virtues and vices, talents and weaknesses. Under the fostering hand of affectionate parents he might have become a respectable member of society; but his mind received no early polish, and when he began to act upon the strength of his natural powers, the cruelty of his mother made him quarrel with the whole world, which he regarded with the consequence of persecuted and injured innocence. Whatever

kindness he received he considered them due to his merits. His works have been collected by T. Evans, bookseller in the Strand, and published in 2 vol. Svo. with the memoirs of his life by Dr. Johnson. In these memoirs the misfortunes of Savage have been delineated by a strong hand, and palliated by venial partiality. Johnson, who was his companion in many a nocturnal excursion, bedless and supperless, the sharer of his depression, could not be less than the sympathizer of his woes and his fate. The strange vicissitudes of this man's life, have secured him a fame which neither his worth nor his talents could other wise have obtained.

THE BASTARD:

inscribed with all due reverence to
MRS. BRETT,

ONCE COUNTESS OF MACCLESFIELD.

The reader will easily perceive these verses were begun when my heart was gayer than it has been of late, and finished in hours of the deepest melancholy. I hope the world will do me the justice to believe,

that no part of this flows from any real anger against ht the lady to whom it is inscribed. Whatever undeserved severities I may have received at her hands, would she deal so candidly as to acknowledge truth, she very well knows, by an experience of many years, that I have ever behaved myself towards her, like one who thought it his duty to support with patience all afflictions from that quarter. Indeed, if I had not been capable of forgiving a mother, I must have blushed to receive pardon myself at the hands of my sovereign.

Neither, to say the truth, were the manner of my birth all, should I have any reason for complaint. When I am a little disposed to a gay turn of thinking I consider, as I was a derelict from my cradle, I have the honour of a lawful claim to the best protection in Europe. For being a spot of earth, to which nobody pretends a title, I devolve naturally upon the king, as one of the rights of his royalty.

While I presume to name his majesty, I look back with confusion upon the mercy I have lately experienced, because it is impossible to remember it, but with something I would fain forget, for the sake of future peace, and alleviation of past misfortunes. I owe my life to the royal pity, if a wretch can, with propriety, be said to live, whose days are fewer than his sorrows; and to whom death had been but a redemption from misery.

my

But I will suffer my pardon as my punishment, till that life, which has so graciously been given me, shall become considerable enough not to be useless in his service to whom it was forfeited. Under influence of these sentiments, with which his majesty's great goodness has inspired me, I consider my loss of fortune

and dignity as my happiness; to which, as I am born without ambition, I am thrown from them without repining. Possessing those advantages, my care has been, perhaps, how to enjoy life; by the want of them I am taught this nobler lesson, to study how to deserve it. R. SAVAGE. In gayer hours, when high my fancy ran,

the Muse, exulting, thus her lay began.

[ways,

Blest be the bastard's birth! through wondrous he shines eccentric like a comet's blaze! no sickly fruit of faint compliance he! he! stamp'd in nature's mint of ecstacy! he lives to build, not boast, a generous race: no tenth transmitter of a foolish face. His daring hope, no sire's example bounds; his first-born lights no prejudice confounds. He, kindling from within, requires no flame; he glories in a bastard's glowing name.

Born to himself, by no possession led, in freedom foster'd, and by fortune fed;

nor guides, nor rules, his sovereign choice, controul, his body independent as his soul;

loos'd to the world's wide range-enjoy'd no aim,
prescrib'd no duty, and assign'd no name;
nature's unbounded son, he stands alone,
his heart unbiass'd, and his mind his own.
O mother, yet no mother! 't is to you,
my thanks for such distinguish'd claims are due,
You, unenslav'd to nature's narrow laws,
warm championess for freedom's sacred cause,
from all the dry devoirs of blood and line,
from ties maternal, moral, and divine,

discharg'd my grasping soul; push'd me from shore, and launch'd me into life without an oar.

What had I lost, if, conjugally kind, by nature hating, yet by vows confin'd, untaught the matrimonal bounds to slight, and coldly conscious of a husband's right,

you

had faint-drawn me with a form alone, a lawful lump of life by force your own! then, while your backward will retrench'd desire, and unconcurring spirits lent no fire,

I had been born your dull, domestic heir,
load of your life, and motive of your care;
perhaps been poorly rich, and meanly great,
the slave of pomp, a cypher in the state;
lordly neglectful of a worth unknown,
and slumbering in a seat, by chance my own.
Far nobler blessings wait the bastard's lot;
conceiv'd in rapture, and with fire begot!
strong as necessity, he starts away,

climbs against wrongs, and brightens into day.
Thus unprophetic, lately misinspir'd,
Isung: gay, fluttering hope, my fancy fir'd;
inly secure, through conscious scorn of ill,
nor taught by wisdom, how to balance will,
rashly deceiv'd, I saw no pits to shun;
but thought to purpose and to act were one;
heedless what pointed cares pervert his way,
whom caution arms not, and whom woes betray,
but now expos'd, and shrinking from distress,
I fly to shelter, while the tempests press;
my muse to grief resigns the varying tone,
the raptures languish, and the numbers groan.
O memory! thou soul of joy and pain!
thou actor of our passions o'er again!
why dost thou aggravate the wretch's woe?
why add continuous smart to every blow?

few are my joys, alas! how soon forgot!
on that kind quarter thou invad'st me not:
while sharp and numberless my sorrows fall;
yet thou repeat'st, and multiply'st them all!

Is chance a guilt? that my disasterous heart, for mischief never meant, must ever smart? Can self-defence be sin!-Ah, plead no more! what though no purpos'd malice stain'd thee o'er? had Heaven befriended thy unhappy side, thou hadst not been provok'd-or thou hadst died. Far be the guilt of homeshed blood from all, or whom unsought, embroiling dangers fall! still the pale dead revives, and lives to me, to me! through pity's eye condemn'd to see. Remembrance veils his rage, but swells his fate; griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late. Young and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day, what ripening virtues might have made their way! he might have liv'd till folly died in shame, till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame.

He might perhaps his country's friend have prov'd; both happy, generous, candid, and belov'd, he might have sav'd some worth, now doom'd to fall; and I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all.

O fate of late repentence! always vain: thy remedies but lull undying pain.

Where shall my hope find rest?-No mother's care shielded my infant innocence with prayer:

no father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd,
is it not thine to snatch some powerful arm,
first to advance, then screen from future harm?
am I return'd from death, to live in pain?
or would imperial pity save in vain?