Alas! no longer can my cares beguile Lost in her greatness, all her arts decay'd, Oppress'd her people, and her rights betray'd; Her ancient order through the land revers'd, And the just lords of her domains dispers'd: Strange rulers o'er her fertile vales maintain An owner's power, and hold another's gain : A ruffian crew, the dregs of earth, preside, Her fleets, her armies, and her councils guide; And he, that alien, who usurps the throne, To worth, to pity, and to faith unknown: His crimes so deadly, that the human race, An outcast vile, should banish from their face; The dark dissembler of his secret ends, The black ensanguin'd murd'rer of his friends. Unhappy France! no glories now await, As once they did, thy elevated state; At each new act, some treach'rous murder done, Some reign usurp'd, new infamy is won. Ah! what avails it to have borne so long, Urg'd by the fury of the giddy throng ; Or fir'd in hate by some infuriate guide, The region delug'd in one purple tide? What recompensing joys enchant the heart, What soothing bliss do freedom's sweets impart ? Ah! none they yield: but stern oppression reigns, And tyranny in faster bonds enchains; On ev'ry face a dark distrust appears, How little thought I, at that awful hour When first I felt a despot's deadly pow'r, That was the time when last I saw the day His beauteous beams upon my hills display, And hurried from each object of regard, Each well-known person---all---without award! No pitying audience hear my mournful tale, No equal judge on whom my wrongs prevail ! Yet what the crime this punishment deserved, For what offence is banishment reserv'd? The man who feels a patriotic glow, Or loyalty, or faith, that man shall know. Once hurried by the stream of gen'ral crime, (With horror I recall the dreadful time) These hands were join'd with an infuriate crew, To tear our spotless monarch from our view: Each gentle virtue grac'd his honour'd head, And thro' the realm a happy influence spread: Even now, perhaps, above the long-loved tract, His pitying shade observes each ruthless act, Addresses to his God his earnest prayer, From desp❜rate rulers his lov'd France to spare. Ah! hapless country! by commotions torn, Thus bless when lifted to the sovereign height? Ah! could but France recall those happy days, When sov'reign splendour shed benignant rays, And power extended o'er the realm its arm, To shield, not crush, embolden, not alarm; See o'er the vales untouch'd its harvest wave, Its natives walk uninjur'd to the grave; See o'er the main unnumber'd vessels ride, And feel once more enraptur'd peace enjoy'd. ON THE PROPRIETY OF GIVING PERFECT CHARACTERS IN NOVELS. Quo virtus? HOR. Now say, where virtue stops. Ir is with some a very strong objection against our author (Mr. Richardson), that he proposes to our imitation, what they call a perfect character in the person of Clarissa. Clarissa's character is indeed exalted, but is not humanly perfect; and in proposing a character something more than humanly perfect to our imitation, I cannot at present discern any absurdity; for is it not recommended to those who study to excel in any art or science, that they form themselves after the most perfect mode's, even although it be morally impossible for them ever to attain the perfection of these models? Does not the celebrated judge of the sublime very strongly recommend this rule, when he proposes for the imitation of those who would attempt epic poetry and oratory, no less perfect patterns than Homer and Demosthenes? Nay, if we may, without profanation, use this other illustration, does not the Scripture enjoin us to imitate the great original of all perfection? This rule is founded in nature and reason. If the model be imperfect, the copies must of consequence be more imperfect; and so liable to error is the human mind, that we are as prone to imitate the faults as the excellencies of what is proposed for an original to us. Now, shall this rule be allowed to every other science, and not to the most important of all sciences, the science of life and manners? I know the grand objection is, that to give a man or woman a perfect character is out of nature. A character absolutely perfect does not, we acknowledge, belong to man. But what height of excellence even a human soul may arrive at, we cannot ascertain, till we have left no experiments untried. One, who had never seen the tricks of a wire-dancer, would be apt to ridicule as fabulous the first accounts he should hear of those astonishing feats, of which long application and unwearied industry, make these performers capable. Who can tell what happy, what glorious effects might be produced, were an equal proportion of industry applied to the regulation of the passions, and the strengthening and improving the reasoning powers? Let not then the novelist be censured, if his hero or heroine be possessed of a proportion of virtue superior to what we have discovered in our acquaintance with mankind; provided the natural genius inherent in the hero or heroine, assisted by the improvements of the happiest education, be sufficient to render their virtues at least probable. Nature, we must remember, had endued Clarissa with a genius of the most exalted kind, and a temperament of soul formed to receive the impressions of virtue. This genius, and this disposition, improved by the culture of a liberal and strictly virtuous education, amid the simplicity of a country life, could not fail to produce an admirable character; nor do I think this character (all circumstances considered) stretched beyond the limits of humanity. Clarissa's external conduct was indeed unblameable (and I hope, for the honour of mankind, there are many to be found whose external conduct is unblameable), but she often acknowledges her heart was not so. She owns she was conceited and puffed up in her happy days, and not entirely proof against the suggestions of chagrin and |