Miscellaneous Poems

George Crabbe
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Crabbe (#5 in our series by George Crabbe)
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Title: Miscellaneous Poems
Author: George Crabbe
Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5209]
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one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on June 6,
2002]
[Most recently updated: June 6, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
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0. START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK,
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS ***
Transcribed by Mark Sherwood, e-mail:
[email protected]

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
Contents
Sir Eustace Grey
The Hall of Justice
Woman
The Birth of
Flattery
Reflections
"SIR EUSTACE GREY".
Scene: --A MADHOUSE.
Persons: --VISITOR, PHYSICIAN, AND PATIENT.
"Veris miscens falsa."
SENECA.

VISITOR.
I'll know no more;--the heart is torn
By views of woe we cannot heal;

Long shall I see these things forlorn,
And oft again their griefs
shall feel,
As each upon the mind shall steal;
That wan projector's
mystic style,
That lumpish idiot leering by,
That peevish idler's
ceaseless wile,
And that poor maiden's half-form'd smile,
While
struggling for the full-drawn sigh! -
I'll know no more.
PHYSICIAN.
Yes, turn again;
Then speed to happier scenes thy way,
When thou
hast view'd, what yet remain,
The ruins of Sir Eustace Grey,
The
sport of madness, misery's prey:
But he will no historian need,
His

cares, his crimes, will he display,
And show (as one from frenzy freed)

The proud lost mind, the rash-done deed.
That cell to him is Greyling Hall: -
Approach; he'll bid thee welcome
there;
Will sometimes for his servant call,
And sometimes point the
vacant chair:
He can, with free and easy air,
Appear attentive and
polite;
Can veil his woes in manners fair,
And pity with respect
excite.
PATIENT.
Who comes?--Approach!--'tis kindly done: -
My learn'd physician,
and a friend,
Their pleasures quit, to visit one
Who cannot to their
ease attend,
Nor joys bestow, nor comforts lend,
As when I lived so
blest, so well,
And dreamt not I must soon contend
With those
malignant powers of hell.
PHYSICIAN.
"Less warmth, Sir Eustace, or we go."
PATIENT.
See! I am calm as infant love,
A very child, but one of woe,
Whom
you should pity, not reprove: -
But men at ease, who never strove

With passions wild, will calmly show
How soon we may their ills
remove,
And masters of their madness grow.
Some twenty years, I think, are gone, -
(Time flies I know not how,
away,)
The sun upon no happier shone,
Nor prouder man, than
Eustace Grey.
Ask where you would, and all would say,
The man
admired and praised of all,
By rich and poor, by grave and gay,

Was the young lord of Greyling Hall.
Yes! I had youth and rosy health;
Was nobly form'd, as man might be;

For sickness, then, of all my wealth,
I never gave a single fee:


The ladies fair, the maidens free,
Were all accustom'd then to say,

Who would a handsome figure see
Should look upon Sir Eustace
Grey.
He had a frank and pleasant look,
A cheerful eye and accent bland;

His very speech and manner spoke
The generous heart, the open hand;

About him all was gay or grand,
He had the praise of great and
small;
He bought, improved, projected, plann'd,
And reign'd a
prince at Greyling Hall.
My lady!--she was all we love;
All praise (to speak her worth) is faint;

Her manners show'd the yielding dove,
Her morals, the seraphic
saint:
She never breath'd nor look'd complaint;
No equal upon earth
had she -
Now, what is this fair thing I paint?
Alas! as all that live
shall be.
There was, beside, a gallant youth,
And him my bosom's friend I had;
-
Oh! I was rich in very truth,
It made me proud--it made me mad! -

Yes, I was lost--but there was cause! -
Where stood my tale?--I
cannot find -
But I had all mankind's applause,
And all the smiles of
womankind.
There were two cherub-things beside,
A gracious girl, a glorious boy;

Yet more to swell my full-blown pride,
To varnish higher my
fading joy,
Pleasures were ours without alloy,
Nay, Paradise,--till
my frail Eve
Our bliss was tempted to destroy -
Deceived and fated
to deceive.
But I deserved;--for all that time,
When I was loved, admired,
caress'd,.
There was within, each secret crime,
Unfelt, uncancell'd,
unconfess'd:
I never then my God address'd,
In grateful praise or
humble prayer;
And if His Word was not my jest -
(Dread thought!)
it never was
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