 | Poetical essays on Several Occasions |  |
70
TO MARCIA.
Who can be silent, when such Charms invite,
As teach the dumb to speak, the dull to write?
'Tis not mere Feature our Devotion fires,
That is true Beauty which the Mind inspires.
Ill Nature cannot please, nor Folly charm,
Tho' it had Angels Looks, and Cupid's Arm.
When Marcia dazzles, 'tis the Soul shines thro',
Brightens each Feature, and transports our View.
Survey the fairest Form, we still shall find
Beauty's an Emanation of the Mind;
'Tis the Reflection of the Rays within,
Which throws the noble Lustre o'er the Mien,
Which every Lineament with Light supplies,
And gives Divinity to Marcia's Eyes.
This is that Spark no Sickness ever shades,
This triumphs when external Beauty fades.
'Tis what, a Grace, an Air, the Vulgar name,
But Plato's Sense of Beauty means the same:
Tho' blooming Roses sparkle o'er the Face,
'Tis all inanimate without this Grace.
To Reason's Eye the gaudy Outside yields
No more Delight than Lilies in the Fields.
As well the Swain might o'er stain'd Canvass sigh,
Or Holbein's Colours with Southampton's vie.
Like the fam'd Painter who enamour'd grew,
And pin'd for that fair Venus which he drew,
Marcia! did you to the same Artist sit,
With his own Work he would again be smit.
As teach the dumb to speak, the dull to write?
'Tis not mere Feature our Devotion fires,
That is true Beauty which the Mind inspires.
Ill Nature cannot please, nor Folly charm,
Tho' it had Angels Looks, and Cupid's Arm.
When Marcia dazzles, 'tis the Soul shines thro',
Brightens each Feature, and transports our View.
Survey the fairest Form, we still shall find
Beauty's an Emanation of the Mind;
71
Which throws the noble Lustre o'er the Mien,
Which every Lineament with Light supplies,
And gives Divinity to Marcia's Eyes.
This is that Spark no Sickness ever shades,
This triumphs when external Beauty fades.
'Tis what, a Grace, an Air, the Vulgar name,
But Plato's Sense of Beauty means the same:
Tho' blooming Roses sparkle o'er the Face,
'Tis all inanimate without this Grace.
To Reason's Eye the gaudy Outside yields
No more Delight than Lilies in the Fields.
As well the Swain might o'er stain'd Canvass sigh,
Or Holbein's Colours with Southampton's vie.
Like the fam'd Painter who enamour'd grew,
And pin'd for that fair Venus which he drew,
Marcia! did you to the same Artist sit,
With his own Work he would again be smit.
72
Thus must I languish, cruelly remote
From the dear Nymph, and picture you in Thought.
Fancy, that mimic Limner of the Mind,
Has with its Pencil ev'ry Air design'd;
And, wonder not, like the Enchanter's Ring,
Can every Action to its Presence bring,
And in Imagination hear you sing.
Boast not your magic Pow'r, your conq'ring Skill,
For Fancy can create, if you can kill.
In vain you fly, I now behold your Eyes,
See your Blush kindle, and your Bosom rise.
So oft your Apparition fleets in View,
I almost think the Tales of Spectres true.
The fair Idea rises to my Sight,
And glides in transient Slumbers every Night.
Visions and airy Ghosts disturb our Rest.
With yours, O airy Visiter! I'm bless'd.
From the dear Nymph, and picture you in Thought.
Fancy, that mimic Limner of the Mind,
Has with its Pencil ev'ry Air design'd;
And, wonder not, like the Enchanter's Ring,
Can every Action to its Presence bring,
And in Imagination hear you sing.
Boast not your magic Pow'r, your conq'ring Skill,
For Fancy can create, if you can kill.
In vain you fly, I now behold your Eyes,
See your Blush kindle, and your Bosom rise.
So oft your Apparition fleets in View,
I almost think the Tales of Spectres true.
The fair Idea rises to my Sight,
And glides in transient Slumbers every Night.
Visions and airy Ghosts disturb our Rest.
With yours, O airy Visiter! I'm bless'd.
73
But this is all fine, visionary Love,
Like Dreams of Pleasure in th'Elysian Grove.
When in the Garden, Love remembers well,
You gave me Fruit to taste, and Flow'rs to smell,
Ah, fair Seducer, soon, too soon I found,
'Twas dang'rous Fruit, and Paradise the Ground.
Be not in Treach'ry, tho' in Charms, like Eve,
Lest as you still beguile, we still believe.
Like Dreams of Pleasure in th'Elysian Grove.
When in the Garden, Love remembers well,
You gave me Fruit to taste, and Flow'rs to smell,
Ah, fair Seducer, soon, too soon I found,
'Twas dang'rous Fruit, and Paradise the Ground.
Be not in Treach'ry, tho' in Charms, like Eve,
Lest as you still beguile, we still believe.
| Poetical essays on Several Occasions | |