The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted ... Now First Collected. With Historical Notes, And Biographical Memoirs of the Author, by John Nichols |
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To ZELINDA,
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 | The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted |  |
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To ZELINDA,
in Imitation of TIBULLUS, Book III. Eleg. III.
My labouring breast is swol'n with ceaseless sighs;
With vows and prayers I importune the skies:
In vain my breast its sighing anguish bears;
In vain the skies I importune with prayers:
Still angry Fates with-hold thy wish'd-for charms,
Nor give Zelinda to Amintor's arms.
With vows and prayers I importune the skies:
In vain my breast its sighing anguish bears;
In vain the skies I importune with prayers:
Still angry Fates with-hold thy wish'd-for charms,
Nor give Zelinda to Amintor's arms.
I wish not, under stately roofs, to sleep
On purple beds; nor mighty crops to reap,
High-waving grain, through endless acres sown;
Lord of the harvest, and the year my own!
I covet not th' increase the pasture yields;
The flocks and herds that graze a thousand fields!
My whole desire, if so the Powers decree,
Is, still to love, and to be lov'd by thee;
Long ages on thy panting breast to lie,
And in thy kind embrace, when old, to die.
On purple beds; nor mighty crops to reap,
High-waving grain, through endless acres sown;
Lord of the harvest, and the year my own!
I covet not th' increase the pasture yields;
The flocks and herds that graze a thousand fields!
My whole desire, if so the Powers decree,
Is, still to love, and to be lov'd by thee;
Long ages on thy panting breast to lie,
And in thy kind embrace, when old, to die.
What would avail me through saloons to go,
All glorious with the paint of Angelo?
Or what, historic figures to behold,
On the rich arras wrought, or weav'd in gold?
Of what avail were types on plate emboss'd,
Or sumptuous floors inlaid with regal cost;
Gay watery forms, from magic founts that rise,
The conic greens, and vary'd flowery dies?
Th' ill-judging crowd admire those empty toys:
The arguments for envy and for noise!
Not all the treasures Indian regions bear,
Can soothe inquietude, or banish care.
All glorious with the paint of Angelo?
Or what, historic figures to behold,
On the rich arras wrought, or weav'd in gold?
Of what avail were types on plate emboss'd,
Or sumptuous floors inlaid with regal cost;
Gay watery forms, from magic founts that rise,
The conic greens, and vary'd flowery dies?
Th' ill-judging crowd admire those empty toys:
The arguments for envy and for noise!
Not all the treasures Indian regions bear,
Can soothe inquietude, or banish care.
All human things submit to Fortune's will,
And change by giddy laws from good to ill:
With thee, Zelinda, may it be my fate,
Of life and love to know an equal date!
With thee, an humble cottage-life will please,
Above the pride of royal palaces:
May they, in search of wealth, through dangers rove,
Who feel not beauty, nor have hearts to love!
To others wealth, ye sacred Powers, assign;
To others crowns; but make Zelinda mine.
And change by giddy laws from good to ill:
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Of life and love to know an equal date!
With thee, an humble cottage-life will please,
Above the pride of royal palaces:
May they, in search of wealth, through dangers rove,
Who feel not beauty, nor have hearts to love!
To others wealth, ye sacred Powers, assign;
To others crowns; but make Zelinda mine.
Oh, how divinely bright the day will rise,
That shall restore thee to my ravish'd eyes!
Oh, long-expected, rise; fair dawn, appear;
The most auspicious of the Julian year!
And thou, bright Goddess! Queen of Paphian groves,
Drawn in thy glittering shell by milk-white doves,
If not a fabled Goddess, oh! impart
The wish'd-for aid, and ease thy votary's heart.
That shall restore thee to my ravish'd eyes!
Oh, long-expected, rise; fair dawn, appear;
The most auspicious of the Julian year!
And thou, bright Goddess! Queen of Paphian groves,
Drawn in thy glittering shell by milk-white doves,
If not a fabled Goddess, oh! impart
The wish'd-for aid, and ease thy votary's heart.
But, if inexorable Fates ordain,
I still shall languish with desponding pain;
To realms of rest and silence let me go,
Where Lovers in oblivion lose their woe!
I still shall languish with desponding pain;
To realms of rest and silence let me go,
Where Lovers in oblivion lose their woe!
| The Works, In Verse and Prose, of Leonard Welsted | |