the Mind,<br>You bless the Hand that eas'd your anxious Cares,<br>And pour for Brunswick's House incessant Prayers!<br>Let the King live! (thus speaks your ardent Zeal!)<br>Long live, a Parent's Happiness to feel<br>May Peace for ever bless the sacred Line,<br>That ev'ry Son may live, as well as mine!<br>Not equal Gladness o'er your Bosom spread;<br>When first the Infant bless'd your genial Bed.<br>Not half the Mother's Transport did you find,<br>For what is Body's Ease to Ease of Mind?<br>Nor when his Prattling did your Ears engage,<br>And promised Wonders in his riper Age;<br>Nor when the Race of Youth he gayly ran,<br>And rose thro' various Hazards up to Man,<br>As when Great Cæsar spoke the Royal Word,<br>Which him to Life, and you to Peace restor'd,<br>Both by their Sov'reign's Favour born anew,<br>He twice a Son, and twice a Mother you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Finis</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Richard+Savage">Richard Savage</a><div class=q>
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Ovid


--- Utinam modo dicere Possem
Carmina digna dea, certe est dea carmine digna.

Virgil

Let hireling Poets ply their venal Lays,
The Great, the Pow'rful, and the Rich, to praise;
Let Male-contents wi..."></div>
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