Nature in Perfection

Mater ait, tacta est dea Nomine Matris.

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 with Satire tickled be,
And Love-sick Coxcombs sink in Simile:
A diff'rent Theme my Verses shall employ,
A Mother's Anguish and a Mother's Joy.
And thou, O Bret! the softest of thy Kind,
Accept this Picture of a Parent's Mind;
If ever am'rous Plaint your Ear could please,
Or Love, or Pity, on your Bosom seize,
With fav'ring Smiles a well-meant Song regard,
And, Oh, forgive an unexperienc'd Bard,
If faintly he describe the Bliss, or Woe,
Which only you, who feel it, truly know.

From that sad Hour, when your unhappy Son
Struck thro the Life that forfeited his own,
What Doubts, what Fears, your anxious Soul posses'd,
And tore the soft Asylum of your Breast?
Oh, where for Shelter shall the Afflicted fly?
Or where expect a sweeter-Sanctuary?
Accus'd, forlorn, the much-lov'd Youth behold,
Depriv'd of Freedom, destitute of Gold;
Gold, that, from Dungeons, Criminals can free,
And ev'n in Newgate offers Liberty:
Prophets of Fate, where rav'nous Vulturs ply'd,
Cruel as Death, as Death unsatisfied;
Where Felons, Murd'rers, Traytors are secur'd,
And, if not guiltless, uncondemn'd immur'd;
Where thick built Walls th'imprison'd Wretch deprive
Almost of vital Air, while yet alive;
A Place, which scarce the Grave to which it leads,
In Damps, in Darkness, or in Stench exceeds.
How did your Kindness ease this Lot severe,
Your Fondness tend him, and your Bounty chear?

No Glympse of Joy your Pleasures then convey'd,
Nor Midnight Ball, nor Morning Masquerade.
In vain to crouded Drawing Rooms you run:
The Court a Desart seems without your Son.

If sportive Youth with sparkling Vigour come,
You see with secret Pain their opening Bloom.
Why was my Son (thus to yourself you say)
As young, and not so fortunate as they?
Nor sight of Age your Passion can endure:
-And must my Son then leave me immature?
Still others' Joys you view'd, and tasted none,
Still others' Griefs were lighter than your own;
And still whate'er you hear, whate'er you see,
Is cause for Plaint, and Food for Misery.

Your soft Distress, your Tenderness of Pain,
Can never be describ'd, or felt by Man;
Your Anna dear, taught by your matchless Mind,
Copies that glorious Frailty of her kind;
The Sister's Love, in Time of Danger shown,
Can only be transcended by your own.

In his Defence mov'd your persuasive Tongue,
Excus'd the Rash, and pleaded for the Young.
You, Heav'n, and Earth sollicite on his Side,
No Friend unspoke to, and no Art untried.
Your Art, your Importunity is weak,
You move resistless, if the Mother speak.
How vainly I recall my num'rous Fears,
The Pains he cost me in his Infant Years!
Was it for this I bore him on my Knees?
Was all my Foresight, were my Throes for this?
Each pleasing Hope, that with his Life began,
All dash'd, preserv'd the Boy, but lost the Man.
Strike me, and spare my Child! Oh, let me save
The Life by Friendship, I by Nature gave!
So Birds, by Instinct taught, supply with Food,
And chear, with genial Warmth, their callow Brood,
And oft their kind, maternal Breasts expose,
To guard their helpless Young from threat'ning Foes,
Fearless, and fierce, unequal Fight maintain,
And dye themselves, e'er see their Offspring slain.

The Doom once past o'er his devoted Head,
The Sword hangs, threat'ning, by a single Thread.
While, bent with Chains, the Weight he scarcely bore,
Which gall'd the Wearer much, the Mother more,
Who can the Tortures of your Soul declare,
Your Noon-tide Labours, and your Mid-night Prayer?
Let meaner Friends to view the Pris'ner go,
Whose slighter Love can bear that Sight of Woe;
A Sight too shocking for a Mother's Eye,
Which yet your utmost Caution cannot flye:
Still to your Mind the darling Youth appears,
And racks your Bosom with tormenting Fears!
Present, where-e'er you move, the Phantom seems,
And haunts, with ghastly Shapes, your Morning Dreams!
The Scene of Justice, to your sleeping Eyes,
Stands terribly display'd-and now he dies!
Thick to your Heart the vital Currents run,
You start, and waking cry-My Son! My Son!

Let none object you no Concern reveal'd,
Fire oft glows fiercest, that is most conceal'd:
Great Griefs are speechless, petty Sorrow speaks,
The Heart, which vents its