"The greedy Creditor, whose flinty breast / The iron hand of Avarice hath press'd, / Who never own'd Humanity's soft claim"
— Robinson [Née Darby], Mary [Perdita] (1758-1800)
Place of Publication
London
Publisher
Printed for T. Becket
Date
1777
Metaphor
"The greedy Creditor, whose flinty breast / The iron hand of Avarice hath press'd, / Who never own'd Humanity's soft claim"
Metaphor in Context
Of other woes my Infant Muse shall sing,
Woes, which from undeserv'd misfortunes spring,
Such as the generous and brave may fear,
Such as the noble mind hath felt severe.
There's many a breast which Virtue only sways,
In sad Captivity hath pass'd its days,
Unheeded to complain, by wretches bound,
In whose hard bosoms pity's seldom found,
(Fortune, to genuine Virtue often blind,
Smiles on the base, yet shuns the generous mind).
All ills attend his undelighted soul,
And restless thoughts impatient of controul,
Each new-born day each flatt'ring hope annoys,
For what is life, depriv'd of Freedom's joys?
The greedy Creditor, whose flinty breast
The iron hand of Avarice hath press'd,
Who never own'd Humanity's soft claim,
Self-interest and Revenge his only aim,
Unmov'd, can hear the Parent's heart-felt sigh,
Unmov'd, can hear the helpless Infant cry.
Nor age, nor sex, his rigid breast can melt,
Unfeeling for the pangs, he never felt.
Who scorns the balm of Pity to bestow,
Or sigh responsive for the Wretch's woe,
His hardy soul, unwilling to impart
The godlike feelings of a liberal heart,
Unpitying views the sable scene of Woe,
Nor wipes the pearly tear, he taught to flow.
Hard is the fate of him ordain'd to share,
The bold inquietudes of grief and care,
Peace (god-like maid) on lofty pinion flies,
Far from his breast, and seeks her native skies;
No more his mind with lenient art she cheers,
No more his drooping soul she fondly rears;
Of every friendly gleam of joy bereft,
Hope is the only comfort he has left;
Taught by her power, he every pang sustains,
And meekly learns to smile at all his pains;
Tho' to his lot unnumber'd woes are given,
He yields submissive, to all-judging Heaven.
Woes, which from undeserv'd misfortunes spring,
Such as the generous and brave may fear,
Such as the noble mind hath felt severe.
There's many a breast which Virtue only sways,
In sad Captivity hath pass'd its days,
Unheeded to complain, by wretches bound,
In whose hard bosoms pity's seldom found,
(Fortune, to genuine Virtue often blind,
Smiles on the base, yet shuns the generous mind).
All ills attend his undelighted soul,
And restless thoughts impatient of controul,
Each new-born day each flatt'ring hope annoys,
For what is life, depriv'd of Freedom's joys?
The greedy Creditor, whose flinty breast
The iron hand of Avarice hath press'd,
Who never own'd Humanity's soft claim,
Self-interest and Revenge his only aim,
Unmov'd, can hear the Parent's heart-felt sigh,
Unmov'd, can hear the helpless Infant cry.
Nor age, nor sex, his rigid breast can melt,
Unfeeling for the pangs, he never felt.
Who scorns the balm of Pity to bestow,
Or sigh responsive for the Wretch's woe,
His hardy soul, unwilling to impart
The godlike feelings of a liberal heart,
Unpitying views the sable scene of Woe,
Nor wipes the pearly tear, he taught to flow.
Hard is the fate of him ordain'd to share,
The bold inquietudes of grief and care,
Peace (god-like maid) on lofty pinion flies,
Far from his breast, and seeks her native skies;
No more his mind with lenient art she cheers,
No more his drooping soul she fondly rears;
Of every friendly gleam of joy bereft,
Hope is the only comfort he has left;
Taught by her power, he every pang sustains,
And meekly learns to smile at all his pains;
Tho' to his lot unnumber'd woes are given,
He yields submissive, to all-judging Heaven.
Categories
Provenance
Searching in HDIS (Poetry)
Citation
Captivity, A Poem. And Celadon and Lydia, A Tale. Dedicated, by Permission. To Her Grace the Duchess of Devonshire. By Mrs. Robinson (London: Printed for T. Becket, 1777).
Date of Entry
06/08/2005
