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H^-^^ ^^0^ THE YEAR OF SORROW. THE YEAR OF SORROW. WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1803, BY W. R. SPENCER. -Mvcijj(,oc TTcQuv, i^vocfjia, (ptKo(ppo(rwa,i- LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. CADELL AND W. DAVIES, IN THE STRAND, BY W. BULMER AND CO. CLEVELAND-ROW. 1804. STACK AKNSf TP- ELIZABETH, COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, WHOSE PRE-EMINENCE IN TASTE, SENSE, AND VIRTUE, NEITHER THE FANCY OF A POET, NOR THE PARTIALITY OF A RELATION CAN EXAGGERATE, THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED, BY HER AFFECTIONATE NEPHEW, WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER. B THE YEAR OF SORROW. Tear from thy guilty brow that vernal wreath, Chase from thy train those wanton airs which breathe Of Joy, and Love, and Life ! let nought appear To gratulate thy course, disastrous Year ! Away with all the Season's gawdy trim, Cold be thy zephyrs, and thy suns be dim ! Vain is the curse ! the laughing Hours who draw Thy car, have heard th' irrevocable law, 4 THE YEAR OF SORROW. The world has fek thy renovating rays, All nature jubilant resounds thy praise, Creation lifts to thee her grateful voice, By Spring's brief charter licensed to rejoice, And as thy genial steps progressive move, The lifeless all revive, and all the living love ! These are thy works of grace! — thy works of woe Man, only man, is privileged to know ; Man, only man, Creation's Lord confess'd. Amidst his happy realm remains unbless'd, On the bright earth, his flow'r-embroider'd throne, Th' imperial mourner reigns and weeps alone ! Sad Year ! whilst yet I hold one social joy, Suspend thy dire commission to destroy. My heart, so late of many joys possess'd. Laments for many lost, and trembles for the rest! THE YEAR OF SORROW. Sad years have been when Pestilence was rife, And all her fiends unmuzzled rush'd on Lite ; Then from the gen'ral doom no plea could save, And Vice and Virtue crowded to the grave ; But thou, disastrous Year, hast dealt around, With horrible selection, ev'ry wound ; In ev'ry house where thy death-bolts have sped Thy partial warrant mark'd the dearest head, The prime alone of ev'ry happy land Where thou hast laid thy desolating hand, The prime alone, thy murd'rous sithe could suit. Youth's sweetest bloom, and Age's richest fruit ! Whilst loud laments of public grief arise, And nations mourn the Learned and the Wise," How many kindred hearts are taught to know The keener anguish of domestic woe ! * Alluding to the deatlis of La Harpe, Klopstock, kc. Xcc. 6 THE YEAR OF SORROW. And art thou gone, Parent" and friend revered ! Parent of her by ev'ry charm endear'd To this love-beating heart, to whom I owe All that of bliss mankind can hope below ! Yes, thou art gone ! thy Susan, far away, Smiled no sweet sunshine on thy closing day, Not on her breast thy drooping forehead hung, Not to her lips thy summon'd Spirit clung, Ah ! no — whilst others watch'd thy ebbing breath. And lighten'd by their love the load of Death, Haply thy Susan, in a distant land. E'en at that hour the scheme of pleasure plann'd To meet once more on Danube's happy plain, And clasp a Mother to her heart again ! * The Countess Dowager of Jenison Walworth, Mrs. Spencer's mother, died at Heidelberg in Germany. THE YEAR OF SORROW. Nor shall the mournful chronicle forget One who with honest truth my friendship met ; * To him farewell! — thy morning clouds were past, And all thy days seem'd bright'ning to the last, Youth was thy season of distress and tears, But Pleasure met thee in the vale of years, Scarce in the vale, ere all thy sand was run, And thy life ended when thy joys begun. To thee farewell — and oh ! when Summer leads To Cambria's woodland rocks and streamy meads, Each scene of Nature's pageantry review'd. Each scheme of social happiness renew'd, Each rural day, each festive night shall be A dear, a long remembrancer of thee ! O think not fruitless are the griefs which rend The heart of Friendship o'er a burieil friend ; * John Dunnage, Esq. 8 THE YEAR OF SORROW. Are they not vouchers of distlnguish'd days, Of active virtues, and decided praise? The man, when summon'd to the realms of Death, Who unlamented yields his useless breath, Though no foul crimes done in his mortal state The fearful hour of retribution wait. Yet long in cold obstruction dark he lies Unwept on earth, unwelcomed in the skies ! Whilst ev'ry tear o'er Friendship's ashes pour'd Blots out some frailty from the dread record, And ev'ry sigh breathed on the fun'ral sod. Wafts the loved Spirit nearer to his God ! Breathe soft, Italian gales ! and ye that wing The tideless shore, where never-changing Spring Rules all the halcyon year, breathe soft, and shed Your kindliest dews o'er pale Eliza's* head ! * The Hon. Mrs. Ellis, daughter of the late Lord Hervey, and wife of Charles Ellis, Esq. died at Nice. THE YEAR OF SORROW. Propitious grant an anguish'd mother's prayer, And save a wedded lover from despair. Vain was the hope — in Beauty's earliest pride, E'en in the porch of life, Eliza died ; E'er yet the green leaf of her days was come The death-storm rose, and swept her to the tomb ! O thou, whose final will is happiness. Author of good, Permitter of distress, If still to speechless pangs thine ear be giv'n, If dumb Despair be eloquence in heav'n, O reascend thy mercy seat ! to thee Religious sorrow bows her filial knee ! Let Faith, thy cherub almoner, bestow One gleam to cheer, not chase, the night of woe : Let Patience sooth, not cure, the sacred grief Which prays not for oblivion, but relief: c 10 THE YEAR OF SORROW. Oblivion ! — no — the dear, the deep regret What heart that loved Eliza would forget ! I loved her too ; on Arno's classic lawn My dawning fancy hail'd her beauty's dawn, My youthful lyre first woke her infant taste, And by her earliest smiles my earliest song was graced ; Oblivion! — no — to life's extremest bourn All who have loved and lost thee, still shall mourn ; From their last hour, when earthlier passions flee. Consenting Heav'n shall yield one thought to thee, To thee the theme which sooths their latest sighs. To thee, the dearest hope which lures them to the skies ! Again the bell of death ! again the grave Calls for a youthful victim ;* nought can save, * Mrs. Greville, sister ofthe late Sir Bellingham Graham, and wife to Henry Francis Greville, Esq. THE YEAR OF SORROW. 1 1 Greville, thy fading charms, nor pray'rs, nor art, Nor all the anguish of thy Henry's heart. Though thou art gone, fond parent, blameless wife, Gone in the summer of thy blooming life. To claim the prize, alas ! too early won, The prize of heav'n for ev'ry duty done. Yet shall thy mem'ry live adored on earth, Where Emma's'^' sorrows consecrate thy worth. Nor yet the doleful record can I close, hapless house of Grammont ! for your woes 1 weep, nor ye the cordial tear refuse, Shed by a friendly though a foreign Muse. O hapless house of Grammont ! honours, fame, Pow'r, weakh, and worth, had raised your patriot name So near the regal throne, that the same blow Which reach'd your Kings, laid all your glories low! * Miss Emma Crewe, only daughter of John Crewe, Esq. of Crewe- Hall in Cheshire. 12 THE YEAR OF SORROW. Yet Still Aglaia's* angel presence lent A grace to grief, a charm to banishment. England, the port for many a noble wreck, England her ocean lightnings flash'd to check The demon rage which uproar'd Europe's peace, England Ajrlaia's wand'rinffs bade to cease. And welcomed here ; and here Georgianat press'd The lovely wandVer to her sister breast ; Here, when condemn'd from native joys to part, Friendship, not Pity, sooth'd her bleeding heart ; Here, when condemn'd in stranger climes to roam, Exile assumed the cheering smiles of home. Short was her gleam of brighter years, and ye, O family of woe, were doom'd to see ^ Content revive her blooms only to throw A farewell beauty o'er her dying brow, * Aglaie de Polignac, Duchesse de Grammont. t Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire. THE YEAR OF SORROW. 13 And Hope rekindle only to illume The shades of Death, and lio;ht her to the tomb! Daughters of Genius, dear to gen'rous hearts, Charmers of cultured life, ingenuous arts. Heard ye the knell for Hamilton ?* oh rend Your laurell'd tresses, o'er his ashes bend Your seraph forms, and weep your noblest friend ; Each round his relics take her duteous stand, Painting be there, whose magic-gifted hand Can bid the meteor-forms of mem'ry last, And raise unfleeting visions of the past; Sculpture be there, unconquerable maid ! Who, in her marble panoply array'd, * Sir William Hamilton, Knight of the Bath, many years British Minister at the Court of Naples. 14 THE YEAR OF SORROW. Defies th' assaulting storm, th' insidious clime, And foils with brazen shield* the sithe of time ; Yours be the task with social skill to raise The bloodless trophies of his lettered praise ; Tell how your virgin altars were disgraced By the rude homage of misguided taste, Till they received from his enlighten'd mind. Incense more pure, and worship more refifled ; Tell that to him was giv'n the gen'rous aim. The rights of antique beauty to proclaim, • It may be objected that the few capital works in bronze ■which remain to us from antiquity were cast, and not sculptured ; yet whoever has examined the master-pieces of this kind, in the collection of R. P. Knight, Esq. must believe that some fine instrument has been employed in per- fecting what the mould may have begun : Excudent alii spirantia mollius sera, alone seems a sufficient authority for a poetical description. THE YEAR OF SORROW. 15 The Gothic fiend from all her reahns to chase, And throne th' Etruscan* goddess in her place. Nor shall the statesman's patriot view misprize Talents which aid commercial pow'r to rise ; Have ye not seen, ye plains of Stafford, t say, A new Etruria mould your native clay, Rough British hands light Grecian forms prepare, And every mart demand the classic ware .•* * The vases formerly called Etruscan, are now generally supposed to be of Grecian workmanship; but as this supposition is not yet become a certaintj-, it was thought that their original denomination might be retained without impropriety. + It is generally known that Mr. Wedgewood's Etruria owes its name and the perfection of its /orm* to the exquisite Etruscan or Grecian models first introduced into this country by Sir William Hamilton; and a late traveller observes, that " the demand for this elegant manufacture is now so universal, that an Englishman in journeying from Calais to Ispahan, may have his dinner served every day upon Wedgeyyood' s ware." 16 THE YEAR OF SORROW. And shall cold Cynic censurers condemn Talents not vain, or only vain for them, Defame pursuits which beautify the mind, And libel arts which humanize mankind? Fresh flowers which on the fountain brink The breath of day-spring rears, Whose dainty blossoms only drink The rainbow's diamond tears ; Such flowers alone my hand shall wreathe For Harriet's genial bow'r, Such flowers alone their sweets shall breathe On Harriet's* bridal hour. * The Lady Harriet Hamilton, eldest daughter to John James Marquis of Abercorn, was shortly to have been married to Henry de la Poer, Marquis of Waterford, Earl of Tyrone. THE YEAR OF SORROW. Pure as Elysian mornings break, Fond hopes her fair cheek flush, Pure as the sinless thoug-hts which wake The cherub's infant blush ! Oh ! for a voice, if such there be, Which sighs have never broke, Oh ! for a harp, whose melody Of sorrow never spoke ! 17 For thee, Tyrone, their strains should flow, Since ev'ry bliss divine Which saints believe, or seraphs know, With Harriet's heart is thine. 18 THE YEAR OF SORROW. Yes, thine are joys beyond the scope Of fiction's brightest theme, Brighter than all which youth can hope, Or Love, or Fancy dream. Smile on thy green hills, Erin smile, Thy woes, thy wars shall cease, An angel to thy troubled isle Bears Concord, Joy, and Peace ! Ah check the song Too well, when first I tuned the mournful strain, My boding heart presaged severer pain. 'Tis past — and thou hast struck, disastrous Year! Thy master-stroke of desolation here. — THE YEAR OF SORROW. ly 'Tis past — young, fair, and faultless Harriet dies, Lovely in youthful death the slumb'rer lies, Still hope and peace her gentle features speak, Life's farewell sinile still lights her fading cheek ! Soft was the voice which call'd her spirit hence, Death wore no shape to scare her parting sense ; A white-robed messenger of light he seem'd, His looks with smiles of heavenly promise beam'd, Skywards were spread his wings of feathery snow, And lilies wreath'd his alabaster brow. Stanmore through all her joy-deserted seats No lamentation hears, no sigh repeats ; Silent like thee, whose virgin bier they dress, Silent like thee, whose pale-rose lips they press. Thy mourners speak no grief, no dirge prepare, Thy dirge is silence, and their grief despair ! 20 THE YEAR OF SORROW. Oh ! mourn, illustrious mourners ! with my strain A nation's sympathy accords in vain. He who the world's expected mis'ry bears Claims the sweet solace of congenial tears, When unforeseen calamities surprise, Radiant with life and joy when Harriet dies, Sorrow beyond communion or control In dumb distraction settles on the soul. When Evening's wintry veil th' horizon palls, Frequent for aid the lated wand'rer calls, When the tornado shakes his demon wings, And sudden midnight o'er the noon-day flings. Aghast he sinks beneath th' untimely gloom, And crazed with speechless horror meets his doom ! * * To those who witnessed the affliction of a family not more distinguished by rank and talents, than happy in domestic affections, this description may appear to have every fault, except that of exaggeration. THE YEAR OF SORROW. o] These are thy works of woe, disastrous Year ! Scarce in the midway of thy sad career ; Still onward as thy ruthless course proceeds, Sepulchral tablets chronicle thy deeds. The crrave's black ministers around thee frown, A hearse thy car, and fun'ral plumes thy crown ; O'er thy dark pomp the shrieking night-l3ird cow'rs And tolling death-bells strike thy heavy hours ! Nor stops the rigour of thy tyrant reign At partial loss and individual pain : See where beneath the stern oppressor's blow The world's great family lies sunk in woe ! The tears of nations to my tears reply, And Europe echoes each domestic sigh. E'en here, though Britain dread no present foes, Distracted commerce rues the false repose,* * The numerous commercial failures which occurred towards the end of the last peace, must be too well remembered. 22 THE YEAR OF SORROW. And private feuds,* though public discords cease, Distain with gen'rous blood the lap of peace. And yet, disastrous Year ! thou canst impart One reconciling boon to cheer my heart ! Revive, revive my Susan's drooping head. O'er her pale cheek Hygeia's blossoms shed, Sooth ev'ry pang, and ev'ry fear remove. And charm her back to beauty, joy, and love ! Then will I blush for each reproachful tear, And thank and bless thee still, disastrous Year! * Alluding to the fatal issue of two private quarrels. Printed by W. 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