An Address Poem by Robert Anderson

SPOKEN BY MR. GRANT, IN CARLISLE, FOR THE BENEFIT OF MRS. JOHNSON, AND HER NUMEROUS FAMILY.

Enough of war! and all his hell--born train;
Britannia rides triumphant o'er the main;
And when sweet peace her olive branch displays,
Then, as in war, she gains all Europe's praise:
For all the glories conquest e'er could dart,
Are trifles, balanc'd with the feeling heart;
And all the honours wealth cou'd e'er bestow,
Proves that proud man is but the child of woe.

Is there, this night, a heart that cannot feel?
To such, the Muse, indignant, scorns t' appeal;
But ye who scorn the pride of giving pain,
Nor sufl'ring mortals treat with cold disdain,
But soothe distress, and dry affliction's tear,
Rejoic'd I feel, to bid you welcome here:
And ye who know the widow'd parent's cares,
And all the pangs that oft her bosom tears;
The anxious watchings o'er an infant race,
An image still in memory to trace;
Ye fairest works of nature, who possess
The pow'r to succour, and to shield distress,
Fair advocates in sacred virtue's cause--
Denied to speak the gratitude she owes,
A sister bids me pay the tribute due;
And tell the sympathy she found in you.
Cherish'd in tender youth, like some fair flow'r,
Hope brighten'd with her prospect, ev'ry hour;
But cold neglect to damp each joy soon strove,
And she was criminal, who dar'd to love.
Deserted, virtue still approv'd her choice,
And you'll acquit her with a friendly voice.
If doom'd to wander from her native home,
And with the sons of indigence to roam,
A patron in the public, pleas'd she found,
And oft her efforts were with plenty crown'd;
While love's dear transports lull'd each care to rest,
And mutual fondness made a couple blest;
But gone is he, her soul's lov'd lord, by fate
Summon'd to pass eternity's dark gate.

Receive, blest shade! this tribute due to worth;
Tho' now remembrance calls fresh sorrows forth:
If will to serve, and art to please mankind,
If feeling heart, and independent mind,
If harmless mirth that oft pure friendship gain'd,
While in the bosom love of truth still reign'd,
Cou'd turn aside the fatal stroke of death,
Thou, friend lamented, would have yet drawn breath!
For envy ev'n thy character approv'd;
Nor pin'd to hear how much thou wert belov'd.

Ye brethren, by mysterious laws combin'd;
In vain weak man to many a virtue blind,
May spurn at that by greatest mortals giv'n,
The noblest Institution, under Heav'n.
O! may no rude antipathies remove
What social beings owe to social love!
For now when wisdom boasts th' enlighten'd age,
And truth and reason beam on many a page,
No Bard too loud th' inspiring song can raise,
That gives your more than matchless deeds due praise.

How proud I see you in support of those,
Too young to speak, or know ev'n friends from foes--
Illumin'd few, whose bounty thousands share;
And you, whose eyes shed pity's dews, ye fair,
The helpless offspring will while life endures,
Beg for each blessing upon you and yours