Material from the Romantic Circles Website may not be downloaded, reproduced or disseminated in any manner without authorization unless it is for purposes of criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, and/or classroom use as provided by the Copyright Act of 1976, as amended.
Unless otherwise noted, all Pages and Resources mounted on Romantic Circles are copyrighted by the author/editor and may be shared only in accordance with the Fair Use provisions of U.S. copyright law. Except as expressly permitted by this statement, redistribution or republication in any medium requires express prior written consent from the author/editors and advance notification of Romantic Circles. Any requests for authorization should be forwarded to Romantic Circles:
By their use of these texts and images, users agree to the following
conditions:
Users are not permitted to download these texts and images in order to mount them on their own servers. It is not in our interest or that of our users to have uncontrolled subsets of our holdings available elsewhere on the Internet. We make corrections and additions to our edited resources on a continual basis, and we want the most current text to be the only one generally available to all Internet users. Institutions can, of course, make a link to the copies at Romantic Circles, subject to our conditions of use.
. . . O, Fashion! delegate of taste and wit,Oft do I see thee triumph in the pit; When Hobart’scritic fan attention draws,The airy signal of ill-judged applause! When pale-faced misses sigh from side-box rows, And painted matrons nod topainted beaux:Where the lank lord, incircled in the throng, Shews his white teeth, and hums a fav’rite song; Who, spite of season, crowds it to the play, Wrapp’d in six waistcoats— in the month of May ;Who, just at noon, has strength to rise from bed, With empty pocket—and more empty head ;Who, scarce recover’d from the courtly dance, Sees with disgust the vulgar day advance: Anticipates the wax-illumin’d night, Cassino’scharms, andFaro’sproud delight!Who hates the broad intolerable sun, That points his door to every gaping dun ;Who saunters all the morn, and reads the news, ’Midst clouds of odours and Olympian dews ;Till three o’clock proclaims the time to meet On the throng’d pavement of St. James’s street; Where various shops on various follies thrive, ‘Beaux, banish beaux—and coaches, coaches drive:’ While to Hyde Park this titled tribe are flocking, To walk in boots—orride in silken stocking.. . .
AH! what is he, whose haggard eyeScarce dares to meet the morning ray? Who, trembling, would, but cannot fly From Man, and from the busy day. Mark how his lip is fever’d o’er, Behold his cheek, how deathly it appears! See! how his blood-shot eye-balls pour A burning torrent of unpitied tears!
Now watch the varying gesture, wild, See how his tortur’d bosom heaves! Behold, Misfortune’s wayward child, For whom no kindred Nature grieves! Despis’d, suspected, ruin’d, lost! His fortune, health, and reputation flown; On mis’ry’s stormy ocean tost, Condemn’d to curse his fate, and curse alone !
Once, were his prospects bright and gay, And Independence blest his hours: His was the smooth and sunny way,Where tip-toe Pleasure scatter’d flow’rs. Love bound his brow with thornless sweets, And smiling Friendship fill’d his cup of joy; Now , not a Friend the victim meets,For, like a Wolf, he wanders to destroy.
All day, upon a couch of thorn, His weary, fev’rish limbs recline; All night, distracted and forlorn, He hovers round the fateful shrine! Eager to seize, with grasping hands, The slender pittance of the easy Fool; He links himself with caitiff bands, And learns the lesson of the Gamester’s school!
One-hour, elate with ill-got gold, And dazzled by the shining ore, In plenitude of joys, behold The Prodigal display his store! The next, in poverty and fear, He hides him, trembling at approaching fate, While greedy Creditors appear, And with remorseless rage lurk round his gate.
Then comes the horror-breeding hour! While recreant Suicide attends; Or Madness, with impetuous pow’r, The scene of desolation ends! Upon his grave no parent mourns, No widow’d Love laments with graceful woe; No dawn of joy for him returns—For Heav’n denies that peace, his frenzy lost below! L. M. [Laura Maria]